[Poll] VOTE: May '12 Flash Challenge

[kailhofer]

To vote, rate these stories on the form in the post following this one and send it to me via PM:


The challenge was to put a human detective on the murder case of the nefarious, bird-like alien Skekko.



The following entries were received:



Chekhov’s Pun



The uniform logged my badge and lifted the tape for me. Rain was coming down hard, the poor guy was probably drowning under his poncho. He nodded me in the direction of the head of scene. From behind, I could see she was a petite blonde, her hair plastered to her head and hanging in rats’ tails down her back.

“Detective Tervonen?”

She turned from the white tarp that was trying, and failing, to stop the evidence from running down the drain. First impressions; cheekbones, blue eyes as cold as ice, lips in a thin line across her pale face and young. Very young. Too young.

“That’s me.” She eyed me up and down, assessing the threat and then taking me for one of her own. “You must be Chekhov?”

I nodded, “What’ve you got here, kid?”

She smiled at the ‘kid’, didn’t chew me out. It confirmed my suspicion. She was on F, Fountain, the dirty route to youth and immortality. Cheap and safe, as long as you didn’t quit. Quit and it caught up with you quick. Quit and you go down faster than a hundred-dollar hooker on pay day.

“Victim’s known to you, alien, name of Skekko according to ID.” She turned and pulled the sheet up so I could see.

It was a Falconian, that much was sure. A mess of feathers and blood, a yellow, black tipped beak, broken and dripping gore.

“Cause?”

“Jumped.” She nodded over her shoulder. I looked at the apartment block, shielding my eyes from the torrent of water. Curtains waved feebly from an open window near the top. I looked back at Tervonen, she caught the question; Falconians don’t fall, they glide. “Check it out,” she said.

I queried cop-space when we got in the elevator; Detective Eleanor Tervonen, forty-eight, homicide, and here she was as perky as a kid just out of high-school. She lead the way from the elevator to an apartment door flanked by another uniform. My link to cop-space dropped out as I walked in the door.

“We’re off the record, I lost my link.”

Tervonen nodded. “There’s a jammer, techs are looking for it. The bedroom’s the primary.”

The bed was a large doughnut affair, favoured by the bird-like extraterrestrials. The open bedroom window was where Skekko had taken her dive. The terminal velocity suddenly made sense; the room was covered with flight feathers, their stems still wet with blood and gore from plucking. And in the doughnut hole, a clutch of broken eggs
.
“Looks personal. Someone trying to send a message maybe.”

Tervonen shook her head. “I’m thinking suicide.”

“How come?” I kept it calm, non-committal, just a question.

She pointed to a set of bloody pliers by the bed. “Preliminary path results on the eggs say they’re all duds. No prints, except the vic’s on the pliers. No prints anywhere else in the apartment. She’s broody but the eggs ain’t gonna hatch, she finds out, she takes the dive.”

I shrugged. No prints - someone had wiped the place down and done their job too well. The whole thing screamed hit. She may have looked it but Tervonen was no rookie. She was going to paper over the cracks and make it go away. Was she in it with the perp or was it coming down from higher up?

“Tell me about the vic?” Tervonen asked as she perched on the window sill and went through the motions.

“Skekko was an ET of interest, ran an import export business fronting an offworld smuggling operation. She was always careful to have a cut-out. I never got close to pinning anything on her.”

“What kind of stuff was she moving?”

“Various stuff, black market tech, illegals, but mostly it was just F.”

She was good, not a flicker when I mentioned the drug, and why would she; Fountain was illegal but no-one went after the users when cold turkey meant the fast-track to a zimmer frame. Even the dealers got left alone. The city was happy to leave it to the ‘market forces’ to keep everyone in line. Was happy.

“Well, if I need anything else I’ll get in touch”, Tervonen said.

I moved in close, blocking her there. She was jammed in the window. I kept my voice low but put enough gravel in to show I meant business, “What’s the deal here, Detective?”

“Get back, what do you think you’re doing?” She tried to push me away but her teenage frame didn’t have enough muscle to shift me. Just the opposite, she ended up grabbing my jacket to stop herself going over the edge.

“This was a hit,” I growled. “You know it. I know it. What I don’t know is, were you in on the kill or are you just covering up?”

She got real still, looking up at me with those ice-cold, baby blues, and smiled. “This goes all the way to the top, Chekhov. You think you’ve got the stones for that?.”

She was forty-eight going on seventeen, she didn’t make enough to maintain her kind of habit. I was the wrong side of fifty and going nowhere fast. I stepped back and pulled her to her feet. My cop-space link came back online, the techs had found the jammer. I logged in, every word would be on the record now.

“You got your riot gear in order, Detective?”

She looked at me, uncertain, and shook her head.

“Skekko was the main distributor for Fountain, ran the network. Supplies are going to run out fast now, the price is going to skyrocket. There’s going to be some serious public disorder. People are going to start dying of something unheard of in this century, old age. Are your superiors ready for that? Are you ready for that?”

She started to look scared. It wasn’t a good look on her.

“Don’t frown, Detective.” I said as I turned away. “It’ll give you lines.”


The End



Fox in the Henhouse



Woke with a head like a level five meltdown, shirt front plastered with dried vomit, phone going off in my ear.

“Wassup?” I mumbled. Did not give a rat’s ass who was on the other end of the line, just wanted the noise to stop. Voice activated piece of Sony crap. Hell is a place where your implanted phone keeps ringing forever, and you’re wearing a straitjacket and a ball gag.

“Chin? That you?”

It was my partner, Ramirez. “Who else would it be? Goddamn phone’s inside my head.”

“You need to get out of there. Fast.”

I peered down, trying to focus on the crusted, partially digested food matter that covered my shirt. Were those sesame seeds? Now I remembered! Skekko took me out for supper last night. Some Bird place where every other dish was nuts and seeds, and the hot spices were off the chart. Bartender kept pouring the beer, and I kept downing it in a futile attempt to cool off my tongue.

