For this year's National Novel Writing Month project, I decided to try and draft a sci-fi detective story. This is one of those ideas I had that molded into shape with no real plot or characters in mind, until later on; I always fancied that it could be interesting and fun to play around with the tropes and styles of hardboiled detective fiction. I came up with a simple premise of a pair of brothers who are at opposite ends of the scale - one is a righteous clean-cut federal agent, and other an amoral rough-around-the-edges private investigator - and one day the PI is framed for the death of his brother. From then on, he struggles to find the truth, which plants him in the crossfire of an intense conflict between powerful corporations.
The excerpt below is where the plot really kicks into gear - the PI had previously lost his gun while on a routine investigation. He then met with his brother, the FBI agent, who warns him that his partner may be dirty. This whole story represents a lot of experimentation on my part - it's my first time writing in present tense, and I find myself messing it up often. I really wanted to use more slang in this story, but for now I'm sticking with a plain, straightforward prose (words can be swapped around in editing). It may seem rather dry for now, but for a first draft, I think this scene turned out swell. Hope you enjoy it!
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It’s not a pleasant feeling knowing that there are people out there with your biometric data and your firearm, capable of planting it somewhere to implicate you for a crime. I know it’s coming soon, and I need to keep moving to stay ahead of whoever is behind all this.
When I return to my apartment/office, I find myself slumping in the chair behind my desk. My legs are tired from so much walking, and the Californian heat makes me want to fall asleep. Any motivation I had to keep moving suddenly vanishes, and my hand decides to move on its own, opening the bottom drawer of the desk to pull out a half-empty bottle of scotch. I take a big, long gulp straight from the bottle, and I feel the smooth, burning liquid sliding down my throat. I start to feel numb and loose.
Moments pass, before somebody knocks at my door. I check my phone, which connects to the camera I have mounted in the hallway. I see a man standing there, flanked by two LAPD officers. It must be Gabriel’s partner.
I don’t bother to answer the door, hoping they’d assume I’m gone and leave on their own. Instead, the federal agent plants a device over the door handle. It slides a thin rod into the keyhole, and nanites expand out of it to fill up the lock. The machine unlocks the door in about five seconds, and the man walks through with a look of triumph on his smug little face.
Approaching my desk, the agent asks, “Marco Salinger?”
“Yeah?” I say. “What’s the big idea, busting in here like this?”
“When was the last time you saw your brother, Gabriel?”
“Before I say anything, can I see some ID?” I demand.
With an annoyed sigh, the man pulls out a small acrylic slide and holds it up. A projection of the FBI seal appears, along with the agent’s name, grade, and credentials. I read the man’s name – Agent Jay Schwab – before he tucks the device away. He’s a young man, probably freshly-hired by the Bureau, no more than twenty-three years old. He’s lean and fit, but he has a baby face that looks like it can be punched to a pulp easily. His jet-black hair is neatly-combed and groomed, and his suit looks freshly-ironed and pressed. He strikes me as a total newbie, with an air of arrogance and self-righteousness. I’m certain this must be Gabriel’s partner, and I find it easy to believe that he can be corrupted and coerced as easily as Gabriel feared. Jay just looks like a pathetic little snob.
Jay says, “I work with your brother. Do you know where he is now?”
“Nope,” I answer. And it’s true; Gabriel could be on Mars for all I know. After meeting with him at Century City, we parted ways, totally oblivious to each other’s whereabouts.
“When did you see him last?”
I lie this time, telling the snotty agent, “It’s been months; I haven’t seen Gabe since mom’s funeral earlier this year. You’re in the Bureau, why don’t you tell me where my good-for-nothing brother is?”
“Well, I can tell you that. We found him at Santa Monica, on the beach.”
“So, he decided to take a walk. Good for him.”
“You shot him in the back, while he was taking that walk. Your gun was found at the scene, with your fingerprints on its handle and all over Gabriel’s jacket. I’m sure that a simple DNA test will place you at the scene.”
And with those words, the prophecy is fulfilled; whoever stole my weapon has truly also stolen my fingerprints and DNA, and used them to set me up for my brother’s murder. I feel sick in my stomach. I would have expected a random stranger or somebody I never heard of to get shot with my weapon – but Gabriel, I never expected anybody to have the gall to shoot a federal agent and get away with it. But with the evidence stacked against me, the real killer has committed the perfect crime.
