Erotica Harem

Hi, Jon!

Title:

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Chapter 7

Author: Jon Michaelsen...

Plot:
In this chapter, we are first informed that Hopper has AIDS. He wakes up in a hosptial with a social worker standing over him. He rejects her efforts to help him and leaves the hospital.
Then we are back at the Police Station where Parker continues to work on the case. His young and exuberant partner Blake comes in to help, saying that Perelli made him come back to the station.
Parker tells Blake to get back out to the scene and keep looking for clues, suspects, anything.
Perelli comes over to Parker's desk, and they discuss the case. There is growing tension between them, but Parker doesn't know what.

Style & Voice:
We have two scenes: one in the hospital told from Hopper's point of view; the second in the police station from Parker's POV.
The conversation between Amanda and Hopper does sound like a typical exchange, with the accent or vernacular of Atlanta. Good job, Jon!

Setting/Scene:
Same as above.

Characters:
The only new character introduced in this chapter was Amanda, the social worker. But she seems to be a peripheral character and may not be seen again in this novel. But you never know!



Grammar:
See line-by-line below:

“Do you have a physician?”

Hopper stared at the social worker, unblinking.

Her name was Amanda, a large black woman with big, sad, brown, eyes. She wore tight fitting jeans and an oversized flower-filled blouse.[Can I suggest ‘floral-print’ blouse, because you describe how abundantly the fabric is adorned with flowers in this next sentence.] Bright-colored daisies, hundreds of them, filled every square inch of the white cotton fabric. He remembered a time his mother would pick daisies from the backyard and place them in a glass jar to set in the center of the dinner table. His heart ached for her and the comforts of home. A place he’d not seen for some time now.

Hopper never had the chance to follow through on the threat to his former boss. The morning after professing revenge, he’d awaken with a nasty cough and nauseating fever, his thin body swimming in a sea of his own sweat. He’d attempted to get out of bed, but his head pounded through his skull and his body was too weak to challenge the effort. An irritated cleaning lady checking rooms found him and called for an ambulance. EMT’s connected IVs into his thin arms on the scene, pumped a couple bags [of what?] into him and rushed him to Grady Memorial Hospital, as with everyone else without the benefits of health insurance within a sixty mile radius of the city. Treated in the ER for severe pneumonia and dehydration, he soon found himself carted off to the Infectious Diseases Unit. Test results confirmed what doctors already suspected. He had AIDS.

He had slept through the weekend in an induced, wonderfully narcotic state, his emaciated limbs gaining much needed rejuvenation and strength from slow-dripping medicine. Heavy doses of antibiotics cleared his lungs of infection and gave him a new lease on life if only until the next infection set in, further eroding his already low T-cells. He was now sitting straight up in bed, eating breakfast that smelled burnt and tasted like paste, listening to the city employee about future treatment. [Are you implying that hospital food tastes bad? ] The nauseating odor of disinfectant permeated the room and the hallway, stinging his nose.

“Have you seen a doctor for your AIDS?” She sounded irritated. Why is she irritated?

The question was direct, frighteningly so, carrying the truth that chilled him to the core. “No,” he stated, glancing past the daises, pushing aside long forgotten memories. A nurse entered the semi-private room and began removing the IV from his thrashed veins.

“You should know that you’re being released this morning. I’ve gathered some pamphlets to take with you. You should read them. They’re in this package along with some condoms. You do use them, don’t you?” He flushed, nodded without looking directly at her. She held out a manila envelope, probably just like she’d done so many times before. He was no different, another number among the many. “You should see a doctor, get yourself on steady treatment. You can live a normal life with this disease. Not like it was twenty years ago. There’s a list of clinics in there too. All can be reached by public transportation.”

“I don’t need charity,” he snapped, attempting to muster some sense the dignity that had all but sweated out his pores these past few days.

The nurse spoke up. “It ain’t charity, honey. Your T-cells are below 300. It’s totally up to you if you want to live to see another year. Get treatment or be back here in less than a month. Then, you’ll cost the state even more money.”