Tongue was not the only thing that needed cooling. Damn, that Skekko was hot! Legs up to here, soft white feathers barely covering her body, breasts practically on a platter.

“Chin!” my partner was yelling at me now. “You need to get out of there. Now!. Fernandez is on the way. Got reporters with him. DA wants live feed of you doing the perp walk.”

“Perp walk? What for?” I mentally reviewed my list of sins. I was no dirtier than any other cop in Houston. Why was Fox Fernandez after me? “What did I do?”

“Remember that ambrosia runner? Skekko? The one you got cozy with when you were undercover? She’s dead.”

Took a second for his words to register. When they did, I sank to my knees on the floor. Last night, Skekko had asked for my help. Said someone wanted her dead.

“Chin?”

“How did she die?”

“Bullet through the brain. They found your gun at the crime scene.”

I reached into my pocket. My weapon was gone. Someone had lifted it. Holy Buddha! I had been framed! With one hand, I tore off my vomit encrusted shirt. The other was on the knob of the door. Made it out of there and around the corner into the back alley just as the patrol car rounded the corner, sirens blaring, news vans following like elephants in a circus parade.

Grabbed a blue denim coverall from the clothes line in the neighbor’s yard. Sprinted to the monorail station. As I waited to board the next train, I remembered that my implanted phone had a GPS. Ducked into the men’s room. Using my house key, I pried the phone out from behind my ear. Wound bled like stink. I wadded up some paper towels to staunch the flow of blood. Back on the platform, I slipped the tiny cellphone into the purse of a woman carrying suitcases. Heading for the airport, I hoped. Ran like the hounds of hell were after me. Grabbed a cab and told the driver “Police Headquarters.”

No, I was not suicidal. I knew something that would tell who the real killer was. But I had to get to the morgue before the coroner completed her examination and released the body back to the family. Bullet to the head was usually pretty cut and dried. Would take her two, three hours max to get the evidence Fox needed to convict me, and then Skekko’s clan would be clamoring for her corpse. The Birds came from a planet with an eighteen hour day. They believed that if their loved ones were not cremated within eighteen hours after death, they could not fly to heaven.

Poor Skekko. She had lied to me more times than I cared to remember. She sold ambrosia to kids. But she did not deserve to die.

I bought a mop and a bucket with cash at the hardware store across the street from police HQ. In my blue denim coverall, I was just one more Vietnamese janitor. Once inside headquarters, I headed for the third floor. Most places kept the morgue in the basement, but basements tended to flood in Houston.

Caught the coroner, Gideon just as she was taking off her gloves. Middle aged woman with greying blonde hair. Friend of my father’s. Close friend. Her eyes widened behind her wire rimmed glasses.

“Chin! They’re looking for you.”

No time for formalities. “Did you pluck the corpse?”

“Pluck the corpse?” she echoed. “No need. It’s obvious what killed her.”

“Birds molt every summer. When they do, they get tattoos. Skekko was having an affair with a married man. A politician. Told me about it last night. Said she was afraid her new lover wanted her out of the way before the next election. Said if anything happened to her pluck the feathers from her right breast. She has his name tattooed there.”

I have seen plenty of disturbing things in my life, but watching Gideon remove the feathers from Skekko’s chest almost made me throw up. Finally, it was done. The coroner gasped. There, on the Bird woman’s right breast was a heart with the words Skekko Clouddiver and Fox Fernandez Forever.
Fernandez was the DA. Son of a bitch had killed Skekko and framed me for her murder.

Gideon’s eyes met mine. “I knew this one smelled fishy. You have an alibi?”

“No. Fox have a witness?”

“No. Just the gun and the bullet.” Carefully, she opened a specimen container and tipped it over. A bullet fell down the drain. “Damn. I was supposed to send that to forensics.” She grabbed a camera and began taking pics of Skekko’s chest.

By evening, the photos were all over the net. Best headline was on BBC. Fox in the Henhouse. There was no hard evidence against him, but by morning, the DA had been found guilty in the court of public opinion, the only one that counted.


The End



Birds Of A Feather



Skekko was dead, alright. Looked like someone had shot her right in the translator she had implanted in her chest. Dunno what the power source for that thing was, but the bullet had fried it. Her office smelled like burnt wire, used motor oil. . .and The Colonel’s finest.

The Coroner raised one side of his unibrow at my reaction. “So Detective, can you positively ID the deceased? I know you and the Harpy go back a ways.”

“Yes and no, I suppose.” It wasn’t the best answer, but it was all I had. Her plumage patterns are different in every mugshot we have of her. Her translator could sound like anything she chose, and she changed it depending on the situation. She usually used a Bronx toughguy ‘voice’ with me, but she used her scared little girl ‘voice’ that one time she went to court. Some of the jury bought it, apparently.

“We’re going to have to use a DNA match from the feather we found on the bootlegging case to be positive, but I’m pretty sure it’s her. Besides, far as I know she’s the only Harpy in town.”

“Good enough for me, Joe. I’m done. You can let CSU loose in here, now.” He looked down at the body and inhaled, deeply. “I’m suddenly in the mood for chicken.”

I didn’t blame him. I was thinking the same thing.

“Okay people,” I motioned to the Tyvek-suited CSU cadre staged just outside the office. “I figure we have a day, at most, before IA swoops in and takes over. This is still our case and if we can get this solved before Interspecies Affairs claims jurisdiction, they won’t squawk too much. Make sure you get the computer and everything that looks like a business record. Skekko had her talons in a lot of pies. Maybe we’ll find some motive, there.”

You don’t need a warrant to search a murder scene.

I was about to leave them to it, and go find a chicken sandwich when the computer guy called-out. "Hey Joe! I guess Big Bird here was on the computer when she got smoked. This thing ain't even locked-out. As far as I can tell, it's wide open!"

One VERY busy week later. . . .

