October 25, 2014

Rain didn't pour, thunder didn't crack, no lightning flashed across the sky. The air was crisp, ripe with the smell of mud flats. On a normal day, one might have the urge to tear off their shoes and dig their toes into sand.
Young kids and old women crowded around the scene like vultures, as if the yellow tape was calling out to assorted Brandons and Ruths. It wasn't a busy beach, though the two sad umbrellas caught in the tape would be taken into evidence and likely never seen again. Lumped in with a car used in a vehicular murder, a set of antlers hiding a knife, and a vintage carpet only mildly stained with blood, they'd be auctioned off to a lonely sap obsessed with the crime network.
Of course, that's how most cops start out. Civilians like to think there's some call to adventure, but anyone who has ever seen the way a television federal agent takes off sunglasses has imagined themselves in law enforcement. It's how the profession stays afloat, honestly.
Now, back to that tape. It wasn't literally screaming out names, but something about the words CRIME SCENE seems to call to people. The curious come close, the obsessive keep distance, and the guilty sit back. The words CRIME SCENE were misleading. No crime had been committed in the exact spot the newest Jane Doe had washed up on the shore. It was a sort of secondary crime scene, but they didn't make tape for that.
Although it was October, cold, and unprofessional, the first detective on the scene had strolled up in a T-shirt. It goes without saying that he had immediate regret for this decision. The T-shirt, simple as it was, held a wallet in its breast pocket. The wallet held a badge, and the badge held a name. Shawn Butler. Not a famous name, nor a particularly important one on the average day.
As he walked on scene via stage right, his sad, tired face was looking very sad and tired. There were no wrinkles as of yet, but his wife claimed that if he continued to frown so often and for so long, he'd look like his father by forty. He didn't mind, considering he had close to fifteen years left of what he considered unbridled beauty by that philosophy. There was some debate as to whether he was actually frowning, or if his lips we're just that pouty, and whether his eyes we're sea foam or green, but otherwise he was moderately plain. If he was being honest, he might say he looked like the average super hero, considering his typical white man face, typical white man stubble, and typical white man apathy toward helping those who aren't typical white men.
And, as a detective, it was widely known what Shawn Butler would do next. He reached for his sunglasses, aviators to boot, and tried to retrieve them from his sad, tired face. His fingers slipped as he attempted to fold the glasses into his breast pocket, sending them toppling to the ground, bouncing off his shoe and scratching the lenses. The medical examiner would later say that the look on his sad, tired face was priceless as he glared down at his once loved accessories. In that moment, he wasn't thinking about his twenty dollar sunglasses but his dignity. How could he reach down without seeming like a clown?
He knelt down next to the body, taking a sad, tired look at the blue-black lips that little did he know had favored coral lip gloss and cherry chap stick. The medical examiner continued to kneel, taking an amused, uncool look at the glasses in the sand. She continued to look as Shawn Butler tried nonchalantly to reach behind his back and grab them. She even tried to stifle the giggle that came when his sad, tired eyes lit up with the accomplishment of getting them.
Meanwhile, the girl's lips stayed blue, rather than coral, and her mouth stayed shut, rather than the easier path of just telling them who killed her.
She looked to be a teenager, though the amount of money and lack of identification marked her as strange. Shawn Butler was mildly upset by the lack of licence, permit, or anything that would otherwise identify her, only because it would have made his job easier if strange teens could drive.
"Cause of death?"
It wasn't a question, really. Nor was it a statement. It was a fragment of a sentence with no real meaning but to demand. What it was was annoying.
Nasally as it was, the medical examiner's response came after a few minutes. "Multiple stab wounds would be my first guess. I won't know for sure until the autopsy."
Later that day, she would conduct the autopsy. At the same time, Shawn Butler's wife would ask him if he was tired and sad. He would only grunt in response.

Author's Note

I absolutely hate Shawn Butler. Hate him. Luckily for all of us, he's not the main character.
I'm trying out a new style of writing, so if it seems awkward, let me know.