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About Dead Doris 8 of 8. Detective Adult 2,100 (1 Viewer)


Senior Member
Synopsis: In mid 2003, Detective Sergeant Jablonski and partner are called to investigate an old woman found dead in a small hotel room. They find out it's a murder. The scene shifts to Doris Trumbell, sixteen and wild in the year 1942. Her and friends, Harry and Sammy, with the help of her boyfriend, Pete, rob a bank where Pete works. It turns out the Doris was the murdered woman in 2003. John Jablonski and partner, Larry Edwards are investigating both her murder and a 60 year old bank robbery. Learning Pete Adams was the murderer, they're now engaged in a firefight at his home. Larry has already been blown up by a land mine....

The hours went by, the John and Lucy sitting down against the back of the building to watch as the sky darkened. John thought of them trying to get around front, but realized it wasn't worth the chance of being shot, maybe by other cops.

Eventually, they heard a bullhorn as the negotiator tried to talk the man out. The answer was two cars being totaled by the big machine gun, which then went quiet again. We’re in for a long night, Jablonski figured.

“How did a girl as pretty as you get into police work?” the detective asked. He kind of figured they knew each other enough for the question. It was a fairly intimate situation for them, as though the two were bugs on a wall. At any time, a grenade could drop on them.

“My grandparents were both on the force in China, during the revolution,” she told him, shuffling a little closer. “Then my father joined the police in Frisco. Father not being blessed with sons, I’m carrying on the tradition. We Chinese are big on tradition, you know?” She grinned.

“Doesn’t seem such a good idea right now, does it?” John laughed, ducking as Pete fired from one of the second-story windows above them. Since he hadn’t dropped anything on them, he probably didn’t know the two were still there; which gave Jablonski an idea.

They waited until Pete went on to another firing point, before the detective turned to his compatriot.

“How strong are you, Lucy? Did you ever take that training course on entering a structure? I mean the one where one officer crouches down while another jumps on them, and is boosted up and over the obstacle?”

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean?” She still seemed a little dubious.

“I mean, if I went back about fifteen feet or so and ran at you, do you think you could take my weight for a second and help me up to that balcony over there?”

It was a roof over a small back-porch. There was no window or door above it, only what looked as though it were a platform about five or six-feet square to keep rain off the porch.

“What good would that do? There isn’t any window or nothing,” she asked, puzzled. “And wouldn’t it be easier for you to hoist me up, I’m lighter than your fat ass.”

“Speaking of fat asses,” he answered, looking at her meaningfully, then sighed. “Yeah, guess you’re right. We might be able to get in if we can get to the roof. From my experience, these flat-roofed brick houses often have an access door in a tarred roof, for maintenance or something. Or maybe just to let the residents sunbathe."

“Speaking of bathing, I could use one.” She giggled. “We both could.” She became serious, “Maybe together, after this is over?”

“I wonder if the lieutenant can get us a rope, that would help?” Jablonski deliberately avoided an answer. He used the radio to ask.

About a half hour later, there was a "thunking" sound and the two were sprayed by brick-dust and chips. A small arrow had appeared sticking into the brick wall six-feet from them. It had a strong black cord attached. “Damn. At least the lieutenant could have warned us.”

Pulling on the cord brought a much thicker rope snaking over the ground. It had already been knotted every foot or so and was plenty long enough to reach the roof.

While they were studying the rope and winding it in a coil, Jablonski heard shooting from the other side of the house. It was rifle and pistol fire that ended in another ground shaking explosion, then a long drawn-out scream. He noticed it didn't shake the sturdy building. Lucy keyed on her radio to ask what was going on.

“They tried to storm the other side of the house with an armored truck from town, Phil says." She told him. “Adams has some kind of rocket launcher. Blew up the local Brinks truck they were using. Got some wounded.”

“Let’s go. We been sitting long enough.” Jablonski got to his feet. “Wait until he fires again from out front, then get out there quick and run back at me. I’ll help you up.”

The two had to wait anxiously for twenty minutes, until Pete fired at something from the front of the house. Lucy rushed out into the yard, turned, and ran right at the detective. At about four feet from him, she jumped. He was ready, crouched and braced. Using her forward motion, John threw her upward at the porch roof.

Lucy's hands grasped a metal railing around the platform. He tried but failed at shoving from below as her waving feet fought for something to hold on to.

Finally getting a purchase she stood, out of breath, on the platform. The rope went up next and was tied to the railing supports. Jablonski being out of shape, she had to brace herself and help him up. Next was the roof itself.

It was much easier. He simply stood against the building while she climbed his body, with him holding her steady. Her fingers could reach a drainpipe from there. It squealed a little, but held, as she pulled and he pushed her lighter body upward. The rope was then tied to a chimney on the flat roof and he, himself, was soon standing on the tar-papered surface.