Jay is in on it, I’m certain. Gabriel suspected him, and looking at the young agent’s face, I’m also convinced that the smug twerp is being paid off. I can’t arbitrarily accuse or attack him with the LAPD escorts, and without evidence. I realize how badly this sucks, because Jay and the law have all the evidence to put me away for good, and I have no way to prove my innocence.
Pulling his phone out, Jay flashes a document on the screen: an arrest warrant. He says, “Marco Salinger, you’re under arrest for the murder of Gabriel Salinger.”
The two cops start to make their move, pulling out their titanium handcuffs. As they close in, I realize that once those cuffs are put on my hands, I’ll be powerless. Even if I do go in quietly and peacefully, and get a good attorney, there’s no way to disprove the hard evidence planted against me. I have only one alternative: resist arrest, get the hell off the grid, and figure this out myself.
Like an animal backed to a corner, I feel a burst of adrenaline that punches through the drowsiness from the heat and liquor; I immediately seize the bottle of scotch and smash it against the nearest officer’s head. The bottle shatters and the liquor pours over the officer, drenching him. A big gash appears on his forehead, oozing blood. He shouts in pain, but I kick him in the gut to knock him to the ground.
The other officer comes around the desk and tries to flank me. He goes for one of my arms; I pull back and grab one of his arms. Flipping his hand down, I get him to latch one end of his handcuffs to his other arm. Thrashing his free arm up, he hits me in the face, and I stumble backwards into the wall.
Jay pulls out a gun and points it at me. It doesn’t scare me: I’ve dealt with plenty of creeps on the street before, and I even took bullets from all kinds of guns. Sure, they hurt and they get messy, but aiming is everything. In tight quarters, with so much commotion, Jay’s aim couldn’t be worth jack s#!t, even if he had any kind of fancy FBI training.
I lunge at the agent sideways, ramming myself into him with my shoulder. The gun goes off, and a single bullet cuts through the air and hits the wall behind my desk. With my weight bearing down on him, I slam him into the floor and slug him in the face. Blood spurts from his mouth, but somehow there’s still a stupid little smile on his face.
The cop approaches me from behind; I fling my foot backwards and kick him in the gut. He falls backwards on my desk. I turn to face the policeman, but he rebounds off the desk fast and throws his fist into my face. It feels like a brick hitting my jaw; there’s a sudden throb of pain, and a sharp flash of red across my vision. He grabs my hand, intending to handcuff me, but I yank it away and punch him in the gut. When he keels over, I grab his arm with the handcuff, and latch the free end of it to his leg. With his arm attached to his leg, the officer is stuck in place, bent over awkwardly.
Turning, I see Jay climbing to his feet with his gun in his hands. I kick him in the @$s, knocking him back to the floor. With a sharp kick to his hand, I knock his gun free, and pick it up.
Glaring up at me, the agent says, “Resisting arrest, and your failure to acknowledge the charges, confirms your guilt.”
It’s true that the Miranda rights were abolished some years ago, and if I was smarter I would have denied all charges before making my move. What’s done is done though, and I need to move fast. I quickly move to a closet across the room, and open up a box I have hiding there. I pull out a wad of emergency cash.
Jay stands back up, but I point my gun at him. When he puts his hands up, I tell him, “It’s true I hate my brother, but I didn’t kill him. Somebody stole my gun and my biometrics, and I think you have something to do with it!”
“I am a federal agent,” Jay defends. “Gabe was my partner. Has been for months. I’m more of a brother to him than you ever were.”
It’s bulls*#t and I know it; Gabriel told me himself that he suspected Jay. But Jay doesn’t know that I met with Gabriel already, and I even have a card full of FBI intel that may give me some answers. Of course, Jay can’t know I have the card; he might spin it as motivation for killing Gabe.
All I tell him is, “You’re full of it, and I’m going to find out what’s really going on.”
“Come on, you can’t deny the evidence,” Jay says, stepping closer. “Just give me the gun–”
I can tell that he’s reaching to disarm me, so I shoot. The bullet cuts through his hand, drilling a bloody hole through it and exploding out the other side. Jay shrieks loudly, clutching his arm, his eyes wide in disbelief. I leave him there, busting through the door and running out of the building.
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