I Write: Mystery or Thriller?

I wrote a short story for my Writing Mysteries and Thrillers class. It was the final assignment and I had some serious trouble getting traction on an idea to start. When I got the idea and started writing, I wasn't sure how it would go, whether my idea actually would make sense to anyone but me. 

But I wrote it, and in the interest of calling myself a writer, here it is: 

(EDIT 12/17/2020 - I just received my grade for the class - 100%. I must have been doing something right.)

She snaps a fresh glove down over her wrist, the sound echoing in the nearly vacant room. Surveying the scene, she narrows her eyes. She holds herself erect, her face a blank slate. There’s no room for emotion here. She doesn’t take any joy or pride in this particular part of the job. But it needs to be done. 

Her right hand fists at her hip, pushing back the right quarter of her suit jacket, exposing the pocket of slim-fitting pants. With the turtleneck underneath, the suit she wears is a stereotypical look - if she were a man. But she enjoys it. She is far from typical. 

She begins a slow circle of the space, the ornate rug on the floor cushioning her footfall and covering the highly polished wooden floor. Old homes are always so full of character. The room appears pristine, except for the blood. And the body.

The walls are lined with bookshelves, a traditional library ladder perches almost eerily empty at the end of the wall. She’d never understood the point of having books so high that you needed a ladder to reach them. She sweeps her fingertips lightly along the shelves, checking randomly for anything that comes away on her glove. She’s nothing if not thorough. She finds nothing of interest. Not even dust. 

Two wingback chairs sit facing the fireplace that takes up the entire end wall of the room. She runs a hand across the back of one of the chairs, taking little notice of the floppy bunny stuffed into the seat, as she moves toward the fireplace, which shows signs of recent use but is cold. The utensil set is intact and in place. 

She rounds the corner to the mantle lined with photographs. She picks one up to study. The wife, she supposes, with the daughter settled carefully on her lap, both faces happy and smiling at the camera. She sets the frame back down and carefully edges it back into place.

The view out the window attracts her and she draws closer, seeing the warp in the old glass. The yard was perfectly manicured, and the windows so old that they don’t open. They’d been painted shut years ago. Perhaps decades. Sunlight slants in, leaving a trail of light and shadows across the rug toward the door she’d entered on the opposite wall. She could see dust motes floating in the light. Blood spots on the heavy oak desk and across the blotter sparkle like gems. 

Standing at the end of the desk, she can see the tiny shelf stereo that is quietly playing smooth jazz. She supposed it was calming. She flicks out a finger to hit the power button, and the little red power light fades away. She turns her attention to the desk, an antique. The only area in the room that has clearly been disturbed. A lukewarm cup of coffee sits on the desk amid a jumble of paperwork spread across the surface, notes scribbled in the margin from a pen that lay leaking onto the same blotter. She only glances at the documents; she already knew there were shady business deals, she doesn’t need paperwork to confirm it.

Pinned to the desk, the victim’s hand is stabbed through the meaty part with a letter opener. A ghost of an expression flickers across her face; it’s a pretty nifty trick. She eases the letter opener out of the wood and flesh slipping it into a baggy she’s pulled from her pocket. She cringes only slightly at the blood that splays out beneath his hand, stark against the paperwork, and soaking into the blotter. Only half-visible beneath his hand, and now coated in that blood, is a skeleton style key. She tilts her head as she studies it for a moment. 

She picks up a Sharpie marker from beside his hand, slipping it into another baggie from her pocket and reaches for the emptied syringe laying on the other side of the desk by the telephone. She drops that into a third baggie and slips all three bags carefully into her left jacket pocket. She glances quickly at the face of the victim, seeing the words written haphazardly on his forehead. She’s already documented those - they don’t interest her now. Idly, she taps the pocket where she’s stored the baggies. 

Walking behind the desk, a panic button catches her eye, under the desktop to the left of his knee. She hadn’t noticed it before, and wonders if he’d had a chance to push the button. Quickly, she makes a final sweep of the room with her eyes, as she moves toward the door, making sure she’s noted all the evidence. 

She pauses only for a second to look back into the room as she passes through the doorway, pulling the door closed behind her. She turns the key, locking the door, and uses a soft cloth from her inside pocket to wipe the doorknob, just in case. She cocks her head, hearing sirens in the distance, as she tucks the cloth and the key into her pocket. Smiling slightly, she walks silently down the marble hallway and out of the front door.