Blood Money

It's a pulp crime, still on the go - not even the first chapter is done. All help, ideas and (not too harsh) criticism welcomed! It's my first time so... BE NICE!!

I turned to Ryan to give him the once over. His sandy blond hair fell just to long to ever quite look neat, but it was combed into some kind of compliance around his slim features. I reached to his throat to straighten his navy blue tie under the collar of his rumpled, pinstriped shirt and brushed the majority of the creases out by running my hands down his chest. To the best of anyone else’s knowledge we were a young couple applying for a term deposit. I blushed slightly as he reached under my cranberry cardigan, re-arranging my shirt over my gun belt.

“Ready, Mrs. Brown?” Ryan smiled.

“Yes, honey.” I was as ready as I’d ever be. It would be Ryan’s first time undercover, and although it was a simple information gathering exercise I knew how nerve wracking it could get, plus for someone so good at reading other people, Ryan got flustered easily. “Aaron? Can you hear us?” I pressed my earpiece under my hair and adjusted the button camera.

“Loud and clear Jorja. I have eyes and ears. Good luck!”

I imagined Aaron was loving this. He was like my big brother, and any excuse to pick on me was good enough, especially when it came to Ryan. As well as being our in-unit IT specialist, Aaron was the one who dealt with our undercover identities – needless to say the newlyweds guise was his idea of a joke.


It was a simple plan, we knew that the bank was having financial difficulties and was siphoning deposited money onto the share market. We would give them our not-so-hard-earned $5000 in tagged money and prove exactly who and how they were doing it. Ryan was with me to get an evaluation of the bank manager, a quick profile of where this guy was at psychologically. Mediocre work for a newbie cop and a criminal profiler.

“You have all the info, Mr and Mrs Brown?” Aaron’s voice in my earpiece “The manager is the subject, Jason Pearce, 54 and he’s probably going to want to get your money and run. Bateman doesn’t think you guys are up to this, but you can’t mess this up.”

I rolled my eyes and attracted a weird look from Ryan. I mouthed ‘Bateman’ and he just nodded in understanding – it was a well-known fact that my partner, Detective John Bateman, didn’t believe in psychoanalysis, or women cops for that matter.


We were greeted at the counter by an unassuming assistant, and steered into uncomfortable armchairs outside the manager’s office on the promise that he’d be out soon. I leaned into Ryan and squeezed his arm.

“You okay?” I looked straight at his caramel eyes and he looked away. It didn’t take a psychologist to tell that he was nervous. “Don’t be nervous, sweetheart!” I took his hand in mine and kissed his fingers. The assistant smiled at us – blissfully unaware. Had I been with anyone else, I wouldn’t be comfortable playing the couple, but Ryan and I had been toying with the idea of each other for a while. I liked him, he liked me, but it never seemed to get past the occasional coffee and a kiss goodnight; life always got in the way. I was new to the force and still finding my way around the more seasoned detectives like Bateman, who had some chauvinistic ideal that he’d come back from field work and I’d have made him a coffee and lunch. Ryan had only recently become a permanent member of the team and was still on call to other departments and offices throughout the city, meaning that I’d never know where he’d be on any given day. The situation didn’t really lend itself to the beginning of a beautiful romance.

“Excuse me, Jorja?” a voice inside my ear. “Don’t forget that I can see and hear everything you two do, and I didn’t sign up to watch you guys make eyes at each other.”

I silently vowed to get him back later.


We had waited nearly ten minutes and the manager still hadn’t shown. The girl impatiently knocked on the window, and, after there was no answer poked her head around the door. The whole bank stood up and paid attention as she collapsed onto the floor with a hysterical scream, leaving the door open for all to see the naked and mutilated corpse of Jason Pearce bound to his chair in the middle of a blood bath office. In my best authoritive voice I proclaimed that we were cops and not to panic. It didn’t work. The bank was in a state of Bedlam; customers and staff running, screaming and vomiting, left, right and centre.

“Aaron, we need serious back up. Are you seeing this? Send an ambulance, CSU and get Bateman down here ASAP!”

“Is he dead?”

“He’s practically headless. Go figure.”


Within ten minutes the bank was void of customers and swarming with police, crime scene techs and distraught employees. Statements were being taken, photos shot, evidence collected and questions were flying until the air was thick.  Moments later Bateman rolled up, notebook out and ready to take charge. He took one swift look over the scene of the crime and dictated his opinions.

“Whoever did this had to have serious motive; no one beheads a bank manager over a lost cheque.” He started. I fought the urge to roll my eyes; he truly was the master of stating the obvious. “The killer must have known what he was doing too, that’s not a spur of the moment thing.” I slyly elbowed Ryan – he is much better at keeping a straight face than I am – even he was struggling not to smirk. A voice came from under the baker’s desk.

“Technically, Detective, this man wasn’t beheaded. The laceration on his neck was deep enough to nick the C4 vertebrae, however it didn’t quite sever his head. The bone was too solid for the weapon to slice.” A tall figure unfolded from behind the desk, Ethan Moore, M.D., self professed God’s Gift: six foot two, sun bleached blond hair, baby blue eyes, chiselled, Nordic features and enough charm to knock out cold all women in a five mile radius. Fortunately, (or unfortunately, depending on perspective) his charms were rendered useless on me, but it wasn’t through lack of trying. “Jorja, would you mind?” Yes, in fact, I would.

“It’s Detective Hamilton on the job, Doctor. What can I do for you?”

“I’m in a bit of a state, go into my bag and pass the liver probe, and another pair of gloves? Oh, and can I invite you to dinner tomorrow night?”

“Yes, yes, and no. In that order. Here.” There was a rumour in the station that there wasn’t a female staff member who hadn’t been asked. I wondered what the statistics were like on accepting. Bateman interjected.

“Do you have a T.O.D., Dr Moore?”

“Perfection takes time, John. Bear with me, it’ll just take another minute.” I resisted the mother of all eye-rolls. Ryan playfully nudged me in the ribs – he knew exactly what I was thinking – he was thinking it too. For one, no-one called Detective Bateman ‘John’.


The End

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