|
|
This is only a preview of the paper
Click here to register and get the full text.
Existing members click here to login
|
|
|
As Detective Nick Bradford walked up 129th St. to the scene of one of his many crimes he asked the street cop for the D.O.A.’s pedigree and quickly learned that the dope had been robbed and left for dead after being popped twice in the Adam’s apple. They found a “38” in the alley and it was being taken to ballistics. On his way back to his ‘95 blue Crown Victoria he peeked in a dumpster about a hundred yards from the body and saw a quivering bum with a gangsta role of Grants in one hand and a gold bracelet in the other. He yelled to the canvassing officer and slowly strutted trough the rain to his car and just as he bent over to enter he muttered to himself, “What a hell hole.” When he got back to the 15th precinct he glared at his congealing mug of coffee. He had a reason to be cocky, after all this was his seventh murder solved of the young month. It was only the ninth day of February. The heated room was a much needed comfort from the freezing rain he was presently viewing through the window, to the left of his desk. After about ten minutes of looking out the window at the poor streets of east Harlem, his phone rang. Little did he realize that this phone call would make this day one that he would never forget. After fetching his partner, Chavez, he told all he knew on their way to the squad car parked in front of the building. He told him that they were given the case of a dead teen on the seventeenth floor of a wealthy apartment building on 5th Avenue around 82nd street. Bradford had achieved certain arrogance during his recent streak, but this was no usual case.
Approximate Word count = 1196
Approximate Pages = 4.8
(250 words per page double spaced)
|
|
|
|
|
|