Here’s the scene: We’re sitting around the biggest conference room at Police Plaza. There’s me, the Chief of D’s, The DA, my Captain, our computer Geek. . . .and four Suits.

Our Geek leads-off: “We had to bring Langley in on this because Skekko’s computer was one-of-a-kind. It’s the best that can be bought on the intergalactic market. Almost a quadrillion teraflops of data on there and the disk shows four-percent capacity. Plus, it’s configured for human-tech interface. Nothing like it on the planet.”

Suit Two: “Most of this is Classified, but I can tell you that if this thing had been locked, we couldn’t even crack the Screen Saver! The Company is very interested in acquiring this device.

Chief of D’s: “My understanding is that the Department is funded for the next Century if this happens. Do you get my meaning, Detective?”

“Understood, Sir.” What else could I say?

The DA: “Regardless of the value of the computer, the evidence on it will put away virtually every criminal in this city. . .plus some corrupt police, two judges and one of my Assistants. This Skekko had files on all her illegal activities. Very comprehensive files, at that. These recordings make documented video look like a stone tablet found buried in the sand.”


Suit One: “Jones from Interspecies Affairs. Skekko’s next of kin is waiting outside. My understanding is that there were a lot of legitimate businesses that were left behind. It’s been agreed that we can keep the computer and the evidence if we turn-over the legal stuff and all the records to. . .uh. . . .Spek. That’s her name, Spek. The Harpies have some convoluted inheritance laws, but apparently this is legit. Spek is just anxious to make sure that Skekko’s business doesn’t suffer.”

“Sounds cozy,” I was trying not to sound condescending. “So what do you need from me?”

Suit Four: “We need you to release some of the evidence and the crime scene, Detective. You can continue to investigate who murdered Skekko, but the computer goes to the CIA, and the legal business records are turned-over to Spek.”

“We’re done with the office, but we don’t release the computer until we download a copy of everything on it.”

Geek: “You don’t understand. We don’t have the capacity to store that much data.”

“I’m sure our new Langley friends can get us a system that will handle it.” I saw the Chief smile. He could smell his budget growing.

There were nods all around. Suit Four—must be Spek’s lawyer—opened the door and in walked. . . .Skekko!

“Well. . .I’ll be a bird brain.” I’m not sure what I meant, but that’s what came out. They all look alike to me didn’t do this justice. If I hadn’t seen Skekko dead with my own eyes. . . .

“Oh no, old Chap.” The Translator sounded like some male character in an old British movie. “I’m quite sure you’re the sentient one from your clutch.”

The Interspecies Affairs guy piped-up. “Harpies lay twelve genetically identical eggs, but only one of them is sentient. The eleven others were originally a food source for the intelligent one. They call them Bird Brains because they have the approximate intellect of an ostrich.”

It took me a second, but a nasty thought occurred. “So. . .Spek, I guess that Skekko left you in an interesting position. Several legitimate and legal businesses, and all the competition for the illegal stuff either in jail, or on the run. That sound about right?”

“Indeed, my good fellow. Completely serendipitous, of course. Good day to you, Detective.”

She glanced back just before she left, and I swear the Old Bird winked at me.


The End



Stowaway



Buzz Buzz Buzz. The phone alarm inside William’s skull was going crazy so he pulled his right earlobe to turn it off. He looked at his wife.

She opened one eye. “What time is it?”

“Two A.M.”

“Good night,” she hissed, pulling a pillow over her head.

Buzz Buzz Buzz. William tapped his cheek. “Go ahead.”

“Hey there, Buddy, this is Carlyle. We need you down at Pike Street Market. There’s been a 187 an overhead loft.”

“Pike Street? I’ll see you in a few.” He got out of bed and reached for his pants when he saw Kate sit up and tap her cheek.

“Yeah, this is Kate. What’s up?” She listened intently to the words inside her head. “Pike Street Market, right? Yeah, I’m freaking psychic. On my way.”

Will and Kate looked at each other. “Now why would they need a cop and a diplomatic liaison at two in the morning?”

They suddenly looked at each other and said in unison: “Skekko!”

“I’ll drive,” said Will.

*****

Kate Boling was the cultural liaison between the United Nations and the alien birdlike species called The Byna. On their planet the dinosaurs had continued to evolve at a steady rate, eventually gaining self-awareness and wings, living in cities that clung to the cliffs surrounding deep fjords.

Most of the new settlers had assimilated easily – but there were a few like Skekko, a female, who seemed to have a weak moral code. Coming from a good Bynaian family, however, she had influential connections that made prosecution difficult. Her suite of rooms overlooked the Public Market in the megatropolis of SeaTac.
Kate and Will thoroughly examined the body.

“It’s one of the strangest murders I’ve ever seen,” said Sergeant Carlyle. “The assassin seems to have killed the victim, disemboweled her, and then actually fried her entrails. He ate them right here at her kitchen table next to her dead body.”

“How did the killer get into the apartment?” asked William.

“There were no signs of a forced entry – and no one was caught on surveillance coming or going,” replied the Sergeant.

Kate’s face began to pale and she tugged on Will’s sleeve to take him aside.

“It’s the same M.O. as the other killings.”

“The other killings?”

“There have been killings of Bynas in Southampton and La Paz, with no forced entry, no suspects. The entrails were fried and eaten in the same way.”

“When it’s not a break-in, the killer is usually someone who lived with the victim. But I know Skekko, and she lived alone.”

“Except for her Dinie,” replied Kate, giving a nod towards a dog-sized dinosaur watching everything from a doorway leading to a second bedroom. He looked like a miniature Spinosaurus, with slightly bigger arms. He seemed to be acutely aware of the entire goings on. “That thing has been here the whole time.”

“I’ve never seen one of those in the flesh. Look at those teeth!”

“Yeah, they came in with the fifth wave of ships. A man is to a monkey as a Byna is to a dinie. They’re pets…the step before the Byna on the evolutionary ladder.”

“But they’re docile, right?” asked William. “I don’t like the way its eyes follow me.”