The nurse’s tone irked him. He threw back the covers and slid off the bed, realizing he didn’t have any clothes to wear.

“I didn’t see you had any clothes with you. You ain’t had no visitors I could ask to bring you some,” Amanda said, adopting a more soothing, motherly tone. “I rustled up things from the stuff that goes unclaimed around here.” She pointed to the chair against the wall. “I think they’ll fit you all right.”

He didn’t respond. Who the hell was she to get gushy all of a sudden? He marched over and jerked the jeans on beneath the hospital gown. He tugged the one-piece garment over his head, tossed it on the floor and pulled at the long-sleeves of the shirt. The pants were loose in the seat, just like he liked them. The sleeves of the shirt hung past his wrists. He folded them over twice and glanced at the caseworker, cocking a brow questionably. “What now?”

“There are papers for you to sign on your way out.” Her face scrunched, reminding him of his mother’s anguish when he insisted on walking to school alone for the first time. “Is there someone I can call for you, honey?”

“There ain’t nobody.” He furrowed his eyebrows, steeled his eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

And with that, the slightly skinnier teenager slipped from the room and back out into the cruel world. [Did we know that Hopper was only a teen-ager? I don’t remember if that was mentioned in the previous chapter.]

***
Sgt. Kendall Parker had a strong caffeine buzz going when he entered Police Headquarters. After leaving the park, he’d stopped by the Silver Grill for a giant cup to go and was now regretting the impulse. He obliged anyone acknowledging him as he waded through the crowded corridors and took the stairs to the basement, moving quickly to the back of the long, rectangular room. He actually preferred the corner in the rear housing a desk, squeaky swivel chair and twin government-gray filing cabinets to a more centralized location among his brethren. The city contended it couldn’t afford to build another precinct without jeopardizing public safety. City funds tightly appropriated as it was, the money needed for a more modern, adequately equipped facility would have to come from somewhere. The result would be a reduced workforce within and that meant job layoffs. The department could barely maintain its current workload. Knowing the consequences all too well, he and his colleagues accepted their cramped quarters, but complained when given the chance. Having a private desk was more than most in the department could boast.

Parker tossed his blazer on the iron rack in the corner before switching on the old fan behind the desk. It sputtered to life after struggling to spin twice around its dust-covered body, the heavy metal fins struggling against the electric current. He’d been meaning to pick up a new one. Give me another week, will ya? [I like this description!]

None of the other detectives assigned to the unit were in the office at the moment. It was almost noon and most were having lunch or out in the field investigating last night’s rage. He dropped in the chair behind the metal desk, ignoring its defiant squeal.

“Afternoon, Sergeant,” Blake blasted in with irritating cheerfulness. He collapsed in the suspect’s chair beside the desk and stretched his long, lean legs across the scuffed black and white tiled floor.

“Canvassed the neighborhood for witnesses?” He asked. It was a fair question, though intentionally condescending.

“Sir?” Blake appeared confused. “Perelli said you’d need me here.”

He sighed. It was so like Perelli to pawn him off on the sergeant. Parker lacked the patience for training the new recruits. “I need help churning up witnesses, detective. Not with filling out reports,” he snapped. “Now, get back out there!”

Head held high, the detective marched across the room in reaching stride before ascending the stairs in twos. Blake never complained of the hectic, often frustrating schedule required of a rookie homicide investigator.
New Paragraph
He Parkeractually admired the young man’s eagerness, on occasion reveling in the memories of his own rookie days, setting out to make a difference in the world. He had wanted to prove that that crime really didn’t pay. At one time, he’d actually believed in the general decency and good nature of all human beings, and that everyone, even criminals, deserved a break once in a while.

His first two weeks as a patrol officer out on the streets still burned in his memory, like having a branding iron shoved through his brain, leaving its indelible mark. He’d witnessed more violence in twelve months than one man should know in a lifetime.

