' ✖ ▬ breaking '

x

BREAKING     NEWS STRING  OF  VIOLENT   MURDERS  REMAINS  UNSOLVED The year is 1917. Throughout the outskirts of New York have been rural murders unlike anything local law enforcement has dealt with before. As they scramble to solve case after case, local journalists are clawing over each other for the opportunity to be the first to break the story to any paper that will take it. However, the police are attempting to keep everything under the radar to avoid panic. Rumors of Jack the Ripper migrating from London have already surfaced, and the pressure is on. C H A R A C T E R   S U G G E S T I O N S constable, detective, chief of investigation, journalist, civilian, suspect

ROLAND PINKERTON

• twenty-seven • freelance journalist • wwi veteran • dishonorable discharge • morphine addict • chainsmoker

The day could not have seemed more ordinary. Few clouds drifted through the sky on a spring breeze. The hustle of shoes among the cobblestones and bustle of chatter in the air signified people going about their daily lives. The distant bell of a paperboy rang in the distance, and Roland stood upon the side of the street staring at the police station before him. His hand found the outside of his jacket pocket, where a small notebook resided within. Yes, it seemed like a normal day, but it was not. Roland had heard rumors of yet another murder, and was determined to get the facts from any constable willing to take a moment of their time. He was a frequent at this particular station--weather for investigative purposes or alcohol-induced public violence. He would be surprised if a single officer did not know him by name at this point. He clenched his jaw before shoving open the doors with an outstretched hand and walking inside.

Quincy Darkins  The Civilian

twenty-four full-time pickpocket father & mother are drunks sells mostly wallets, keeps the watches bad-mouth

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

Quincy had been waiting for quite some time in that old dusty office, not many people had walked past the cramped room.  There were 

occasional instances where an old man had walked by, he had quite an impressive paunch, his vest was so tight around it that 

Quincy could've sworn she heard them strain against the fabric. She concluded that he was possibly keeping watch, Quin 

had overheard the constable whispering something in the old mans ear, probably about her. Right now, all she knew was

that she had found the corpse, and from the way she was dressed and how she talked, she was considered 'suspicious' and 

was possible a suspect. The thought bothered her, but Quincy decided to focus on the cobwebs hanging from the mantle that

was in front of the large mahogany desk, The window had been opened causing the dusty webs to sway, some breaking loose from the 

mantle, now floating in the cool brisk breeze.  Slipping away from her train of thoughts, Quincy's eyelids grew heavy, she reached up, 

grabbed her cap and pulled it down, blocking the sunlight from her eyes, she fell into a light slumber.

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

             

Please forgive the poor coding! I'm currently experimenting so the next post will probably look better! :p

ROLAND PINKERTON

• twenty-seven • freelance journalist • wwi veteran • dishonorable discharge • morphine addict • chainsmoker

The casual commotion on the street was immediately replaced by a chaotic din the second he crossed the building's threshold. Not a single soul seemed to notice him as constables rushed back and fourth; he heard the voice of the unit's detective harsh and loud over the frantic communication. On the bench beside him, a row of people sat and murmured among themselves, except for one. One young woman with a blank stare, sitting perfectly still. Roland's head turned back to the calamity and he grasped the arm of a familiar face walking by. "What are you doing here, Roland?" The voice hissed accusingly, dark eyes darting back and forth. "You know the chief wanted you to stay away from this case." "It's my job, Percy," Roland responded in a low, slow voice. "Who can I talk to?" Percy's face scrunched with hesitation before he rolled his head back with a groan. "See that girl over there?" He pointed to the one with the blank face. "She's the one that found the body. You better make it quick, Pinkerton, she's up for questioning any moment now." Roland gave a brisk nod and took a step back, allowing the constable on his way. He then turned and sauntered towards the young woman on the bench, fixing his jacket with a tug. He stopped before her and reached out a hand. "Roland Pinkerton, journalist," he introduced in as friendly a tone as he could muster, though he had forgotten to smile... again. "Might I ask you a few questions?"

Quincy Darkins    The Civilian

twenty-four full-time pickpocket father & mother are drunks sells mostly wallets, keeps the watches bad-mouth

Quincy awoke to find others sitting in the old, caving chairs next to her. Stretc hing her legs out, she brought her cap over the crown of her head again, the w oman sitting next to her was dressed elegantly, she was wearing small pearl e arings that must cost a fortune, Quincy's mind automatically began to think of ways to swipe them off her, but soon remembered that this was a police depart ment office she was sitting in, and there were probably many keeping an eye on her. In her train of thoughts, she didn't notice a man, probably in his late-tw enties, approach her, straightening her spine, she got ready for his questionings, as she saw the little pocketbook her had sticking out of his waistcoat pocket, a nd that he was already holding a pen. "Roland Pinkerton, journalist" He said, h olding out his hand, his voice friendly, and inviting. But his face was blank, no shine in his eyes, nothing. Quincy looked down at is hand again, and procceed ed to shake it. She replied "Quincy" not wanting to give up her full name to th is strange man, he looked intimidating, which she felt that she should try to loo k as big as possible, her experience on the streets give her that instinct, as a lone girl in the alleyways of the city, she was a potential victim. He nodded in akno wledgement at her response, he then proceeded to ask "Might I ask you a few q uestions?", Quincy nodded, already thinking out her answers, making sure it did n't give any clues of what she did, or where she lived. He took his pocketbook ou t, pressed his pen against the clean, sheets of white, and began his questioning.