“Well, a dinie doesn’t have the intelligence to use a knife and fork. This murder was done by a creature with intelligence.”

“A creature? – you mean a human or a Byna don’t you?”

“I’m not sure, William. There are tales in the Byna’s collective memory about sentient beings, vapor creatures, who would…”

“Detective Boling – you need to see this,” said the Sergeant’s voice from the second bedroom.

As William and Kate entered the room they noticed four large square wooden boxes.

“We noticed heartbeats coming from those things,” said Carlyle.

“Good job, Robert.” Will pushed open the lid to one of the boxes and inside was an egg the size of a picnic basket.

“I’ve seen these boxes,” said Kate. “They are used by slavers to transport and hatch the Bynaian eggs. Feathered babies become the servants of the highest bidder.”

“That has to be illegal,” said Sergeant Carlyle.

“The Bynas haven’t been here long enough to work their way into our laws,” said Kate. “It’s definitely immoral.”

“Skekko must have been selling them,” said William. Everyone stopped for a moment to think. “What do we do with them now?”
Kate became adamant. “We can’t leave them here. We’ll need to take them with us to the embassy.”

William picked one up, but the dinie blocked his exit. “The eggs are mine!” it shrieked.

“Are those things supposed to talk?” William asked Kate.

“No – it’s impossible,” she answered. The dinie was baring its teeth as well, its claws slashing the air. “It’s possessed!” shouted Kate to the others. “Kill it!”

Before anyone could move, the dinie rushed towards the detective, slicing William’s left arm with his talons. Kate grabbed William’s laser-pistol, decapitating the pet.

Suddenly a fog hissed out of the body of the dinie, becoming what could only be described as a demon. It towered over the humans with glowing red eyes and needle-like teeth. “We’ll meet again, cop,” it promised before filtering through the wall.

“What was that?” gasped Carlyle.

Kate drew a deep breath before answering. “There’s a myth about an ancestor that was chased by a vapor demon up a cliff wall where he found refuge inside a cave. He made his home there, eventually growing wings so he would never be in danger again.”

“That spirit thing probably wanted those eggs so he could murder and eat them when they hatched – the way it ate poor Skekko.” William shook his head. “We’ll have to start checking those pets when they come through customs – to see if they’re possessed.”

Sergeant Carlyle looked worried. “What happens when these mist demons run out of their natural prey and start in on humans?”

“I guess whoever’s left had better learn how to fly,” said William.


The End



Gluttony Kills More than the Sword



“Who killed her?” the younger policeman asked Daniel Franks, the black-haired, pale appointed Interplanetary Affairs’ detective.

“I knew this one. Her name was Skekko. Many wanted her dead, but I find it hard to believe anyone would really dare do this. She had some disreputable acquaintances and she was charged with crimes many times, but she had no real convictions - thanks to some important connections who let it be known that harming her or damaging her illegal business could prove very dangerous for everyone.”

Walking around the ground where they had found the dead body of the bird-like alien called Skekko (of the species known as Jilglgkg) Daniel’s chestnut eyes were looking over the scene, wondering why someone would risk so much.

The alien -- the height of an average human, with a bipedal posture, the face and the legs of a bird, and some yellow-gray feathers as long as a man’s arm -- had been killed because of a strange noose tied to the bend of a board which, seemingly, had grabbed Skekko’s long neck suddenly, extending it until parallel to the ground and suffocating/breaking it after the violent counterstroke. The most unusual technique Daniel had ever seen…

There were some shrubs and fruits next to the corpse, which looked even weirder.

Then a question came to his mind. “Is Chandler Arizona’s annual Festival being held now?”

The policeman looked surprised. “Yes, but…”

“Okay, check this out…” the detective said. “Do you have reports in your office of poachers previously found in this area?”

“Of course. Do you really think…?”

“It could be…”

“But it’s absurd, how could anyone commit such a serious crime, possibly involving delicate interplanetary politics?”

“Maybe he didn’t mean to…”

The other displayed a doubtful look.

------------------------------------------------------------------

They took the highway, arriving shortly at the house of the person under suspicion. The previous reports in the local police databank indicated a single name: Chuy Esteban.

The policeman rang the bell, but nobody came for a while. Then he rang again and finally a hairless man, with pitted facial skin, opened the door.

“What may I do for you, officers?” he said, in a low voice that made them think he was sick with a seasonal flu, presumably.

“We have just one single question, sir: why did you kill Skekko?” the detective started.

“Skekko?” the groundskeeper asked in return.

“You know who I’m talking about!” Daniel continued.

“No, I don’t, sir…”

“But you placed that trap, didn’t you?”

“What trap?” He almost fainted.

“The one set to trap birds…your fingerprints are all over it!”

Then Chuy Esteban seemed to figure out why they were there.

“Did you want to hear her to squeal, maybe?”

“I don’t trap birds that sing…” he replied. “But I know what I do is illegal, anyway…”

“Like killing aliens?”

“What? No! I didn’t kill any alien...”

“So what do you mean?”

“I know there are many bon vivant people who like ostrich meat, but hunting and killing such animals is forbidden nowadays, according to the new interplanetary regulations. However, each year I use my cousin’s cabin and visit the annual 'Ostrich Festival' in Chandler, which is one of the last Ostrich races still accepted within the United States. Usually, I set my traps to catch one of the racing animals when the owners release them in the open range the day before the race, in order to relax them. Then I sell its valuable meat to my rich customers, who are very fond of it.”

“So, are you telling me that you positioned traps to catch an Ostrich and ended up killing a Jilglgkg representative by accident instead? Or did you disguise the death of Skekko by pretending you set the trap only in order to take some Ostrich meat?”

“The death of a Jilglgkg? What, oh my god! Because of my illness, I have been forced to stay at home, and haven’t checked my last trap yet…”

“Why shouldn’t we think you did this on purpose?”