He could hear a muffled cheer from the other end of the backyard. It reminded him that the police had been watching them earlier while she’d been hugging him for comfort. That was why Phil had made that crack.

“Now, let’s hope there’s an entrance and that it isn’t booby-trapped or locked.” Maybe knowing she had an audience, Lucy appeared more animated and enthusiastic while Jablonski felt like a tired old man. Where the hell was that adrenalin when you really needed it?

It was hard searching in the dark and on their knees, but Lucy did find a loose section of tar-paper, in a square about two-feet on a side. She found it by its handle, resembling that of a flattened cupboard latch.

“How we going to do this, John?” she asked nervously, looking at him with fearful eyes reflected by distant street lights. He could hear the slide on her pistol slamming forward in the dark.

“Leave it in place for now and hope it isn’t locked. When he fires from one of the other sides of the house, we’ll trust to luck and try to go in. Then all we have to do is track him down in there.”

“All? Ain’t that enough? In the dark?"

“And we stay together, no matter what happens. Don't go running off to look for the bastard. The last thing we want is to shoot each other by mistake." John paused, thinking. "Now first thing, you get over to the other side of the roof while I raise this. That way, if it’s booby-trapped it won’t get us both and the other can still get in after it blows.”

“What if you’re only wounded? I can’t leave you to bleed to death.”

“Ha, fat chance. If this thing does blow, there won’t be enough left of me to save. Don’t worry your pretty head about it.” He tried to laugh but found his throat too dry. It came out as a cough. Her statement hit too close to home.

The two heard the .30cal machine-gun chattering around the side towards the barn. Jablonski, taking a deep breath -- maybe his last -- steeled himself and jerked the handle on the trapdoor. It came up so easily he fell over onto his back, the square of plywood flying to rattle ten-feet away.

Cursing softly, John had to search for his lost pistol in the dark while Lucy sped past him and down into the house. Obviously, Pete Adams had forgotten about the little-used roof. Maybe he hadn’t thought anybody could reach it? Whatever, they were soon inside.

John found they were standing in a bedroom. It was dark, but enough light came in from a single barred window to see by. John hoped to hell the inside of the house wasn’t booby-trapped. From the way Pete was running around in there, from floor to floor and window to window, that didn’t seem very likely.

The firing from the other side of the house stopped and all was silent again. The detective could hear running footsteps downstairs as the killer raced from somewhere to somewhere else. Good, John thought. At least he wasn’t coming upstairs yet.

Finding a circular stairwell, the detective could see the remains of a living room downstairs. It was obvious police bullets had taken at least some toll on the furniture. Of course all the lights were off. He didn’t dare show himself for a clearer look, since Pete could be anywhere.

The detective moved over to where Lucy stood across the stairwell from him, also trying to see below.

“Look. This is our best bet, I think." He held her close, bending to whisper. She pushed her ear into him, to hear better. They could hear a couple of shots from the first floor, sounding much louder from inside. "Sooner or later he has to come up here. The best place to take him is on the stairs. I’ll bet he has his long-guns and other larger weapons lying at different points, rather than carrying them from one firing position to another.” Jablonski continued whispering, “All he’ll have on him is maybe a pistol. We’ll wait until he gets halfway up and stop him. What you think?”

He could feel her hand on his side, grasping his own tightly. Her hand was slippery with sweat -- or was the sweat his own?

“Okay. Sounds good to me,” she whispered in a slightly shaking voice, her hand coming up to his neck, pulling his head down. He felt her breath and then a kiss on his right cheek. “Good luck.”

They separated and waited as firing reverberated throughout the house, again much louder in the closed environment. Then there were more running sounds from downstairs, followed by a curse as Pete must have tripped over something. They heard loud panting as he reached the base of the stairs, and then started up.

“Hold it! Police!” Jablonski heard Lucy cry from the other side of the steps.

There were several flashes as first Pete then Lucy fired. John hadn't been ready. Caught by surprise, there was a scream as the flashes ruined his night vision. The detective heard someone crashing down the stairwell. Still not able to see anything but shadows, Jablonski ran down, blindly holding onto the railing with his left hand, the gun in his right slamming back and forth in the dark.

Dimly, John could see the killer rising and emptied his own pistol into the man. By the time Jablonski finished, Pete was nothing but a dark lump at the base of the stairwell.

“We got him, Lucy. We got him,” the detective called out, panting loudly. It wasn’t until he was fully downstairs that he noticed his partner hadn’t answered. “Christ,” Jablonski cried, rushing back up the stairs.

He found Lucy on her knees, sobbing quietly, one hand on her right shoulder amid a smear of dark blood, wet eyes shining in the dim light.

“Come on, honey, time to go home and take that shower.” He nuzzled her neck while searching the top of her blouse for her radio handset.

"Deeper, John. It sometimes drops below my bra." Somehow, he didn't mind that investigation.

The End.