Blake’s misplaced enthusiasm was how he chose to adapt to the rest of the venerable squad. An exceptional Police Academy cadet, he accomplished in areas most met with crippling defeat. He excelled technically, yielded excellent marksmanship and could sprint one hundred yards in thirty seconds flat. He accepted tasks without question, succeeding where others failed, relying more on textbook know-how and common sense than muscle and brawn. Detective Timothy Blake struck him as somewhat of a big dork, a mama’s boy, but a man desperately needing to fit in. Oddly enough, he did.

Perelli interrupted the silence at his desk. “Still haven’t ID’d John Doe yet.” He lowered his heavy frame in the chair opposite Parker. [When did Perelli come in?] “Autopsy won’t be done until later in the week, that is, if we’re lucky.”

He glanced up from a pile of reports spread around his desk. “Have we got anything to go on yet?”

The detective rubbed sleep from his eyes, making them red and bloodshot. “Nada. Fingerprints are blown. Hands and feet were too wrinkled and decomposed. M.E. figures the stiff’s been dead four, maybe five days. The vic’s description is being fed into the state’s computer and faxed to the FBI. I sent the glove found at the scene to the state crime lab for further analysis. It doesn’t appear to belong to the body. With any luck, CSU may be able to lift fingerprints from the inside lining.”

Parker grunted. “Suppose John Doe’s got no priors. What then, fucking dental records?” He fumbled for a cigarette. “Christ, do you have any idea how many hours are spent each year processing a goddamn corpse?” Perelli opened his mouth to speak, but chose to remain silent. “Have you checked with Missing Persons?”

“Nothing’s matched so far. We’ll have sketches ready for the media within an hour or two. Not sure what good that’ll do. The vic’s face was a sloppy mess. Artist had a tough time looking at the guy. Can’t blame him none.” Perelli fired a cigarette and pinched it in the corner of his mouth, where a permanent nicotine stain resided. “I’ve got Connie checking the Crime Network databases and with surrounding county authorities. About all we can do for now.”

“Tell her to keep at it. The victim might not be officially missing yet.” Parker snatched a stack of completed case folders from the wire basket atop the desk and moved to the file cabinet.

“The streets abutting surrounding(?) next to(?) adjacent(?). Abutting sounds too formal, but that may just be me. the park are known cruising areas, among other things, especially on the weekends,” Perelli continued.

He sensed his partner staring at the back of his head, judging him. He felt ill-at-ease. His legs benumbed as the hairs stood on theback of his (repeated phrases too close together) neck. Things between them had been strangely quiet, not the typical banter back and forth, the constant jabbing each other. He’d noticed the difference since returning to work following an extended absence, perhaps even in the days following the accident. Ignoring the notion he might be over reacting, he finished filing and returned to his desk.

“Squads case the place by the hour,” his partner offered. “I could check traffic records for citations going back the past few days. Maybe the perp, or a possible witness got cited.”

“It’s a long shot.” Parker gathered more manila folders. “The only real thing we’ve got to go on so far is a pack of matches found at the scene. May not be connected to the body, but I thought I’d check the bar out early this evening.” He finished filing the remaining cases. Lately, he seemed to be opening more than he was closing. His team worked a hundred and twenty active cases any given month with no sign of letting up. Most were nothing more than a pile of stale leads, struggling against an apathetic bureaucracy, making them colder by the day.

“By the way,” he said. “I’ve sent Blake back into the field. He’s canvassing the neighborhood near the park for possible witnesses. Anything develops, keep me posted.”

“Well, off to traffic court,” Perelli mumbled, pushing his ample body out of the chair. “I’ll catch you later.” He disappeared through the maze of cluttered desks. What is Perelli feeling here? Is he mad because Parker sent Blake back against Perelli’s orders? Is Perelli apathetic? I’m sure that he would have some sort of reaction to Parker’s announcement about Blake.


Just My Personal Opinion:
this chapter wasn't as exciting as the others, but that's fine. I know that not all chapters can have blood and guts, guns blazing, cars exploding, etc.! LOL But it moves the story along nicely. We have a better understanding of Hopper now since we are aware of his AIDS.

Great reading, Jon!
Scott

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