“I never thought my activity could harm anyone, human or alien,” the groundskeeper cried. “How did it happen?”

A look was passed between the two police officers. “The alien named Skekko came near your trap, then she was caught by the rope, probably by surprise, and died because of a violent hit. Her neck was weaker than an Ostrich’s…”

“But I didn’t mean to kill her!”

“The death occurred because of your device, certainly. Did you use some shrubs and fruits to conceal the mechanism?”

“No, I put those in the trap in order to attract the prey, which likes them a lot…”

“That’s what I thought! Those bird-like aliens love to eat that kind of fruit too. Skekko was attracted to them, like an Ostrich.”

“Will you arrest me?”

“Yes, on the charge of alien murder…”

“No! It can’t be!”

“Next time, pay more attention - if ever you’re released from prison!”

------------------------------------------------------------------

The sentence came quickly. The old judge looked at Chuy Esteban exclaiming: “You violated the laws twice. Starting in 2222 bird hunting has been forbidden worldwide, as a part of the Interplanetary Agreement of 2220 with the Jilglgkg, by which Earth allowed that alien species’ members to come to our planet and live here freely, even starting their own businesses. Since then, no one can harm a single bird –- not even an Ostrich -- by firearms and the likes. This is because birds look exactly alike the Jilglgkg’s revered ancestors on their home planet. In exchange for new technology and medical treatments, Earth agreed on these terms. Besides, you killed an intelligent alien species’ representative: a serious homicide! Sentenced to twenty-years’ in a top-security prison!”

After the trial, when everyone had gone, the judge told himself, Better not remind our susceptible bird-like alien allies of that 1928 Republican Party campaign slogan: ‘A chicken in every pot’…


The End



Unfeathered



The Skekko case got to be mine by virtue of my being on the night shift when the call came in at 04:11. A body -- not human -- on the steps of the K'ti Embassy. Uniforms were already there when I arrived, of course.

" 'Morning, Sergeant. Has the coroner been here yet?"

"No, Detective -- oh, wait, here he comes now."

I kept everybody back while the big blue-lighted wagon stopped at the curb. The pudgy coroner got out with his scanner and wriggled into his clean-suit to approach the body. I looked up at the building and saw several K'ti behind the glass doors, gesturing.

The coroner waved his scanner along the body and turned to look at me. "Yep, it's K'ti."

"I thought so from the beak, but I couldn't be sure. What else?"

He grinned. "Yeah. They don't look near as nice without the feathers. Got DNA -- oh, you're gonna love this, Detective -- it's Skekko."

Damn. I tapped my phone and called for the Terran Marshals. Skekko had Embassy connections, her ritual nest-mate being the Second Ambassadorial Attache. "Ya got a COD?"

He shook his head, looking at his display. "Other than being plucked naked, I don't find any trauma. Major organs don't seem to be involved. She's been dead about an hour. Lot of alcohol in her -- well over two percent."

"Well, that ain't it." K'ti alcohol tolerance was legendary. "Anything else?"

"She was already dead before she was plucked . . . oh boy -- her cloaca has semen in it -- human -- "

"Huh. Any ID on the donor?"

"No match to anyone on file." He stood up and made for his wagon. "I'll need to research this, but -- you definitely got a murder on your hands; probably some sort of poison. You know how they are about their plumage."

"Yeah." Even Skekko wouldn't go a week without the K'ti high priest blessing her feathers.

I turned to the Sergeant. "I want two sniffer-bots here on the double, and -- " I looked up and around -- "there's gotta be thirty cameras in line of sight. Find out how she got put here, and by whom."

The Terran Marshals' air-car was just descending when four K'ti in ceremonial robes came out of the Embassy doors and down the stairs, all yelling about desecration and K'ti soil and lawsuits. I ran around the body and tried to hold them back, showing my badge and yelling about evidence in a murder investigation.

One of the marshals got in the midst of it with them while another called the Terran Embassy, and everything was at a noisy standstill. Then the one on the phone told us to back off, that the ambassadors were handling it.

Great. Bureaucrats.

I went back to the office to think. I knew that, between the Marshals and the ambassadors, I was off the case, but I've never been able to walk away from an unsolved puzzle.

Skekko had lots of enemies. The K'ti were crucial to our entertainment industry, due to the amazing things they were capable of with computer graphics. Skekko was part-owner of a company that did that work, but she squeezed her clients seven ways from Sunday. She also ran an illicit gambling operation, with some really nasty collectors. But every time we tried to bust her, she got loose on diplomatic immunity.

The sergeant called me at about 6:00 to tell me that the sniffer-bots got one trace of unidentified K'ti, and the cameras just showed the body appearing as though by magic. Stealth tech.

My phone rang at ten 'till seven, just as I was about to call it a night. The voice was masked.

"I have Skekko's murder information. Meet me in the back booth at Kenny's, twenty minutes."

"Who is this -- ?" The line went dead.

The murder hadn't been publicized yet. I went.

Kenny's was popular with a lot of off-worlders, and there were several K'ti there when I entered. One in the back booth, as a matter of fact. I thought he looked familiar. I took a seat and ordered coffee. He was drinking something flammable from a large tumbler. I turned on my recorder.

"Detective. I am -- was -- Skekko's ritual nest-mate." He stuck his beak in the glass and sucked out two inches' worth. "You have tried to arrest her on several occasions."

"Yes -- ?"

"That's how I knew of you. You must understand, though, that the things you charged her with are not crimes on my world."

"Go on -- "

"Other things are, though. She -- she became what you might call crazy here . . . she took to behaviors which are not to be spoken of. Things connected with our species' sacred honor."

"Such as -- ?"

"Such as mating with non-K'ti." He drained his glass and signaled for a refill. It popped out of the table-slot and he drank about half of it. "I knew of this, but did nothing as long as she kept it hidden from my sight . . . perhaps I had been too forgiving. Earlier this day, though, she performed this abomination in my presence; in the presence of other witnesses."

