Walter H. Sherman

O.k. this is a book I am writing and I kinda wanna see if it is good or not. Please, give your advice or comments. Tell me if this sucks or not. Its gonna be a short book and you don't have to read it, I would just appreciate it if you did.

Chapter 1 - How I Met Walter H. Sherman
"Hartford Police! Make way!" I shouted over the massive crowd gathered outside of the police station, I pushed and shoved through the mess of T.V. reporters, cameras and other bystanders. "Move it or lose it!"
Swarms and swarms of people stood outside the Hartford police station, just waiting to get a glimpse of Walter H. Sherman. I fought my way through the crowd to get to the stairs of the station and eventually to the doors ... if I could only get there. Two guards stood outside the twin white doors so the public couldn't get in. I flashed my badge. "Hartford P.D., Lieutenant Frasier."
One of the guards nodded and let me in. I briskly walked into the office where I was greeted by sheer chaos. Sheets of paper were flying everywhere, phones rang nonstop, and people ran all over the department with one almost knocking me over. It was like I was in a tornado.
It wasn't "like" a tornado, I reminded myself, "It IS a tornado."
It was a whirlwind of fright and madness there. To get out of the way, I moved to the side window. The public was crying out for justice, shown by a picket line outside.
DEATH PENALTY and LIFE IN PRISON were written on quite a few signs. Opposing punishments, but with the same view if you melted it down. They all wanted Walter H. Sherman to suffer.
There was only one face in the crowd that truly stuck out. She was an African-american woman who was very tall, about six foot. She was absolutely beautiful. Her face showed no emotion, as if she were impervious to it.
A hand took me away from the window and it swung me around to see a very haggard man, whom I recognized as the chief. The cheif's eyes showed bags and dark circles, with his normally slicked back hair falling down over his face. His suit pants were in a sorrier state with coffee stains all over them. His normal coat was missing and his tie was loosened and two buttons were undone.
"He won't talk," said the chief. His face was in a pained expression. "I mean we've got the press in our backyard including freaking BBC --"
"Bloody hell!" I said in a very English accent.The chief didn't seem to notice.
"-- and he won’t talk until the right one comes,” the chief said putting air quotes around ‘the right one’. “And I sure hope to hell Frasier, that you are the right one.”
“Chief, with all due respect, I cannot interview that psycho.”
“And why not?” he snapped.
“Because MacDonald should be doing this. He is much better than I am,” I said looking straight into his eyes.
“Well, he rejected him, so I guess you are up to bat,” replied the chief. I groaned mentally but did not argue. I was quite annoyed with the idea that I should spend my day off interviewing another perp. If worst came to worst for the chief, he wouldn’t talk to me and I wouldn’t be the ‘right one’.
“Frasier!” barked the chief. “Come with me.”
He led me back through the tornado and turned a corner toward a narrow hall where the various heads of departments were.
“Now remember,” the chief said, “everyone is counting on you to get this ludicrious story. The press is coming down on me like hounds and the public is in hysteria.”
“Thanks chief,” I said sarcastically, “I feel no pressure at all.”
He eyed me with a bulldog look that could even scare Hannibal Lector. I gulped very loudly.
“So…,” I said nearing the end of the hall, “what is Sherman even accused of?”
The chief stopped instantly. “You really don’t get out much do you Frasier?” asked the chief.
“No sir. Never. I stay at my house 24/7. Never getting out,” I replied with much sarcasm.
“Stop being a wiseguy. That was a rhetorical question,” he growled. “He murdered Laura Christy. The famous 1920’s and 30’s horror movie star.”
“Ok…,” I said even though I still didn’t get who she was.
“Geezum Frasier,” said the chief recognizing my confusion. “Take a few minutes and read this.”
He took out a manila folder I had not seen before and handed it to me. I started to open it to read the report.
“Not here dammit! In the room,” he snarled. We continued walking down the hall until we got to the interrogation room’s door. He opened the door to let me in with a mocking swoop of the arm showing me the way.
“Why, thank you kind sir, because after you opened the door, I was confused on which way to go. Should I go to bump into the right wall or smash into the narcotic’s room. Thanks to you and your gracious arm, I now know where to go,” I said being as tauntingly polite as I could.
The chief turned purple with rage, but said, “Get your derriere in there before I kick it for you.”
“Thank you gracious master,” I said as innocent as I could. As I entered the room, I heard a chuckle from behind me, and I turned around. The chief had already slammed the door behind me however.
Oh, well I thought as I surveyed the room. Sickening dim fluorescent lighting flooded the room which seemed to be painted years ago, judging by it’s condition. The paint was crackled and chipped in some places with water damage on the walls. The once white place was now a deeper shade, almost a yellow. I sat down at the metal table and felt the hard steel pierce my rear end. No wonder Sherman didn’t want to talk in a place like this.
I opened the manila folder and came to the identification page of the victim.
DOB: October 15, 1909
Doing some mental math, I realized that she was one hundred years old.
Occupation: Retired
Parents: Lucille Crenshaw
Hmm… no father, I catalogued.
Hair: Black
Ethnicity: Caucasion
Eyes: Gold
Gold eyes? I thought surprised. It must be a typo. I flicked through the pages and was surprised to find pictures in the folder. They were probably evidence of some sort. There were quite a few black and whites. There was a picture of her winning some award, her going to see a Broadway show, a scene from a movie, getting into a car and quite a few others of her in her younger days. Although two pictures drew me to them .
The first, was a black and white of Laura leaving a restaurant with a man. Sure, Ms. Christy was seen with dozens of men, but this man was obscenely handsome. Laura was absolutely gorgeous too.
Her shiny black hair was waved slightly and ended at an inch or two below her shoulders. Laura’s shapely body was shown off in a white v-cut with what only could be described as a halter floor length satin dress. She was very tall, towering over the cab driver yet shorter than the dashing man beside her. Always saving the best for last, I looked at her eyes.
I was in shock when I saw them. They were almost feline shaped with her pupils an oval appearance. It was as if God had meant to dot the eyes, but the paint dripped down a bit. The eye itself was big with long charming lashes. Even more spectacular was the grayish shading of the eye because it was black and white. It was at first light, but the outer part of the iris was a deeper color.
I frowned thinking that it was a camera mistake, but all of the other pictures had her eyes the same way.
The other was a color picture that was taken about twenty-five years later. It was a portrait of her in the same dress. She was still jaw dropping, just older. I looked toward her eyes again and in this photo you could see the color.
They were a luminescent bright gold and in the outer part, rimmed with a light brown. I sat looking at those eyes for what seemed an eternity when the door was opened and Walter H. Sherman came in.
My jaw dropped when I looked to see his face. I stared at his eyes. They were golden.

The End

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