Crime Writing Prompts

“Another one,” Detective Hank Langdon said.

His partner, Detective Hen Ball, took in a steadying breath. There had been the elderly man found garroted in a tub of milk in the white tiled changing room at Maxim Gym. Eight days later, a teenage couple were reported missing. Their bodies were found blue and bloated inside an abandoned blue spray painted garage.

It was at the blue murders that Ball and Langdon were assigned and the two disparate crimes were linked. After their successful work on the West River Rapist task force, captain Echevarria thought they were wonderkins. Surveying the blood splattered crimson velvet wallpaper, Ball didn’t feel like any kind of crime genius.

“So we have Ida Picasso known around the neighborhood as Peanut. She has priors from back in the day but nothing recent. She runs the dry cleaners on Flower St,” Sgt. Nick Richards said reading from his notes.

The beat cop’s words drifted away as Ball took in the elaborate staging of the corpse. Red satin sheets and copious mounds of rose petals decorated the bed the victims was posed on. The middle aged mother looked peaceful except for vicious stab wound to her side. The setting was lush, overwhelming, and bone chilling.

Ball touched the motel’s walls. Red paint had been added to the wall paper to cover any torn or discolored sections.

“This psycho brought in paint. He’s communicating with us. The victimology is all over the place. It’s the room that drives him,” Ball mused outloud.

“But what is the unsub trying to tell us? The significance of the colors. White means purity,” Langdon said.

“Or death!” Richards said.

“I know blue is sadness,” Ball said.

“Or royalty! Blue ribbon blueblood,” richards said while ticking suggestions off on his fingertips. “Blue moon, boy in blue, blue paint special.”

Ball and Langdon rolled their eyes at the helpful sergeant. Ball rubbed the red paint on her fingers. This monster took his time

“Blueberry Hill stop with the blue already Gainsborough,” Langdon said.

“Wasn’t the first victim named Gainsborough? He was a painter right like Picasso. Could the victims have a link? Shit and the two kids murdered were O’Keefe and Bonnard. I know Georgia O’keefe but was there a famous Bonnard artist?”

“Late Surrealist, yeah. What does it mean?” Richards looked up fromhis phone.

“It means he considers himself an artist. These rooms are his masterpieces and the people are mere ingredients. Signatures maybe,” Langdon said.

“It means the killer is organized not frenzied. He spends hours no days selecting his targets. He is smart. Looks normal. He is able to manipulate normal people to take them to a secondary location. It means this insub will be very hard to find,” Ball said standing up too quickly.

She needed air, wanted to rip open the window and scream at the reporters already gathering outside. This wasn’t a true crime podcast or a clever serial killer movie. Real people were gone here. “

Langdon snapped his fingers. Ball realized she had been talking out loud.

“God idea Hen. We need to discombobulate this bastard. He sees himself as an artist. We will give a press release criticizing the scenes. He’s serious let’s Make him a joke. Make him make a mistake,” Langdon said slapping her back.

The day of my 13th kill, a special number for obvious reasons. Years ago, I couldn’t have fathomed that I would be amongst the likes of the famed Zodiac killer for my cryptic messages. Walking the streets like BTK, unknown and not cared about. The old bookstore was my dominion. I didn’t even know the owner and he saw me as just another patron, but after each kill I came here and placed a new journal entry, sheathed in a leather carrier until I took it out, on a shelf in a new section. The journal, documenting my most recent kill with unclear details that the police had a field day with, would usually be found by a patron within 24 hours, and the hunt would begin again. Would they get me on camera this time? Did anyone see what I looked like? No, not at all. Because I switched outfits - and not just that, but hair, beard, style … after each kill.

Magical! The store was mostly empty, but the owner was chatting with someone checking out at the counter and they nodded at me. I nodded back and smiled. What section would I place my journal in today? Crime? Already did that … Fantasy? Saving that for a special one … New Age? Too expected. I placed it in the finance section and turned to leave, ensuring nobody was around. I had always been careful about those things.

I browsed for a bit. The store was awfully dead tonight. When I made my way to leave, I found the front door locked - from the outside. Strange … I had never thought about if stores could do that or not. The clerk wasn’t at the counter, but a sturdy man in uniform met my stare.

“Sir? Sir, you’re under arrest.”

My heart at my feet, I began to weep. And that’s what the media would remember me as - not as the Dark Journaler, but the Weeper. That’s my biggest regret.

With room temperature white table wine and orange cubes of cheddar, Mercury Bookstore was hosting its Spring Author Q&A followed by a book signing. Tonight’s author was Seattle Tribune star journalist Sam Jenkins, writer of One-Eyed Jacks, the Hunt to Find the Wayne City Sniper. Bookstore owner, Loretta King beamed in front of the rows of folding chairs. Shove that in your pipe and smoke it BookBusters, she thought smugly.

Sam Jenkins sat across from King trying desperately to not vomit. Sam didn’t like crowds. He really didn’t like speaking in public. His left knee started to shake. He knew he was a fraud.

Carrying a tray of more orange cubes of cheese and a crudite plate, store clerk Jessica kicked Von to remind him to play the gentle background music from Spotify. She refreshed the appetizer table trying to make the pitiful amount of snacks look classy. Mercedes, one of the bookshop regulars, grabbed a handful of crackers. Jessica groaned.

Loretta looked over at her guest. He looked petrified. She chuckled to herself. Authors often looked stricken before promo events. Loretta loved books, the weight of a thick paperback, the crisp of opening an unread hardback. Loretta pictured her ivory paper knife slicing uncut folio. Loretta loved books not writers. She was less of a fan of authors. Self-conscious Nervous Nellys, she said to herself and leaned towards Jenkins.

The author startled. Loretta patted his knee. Her voice purred.

“Only the dumb are perpetually confident. Many bright talented people have imposter syndrome, feeling undeserving. I’ve followed your articles, young man, I have read your book. Breathtaking, simply breathtaking. You deserved all of the wondrous things coming to you.”

Jenkins blanched. Shrugging, Loretta adjusted her Hermes scarf, crossed her legs, and leaned back into an elegant pose. A freelance photographer who did gigs from the local papers and news sites snapped photos of her. Frantically, Jenkins searched the crowd for the pr lady from Lynx Books. Carrie or Carly, Jenkins’ thoughts were scrambled. He had to get out of here.

More guests arrived. They mingled in the stacks and flocked the appetizer table. Jessica carried in four more folding chairs. She glared at Von drinking wine and chatting up some cute chick in Histories & Biographies.

Guests settled into their chairs. The appetizer table was a train wreck. Jessica scrubbed at her temples and reconsidered the clerk position at the new BookBusters. Loretta told a story about herself deguised as an amusing ancedote about independent bookstores. Jenkins looked for exits, willing his feet to move.

“I could talk about the striking prose and detailed research that went into covering the sniper that terrorized the Northwest for hours but I want to give our attendees a chance to ask questions,” Loretta said reaching an elegant hand towards the guests. The cute chick who had been talking to Von stood up.

“Shannon Crosby from Media WatchDog, considering this book is based on your Tribune articles that was based on plagiarized sections from USWeek, Seattle Post, the Tacoma Daily, and dozens of other news sources, off the record comments, and pure fabrication. Are you planning on re-releasing One-Eyed Jacks as fiction?” Crosby said, holding up her phone.

Bolting upright, Jenkins leapt from his chair, knocked over an older woman into the new releases, and ran out the shop’s front door.

“Fiction it is,” she said.