"And I take it that's a capital offense to your species -- ?"

He nodded. "And to me, personally. The disposal of her body was such as to put her shame on herself."

"So -- you killed her -- "

"Yes. A poison, specific to us." He was swaying slightly. Even that much alcohol shouldn't be effecting him yet.

"You know, you could have kept this to yourself . . . the Embassy would have shielded you . . . "

He nodded again, and almost failed to get his head erect. "I wanted to confess. Before I die."

I tapped my phone to summon the EMTs. "Why -- ?"

"Because -- I loved her . . . "


The End



Thanksgiving Day Murder



Beheaded, stuffed, and cooked, that’s what the crime scene pictures showed. Detective Gooch knew Skekko had gone too far this time and double-crossed someone. This was a warning to others but from who or what off-world gang?

The room where they found her still smelled of stuffed turkey and ham. Gooch was amazed just how the smells lingered. Makes me hungry he thought. “Hey Micha you up for a pizza?” Micha was his overly large crime scene partner.

“Sounds good, but lookie here. Dere are claws missing from Skekko. Ever see dat before?” Micha questioned as he hit the pizza request icon. .

“No, and I never even noticed. What do you think?

“Not sure, but dis ain’t no normal alien killing, none dat I ever saw,” Said Micha shaking his head. “Where’s da pizza. I buzzed for it. It should be here.”

Micha could eat through anything. Everyone on the force knew that. It was said he ate a slice of apple pie that was still warm at a crime scene once while stating, “It looked too good to let it go to waste.”

Back at the Morgue

Gooch sat down on a stool next to the cooked bird in the morgue. He looked at the images and then again at the bird. “Something, a clue is missing.”

“Yeah, gravy and all da fixings,” Micha said.

“Do you have anything about where this bird came from, anything about the culture, gangs or…?” Gooch trailed off.

“Nope not a thing. These aliens keep to themselves socially except when they’re making deals with da POLS and other off-worlders. This ain’t any of our normal gang style jobs. Where you goin with dis?”

“Well I know Skekko wouldn’t take risks that would serve her up like this. I wonder if it was something else, something like we deal with all the time.”

“You mean like family? Most people are offed by a family member or friends.”

“Something like that, but not quite. There is no sign of a struggle; we have no clue of poison. Hell, we don’t even know the genetic makeup of these aliens. For all I know
A soda could kill them.” Gooch knew more than that but the truth was the aliens never submitted to genetic profiling. They claimed intergalactic immunity for all their citizens. It worked both ways.

Gooch looked around, looked a Skekko and shook his head. “I really liked her, as much trouble as she was I really liked her. Hey I’ve been trying to nail her for a few years and…”

Micha interrupted with a laugh, a nasty laugh “yeah me and da squad wondered if you ever did nail her.”

Gooch would never admit that sometimes he took more than just a professional interest in his clients, as he called them. The smarter they were the more interesting they became. The squad thought something like that was going on.

Micha looked at him closer, “You did her, didn’t you, you …”

“Shut your trap,” Gooch said gritting his teeth. “You’re a sick bird.” And realizing his pun, smiled if only to lessen the tension and divert the question.

The Commander came in and announced that the ambassador from Skekko’s planet was here to retrieve the body.

He came in. He was a tall bipedal feathered creature, with bird like, almost hawk like facial features. He looked at Skekko and then at Gooch. “This is because of you,” he said to Gooch in a low voice.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gooch.

“I noticed the missing claws right away. She was having an affair with an outsider. The beheading and cooking is just part of the ritual of removing the family member from the nest. It’s symbolic. The claw is another story. This is what happens to my kind and it’s carried out by family. You’ll never locate them. They’re gone off-world and out of your jurisdiction. But It was because of You. She developed a liking toward you even as you were trying to get her arrested and kicked off this shit-hole you call a planet. I think she even loved you. That’s an Earth term I still don’t comprehend.” The Ambassador stared at him as if he were prey.

Gooch felt hot all over. The word would get out. His reputation would be shot.

Gooch picked up his gun, pointed at the ambassador, who just smiled. “Gooch, that will not solve anything.”

Micha and the commander stood there not believing their eye or ears. "It has to be a ploy to draw da ambassador out," whispered Micha. "I think it was him or his..."

“No? Not for you, but for me, it will.” Gooch moved quickly. He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.


The End

[kailhofer]

To vote, rate these stories using the form below with scores of 0-10 (in whole numbers) and send it to me via PM: (Copy it into memory, click the 'PM' button below my avatar (or depending on your board style, mouse over the green username by my avatar and a menu will pop up with an option to send a private message), paste the form in, & then fill in your scores.)

Categories:
1) What overall score would you give the story?
2) How good was the Characterization?
3) How effective (or original) was the plot?
4) How clear was the setting to you?
5) How good was the use of dialog?
6) How well did the story meet or address the challenge as it was given?

NOTE: you must have posted at least one message before you can send a PM. Join in a discussion or just say hi in a thread before voting via PM. If I suspect a voter of being a false identity (i.e. a troll), I won't count their vote.

Author scores for their own entry will not be counted.



Chekhov's Pun
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Fox in the Henhouse
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Birds of a Feather
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Stowaway
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Gluttony Kills More than the Sword
1) Overall:
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Unfeathered
1) Overall:
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Thanksgiving Day Murder
1) Overall:
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[Lester Curtis]

I've sent my votes . . . very interesting challenge this month, and more entrants than usual, which is good to see.

[kailhofer]

Sorry, I meant to do the whole race at Aphelion Downs motif with these announcements, but haven't worked less than 14 hours any day this week and haven't even had time to enter any votes until now.

So, without further ado, your current race leader is Bill!

Next behind him is Rick, followed by Verse.


Plenty of voting to go. Stay tuned!

[kailhofer]

Congratulations to Verse, winner in the "Murder Most Foul" challenge! Verse's story, "Checkhov's pun," won the day against excellent competition. Verse also wins the prize money from Michele.



