C.S.I. London - Rogue Agents
The O.P.P have finally wrapped up their forensics investigation and have evacuated the premises of Wayne Kellistine's farmhouse property up Shedden way where those eight Bandidos motorcycle gang members were killed a couple of months back in what is being known in some headlines and media outlets as "the Shedden massacre."
You just know the Shedden Chamber of Commerce is going to love that label. Wonderful for tourism and the hick-town mass-murder stereotype. Or so says the Lucan Chamber of Commerce.
Just the same, I think I'll make a little impromptu tourist trip up there myself. Any one interested in tagging along and having ourselves a little look-see?
Because if there's anything I've learned from television it's this - the police can't do it all. Sometimes in order to close a case, they need the help of a freelance writer who works on hunches; or an affable but down-at-the-heels private dick; or a crusty old defence attorney; or a disgraced ex-cop whose only tarnish on his badge was that he once killed a man - the police commissioner's drug warlord son; or even just a bunch of nosy teenagers and their pet Great Dane. You get the picture.
They need us to help discover the murder weapon or an important piece of incriminating evidence they missed or overlooked in their original crime scene investigation. Just think what might have happened had Matlock been on the 'Bernardo/Homolka' investigation. He'd have found those videotapes hidden overtop the light fixture in the ceiling. Heck, Maxwell Smart coulda found them.
As a freelance writer, the police chief is always busting my hump to help them crack a case wide open. The Chief is 'A-okay' by me so I do it for him. But I wish me and my posse got more respect from the rest of the boys on the beat. The boys in blue (actually black) respect us but the flat-foot detectives don't like us at all. They don't like us because we don't go by the book. They don't like us because we don't play by the rules. They don't like us because we have to show them how to do their job. They don't like our attitude. They don't like our hair. They don't like the fact that chicks dig us.
Well, that's cool. I don't care - because the only thing that matters to me and my fellow rogue agents is that Justice be done.
As for the Shedden massacre, it should be a piece of cake. Let's see, eight murders, they were obviously ambushed so I figure an eight-cyclinder weapon. Probably a pistol. Now, where to hide it? Well, judging by the imcompetence, the ineptness, the totally amateur production involved with everything I've read about the ring-leader of this motley crew, I figure the gun could be hidden in only one place: in the bottom of the sock-and-underwear drawer of his bedroom dresser in the farmhouse.
Case closed.
Now for that case up in Toronto involving the 17 terrorists. You just know the Crown is gonna screw that case up and most of them will walk. Not if I can help it. ... Then there's the other southern Ontario hot spot down Caledonia way. If you are a crime-fighting freelance writer, there's never any shortage of work around here.
You just know the Shedden Chamber of Commerce is going to love that label. Wonderful for tourism and the hick-town mass-murder stereotype. Or so says the Lucan Chamber of Commerce.
Just the same, I think I'll make a little impromptu tourist trip up there myself. Any one interested in tagging along and having ourselves a little look-see?
Because if there's anything I've learned from television it's this - the police can't do it all. Sometimes in order to close a case, they need the help of a freelance writer who works on hunches; or an affable but down-at-the-heels private dick; or a crusty old defence attorney; or a disgraced ex-cop whose only tarnish on his badge was that he once killed a man - the police commissioner's drug warlord son; or even just a bunch of nosy teenagers and their pet Great Dane. You get the picture.
They need us to help discover the murder weapon or an important piece of incriminating evidence they missed or overlooked in their original crime scene investigation. Just think what might have happened had Matlock been on the 'Bernardo/Homolka' investigation. He'd have found those videotapes hidden overtop the light fixture in the ceiling. Heck, Maxwell Smart coulda found them.
As a freelance writer, the police chief is always busting my hump to help them crack a case wide open. The Chief is 'A-okay' by me so I do it for him. But I wish me and my posse got more respect from the rest of the boys on the beat. The boys in blue (actually black) respect us but the flat-foot detectives don't like us at all. They don't like us because we don't go by the book. They don't like us because we don't play by the rules. They don't like us because we have to show them how to do their job. They don't like our attitude. They don't like our hair. They don't like the fact that chicks dig us.
Well, that's cool. I don't care - because the only thing that matters to me and my fellow rogue agents is that Justice be done.
As for the Shedden massacre, it should be a piece of cake. Let's see, eight murders, they were obviously ambushed so I figure an eight-cyclinder weapon. Probably a pistol. Now, where to hide it? Well, judging by the imcompetence, the ineptness, the totally amateur production involved with everything I've read about the ring-leader of this motley crew, I figure the gun could be hidden in only one place: in the bottom of the sock-and-underwear drawer of his bedroom dresser in the farmhouse.
Case closed.
Now for that case up in Toronto involving the 17 terrorists. You just know the Crown is gonna screw that case up and most of them will walk. Not if I can help it. ... Then there's the other southern Ontario hot spot down Caledonia way. If you are a crime-fighting freelance writer, there's never any shortage of work around here.
posted by Sonny Drysdale at 9:37 AM
3 Comments:
Editor's note - Mr. T & Me are on hiatus whilst he fixes up his own web-site. Details to follow.
Sonny, I'd avoid the Dutton area at all costs. Strange things happen down there.
Freelance writer's Word for the Day:
Snafflehound - def - Any of various rodents that inhabit the alpine zone. Snafflehounds are notorious for gnawing on gear left at the base of an alpine climb; primarily boots because of the sodium left by the wearer's sweat, as well as backpacks to get at any food left inside. Numerous cases have also been reported of snafflehounds gnawing holes in sleeping bags while climbers slept inside them. The term may have been first popularized by Sonny Drysdale, an expert on Hamsters, Gerbils and other assorted rodents of the hirsute and full-body hair persuasion.
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