For the record, these were the authors of the entries for this month:

Chekhov's Pun by I. Verse
Fox in the Henhouse by McCamy Taylor
Birds of a Feather by Bill Wolfe
Stowaway by Michele Dutcher
Gluttony Kills More than the Sword by Sergio Palumbo
Unfeathered by Lester Curtis
Thanksgiving Day Murder by Richard Tornello



SCORES: (Overall next to the story title, then the average score next to each question #.)




Chekhov's Pun : 433
1) Overall: 8
2) Characterization: 7
3) Plot: 7
4) Setting: 6
5) Dialog: 7
6) Challenge: 8
# Zeroes: 0
# Perfect 10s: 9

Fox in the Henhouse : 392
1) Overall: 7
2) Characterization: 6
3) Plot: 6
4) Setting: 5
5) Dialog: 7
6) Challenge: 8
# Zeroes: 0
# Perfect 10s: 5

Birds of a Feather : 355
1) Overall: 6
2) Characterization: 6
3) Plot: 6
4) Setting: 4
5) Dialog: 6
6) Challenge: 8
# Zeroes: 0
# Perfect 10s: 4

Stowaway : 379
1) Overall: 6
2) Characterization: 6
3) Plot: 6
4) Setting: 6
5) Dialog: 7
6) Challenge: 7
# Zeroes: 0
# Perfect 10s: 6

Gluttony Kills More than the Sword : 389
1) Overall: 6
2) Characterization: 6
3) Plot: 7
4) Setting: 6
5) Dialog: 6
6) Challenge: 8
# Zeroes: 0
# Perfect 10s: 5

Unfeathered : 383
1) Overall: 6
2) Characterization: 6
3) Plot: 6
4) Setting: 6
5) Dialog: 6
6) Challenge: 7
# Zeroes: 0
# Perfect 10s: 5

Thanksgiving Day Murder : 329
1) Overall: 6
2) Characterization: 6
3) Plot: 6
4) Setting: 6
5) Dialog: 6
6) Challenge: 7
# Zeroes: 0
# Perfect 10s: 3

[Lester Curtis]

Congratulations, Verse!

I was pretty sure your story would win; I gave it perfect tens, myself. Outstanding job.

[Lester Curtis]

Chekhov's Pun 60

Maybe this one didn't have the most imaginative plot of all the stories entered, but I thought it was the clearest and easiest to follow. In fact, the whole story was clear and easy to follow; nothing to hang up on or get slowed down by. The first paragraph did an outstanding job of setting the scene, as well as the mood. Scene details really made the story, throughout; economical but quite vivid.

Characterization was excellent, and the dialog sounded authentic.

Smooth and shiny, end to end.


Fox in the Henhouse 53

Ms. Taylor, you've got nerve, sticking breasts on a bird. I've had the idea myself since a long time ago, and early on, I thought this challenge would be a fun place to use the phrase, "tits n' feathers.' Kinda has a ring to it.

Anyway, this story also had a great plot, but I thought it was too conveniently propped up here and there; example, Chin finding a coverall right where & when he needed it; the hardware right across from the cop-shop to buy his bucket and mop from; Chin being conveniently friendly with the coroner. I give more leeway to these things in flash, though; sometimes you have to resort to short-cuts.

The story had another problem, for me at least: in the first few paragraphs, I got confused over which character connected with what name. Then, later, I had to double check characters again to make sure I had Ramirez and Fernandez straight.

Setting was good; characterization was pretty good; dialog was very good -- and overall, I liked the story a lot. It just got a little confusing for me in spots, and the devices were too obvious.

Extra credit for the detail about molting.


Birds of a Feather 45

Good job, Bill, but a couple of things bothered me about it. First, I wasn't much amused by the comments about chicken sandwiches. No big deal, though.

The big problem for me came below the line, "One VERY busy week later . . . " The attributions confused the stuffings out of me, and I had to go back over it to sort out who was whom. I thought that could have been handled a little more gracefully. It didn't help that the characterization seemed a little fuzzy there, too.

Also:

“Harpies lay twelve genetically identical eggs, but only one of them is sentient.

If they're genetically identical, shouldn't they ALL have the same level of sentience?

You also got points deducted for your detail about molting, as in:

Her plumage patterns are different in every mugshot we have of her.

Highly unlikely, at least to the extent you seem to suggest. Surprising, coming from you. FYI, I once took a course in bird biology, just for the sake of authenticity concerning a bird-like alien in one of my stories.

Not much in the way of setting. Still, overall, a fun read, and I liked it.


Stowaway 29

Michele, you had a few weak places in this one. For one, there's nothing really specific in here about Skekko's activities that is convincingly criminal -- having a "weak moral code" doesn't tell me enough. Even selling the eggs doesn't, as this activity is immediately relegated to a gray area in the dialog.

Then, the surprise, with the supernatural element. I almost went into shock when I realized what you'd actually done. Certainly unexpected, but it just didn't fit anywhere in my conception of what a murder mystery should be. Granted, I'm not a fan of the genre, but I've read a few, and this felt like some weird sort of betrayal or cheating. Purely a subjective reaction, understand. When Kate says, "It's possessed!" I really, honestly thought she was speaking metaphorically, and once I got a little farther, I had to go back and reread the last half of the thing to put that statement into context as literal. Call it an interesting experiment, but for this reader, it failed.

The word "dinie" calls to my mind a child's pacifier, but it is economically descriptive. And I had to wonder, how exactly are they going to check these pets to see if they're possessed? And why does it bother to fry the innards before eating them?

Dialog and characterization were very good; setting was adequate.


Gluttony Kills More than the Sword 36

The plot of this story is very good, and certainly different, and I liked that. I also liked the characterization and dialog quite a bit; I really felt bad for poor Esteban, despite his criminal enterprise. The part that bothers me is the setting, and the questions it raises, like, where are these people, and how did Skekko find this trap -- and why didn't she notice it? Do aliens normally just wander about foraging? That seemed odd.

I really enjoyed the last paragraph.


Thanksgiving Day Murder 32

This one was weak on murder motives, and I thought the suicide was rather extreme also, but everyone has their own thresholds. That thing about the missing claws was a little perplexing, too.

Oh, and at the end, the ambassador smiled -- think, now -- how does one smile with a beak? Oh -- and why was there the smell of ham along with the turkey odor at the murder scene?

The character of Micha was -- inconsistent, maybe, with his dialog. His speech made him sound like a dolt, but it becomes apparent that he's sharper than he sounds. It's mildly distracting.

I really enjoyed one little setting detail in particular, when Micha hits the pizza request icon.

Various technical errors, mostly with punctuation, but also a few misplaced capitalizations.

Overall, a bit lighthearted and fun to read.

[Lester Curtis]

Unfeathered
I liked the setting on the embassy steps and the plucked body but
interspecies sex thing as motive didn't seem strong enough, and
also yuck!

Verse, Sorry you thought this was yucky, but as far as a murder motive, you ought to realize that we have cultures here on Earth, right now, where people are put to death for lesser offenses. I don't think I need to name any.

[Lester Curtis]

Lester, Bird Like does not necessarily dictate a beak. You're thinking Earth based bird like. This is alien.

Well, Rick, you describe the ambassador as having "almost hawk like facial features." It's not my fault that the most prominent feature of a hawk's face is its beak. And trying to describe 'hawk-like' without a beak would definitely be tricky.

Don't let it worry you, though, it's a minor thing, and others here may not have noticed it. I'm just picky about these details because I happen to like birds.
Birds can be expressive; it's just mostly in their posture and the way their feathers lay. A really happy bird will stand as tall as it can, head up, with its feathers sleeked down flat, and may raise its crest if it has one. Angry or unhappy, and they lower their head and fluff the plumage out. And, most of them do have some expression in their eyes -- I know I've been glared at.

Other cultures cut parts of the body off as a symbol in murders. Here it was a claw for a taboo act. Some cultures chop a finger, a hand, a kneecap, you get the idea.

It just seemed to me as if the missing claws indicated something separate from the rest of the victim's treatment. The way that clue was discussed made it seem that way. It's still not clear to me whether that was a customary part of the whole stuffed-and-cooked routine, or not.

[Lester Curtis]

Lester, Bird Like does not necessarily dictate a beak. You're thinking Earth based bird like. This is alien.

Well, Rick, you describe the ambassador as having "almost hawk like facial features." It's not my fault that the most prominent feature of a hawk's face is its beak. And trying to describe 'hawk-like' without a beak would definitely be tricky.

It wouldn't have been as effective, either; I really liked how you had the ambassador looking at Gooch as if he were prey.

[Lester Curtis]

For Lester: Well EXCUUUUUSSSSEEE meeeeee for trying to explain from an evolutionary standpoint why an evolving species would be forced to take to the skies. Or to put into a 1000 word story the dangers of inter-planetary open-ended immigration. Or the eventual inclusion of Alien beings in our legal system and the specifications necessary for them being non-mammalian.
So much easier just to have some gumshoe "All we're missing here are the sides" detective trying to solve the murder.
ExCUUUUUUUUSSSEEEE MMMMMMEEEE!!!!!

Oh, admit it, BD, you're just jealous 'cause I came in ahead of you in the poll.

Seriously, though -- if you read my post very carefully, you'll see that I said your story didn't work for ME. There might be thousands of readers out there who would just LOVE it (but they aren't all here).

And -- you're excused.

[Lester Curtis]

The elements I like most about literature make bad writing.

I love plot above all else. Plot, plot, plot. I can say my interest rises or falls with how well a good plot is developed. If the plot is good, I forgive everything else. The other elements of good writing; characterization, dialogue, setting, word choices, almost mean nothing to me.

Mark, don't lose hope. Plot is very important, and it's a good place to start.

I'm reminded of something that appeared in Analog magazine a long time ago; about fifteen pages of some Famous SF Author's world-building exercise. It was a description of a planet. Period. An expertly-detailed and consistent description of a planet, but that's all it was, and I was PISSED. No characters, no action, no conflict -- no PLOT. Nothing but setting. Proof positive that if your name has enough cache within the genre, some otherwise well-regarded magazine editor will go starry-eyed and publish a piece of setting detail.

Anyway, just keep working at it. Your poems show a surprising depth of insight into human character and conflict. Take what you've developed there and work with that. Let your characters find their own voices. McCamy (EDIT -- and especially Verse) showed us this month how important setting is; just close your eyes and imagine the scene and describe it.

Keep trying, and be patient with yourself. You want to write, and you can. It just takes a lot of work.

[Lester Curtis]

Also:

“Harpies lay twelve genetically identical eggs, but only one of them is sentient.

If they're genetically identical, shouldn't they ALL have the same level of sentience?

Not neccessarily. There can be other factors influencing a developing organism. The gender of crocodiles for example is determined by incubation temperature.

Okay. So (as I suspected) one of the eggs would have to selected (and possibly marked) and treated differently from the others to trigger sentience. I can accept that, but it would have been helpful to mention it (word limit; I know). It wasn't presented that way.

[Lester Curtis]

Thanks for explaining that title, Verse. I was wondering about that myself.

[kailhofer]

Rick asked that I put a note in about his vote this time--the computer ate it. For some reason his really early vote was deleted before I saw it, and there was a misunderstanding about his vote's status.

Well, there's a clause in the rules that covers that. In place of his vote, the rest of you received your average score for each of your categories, and his total score was reduced 10% (individual category scores remained the same). It was a lousy situation, and I know he feels bad about it.

I wanted you all to know he did vote, and he's still a dedicated member of our little group. However, it could not have tipped the scales as to who won, even if he would have given McCamy all tens. Verse's lead was too large.

Sometimes, it happens.