City of IF

[D-Lotus]

Dedications: Dustin Hoffman, Steven Spielberg, two inspiring artists. Also, Barcelona F.C, who need some luck. Oh, and to my cousin's newly-born baby.

Storygame process: Read the story, and then based on the character's personality, suggest what he/she should do. When all suggestions have been given, the author (me) will post a poll. You must vote for your favorite option on the poll, and based on that decision, the author will write the next chapter as it affects the story.

Chapter 5 A



A man sick with power is always significantly lowered when confronted with his own frailness or imperfection.

"If I answer your plea for help," asked Devine, "will you submit yourself to my every demand, no matter how rigorous?"

There was a pause from the other side, then the surgeon answered hopefully. "Yes. Do you have a solution?"

"It is untested, but we shall soon see its effectiveness. Come out." motioned Devine as he opened his own door.

The surgeon was tall and blonde, and his bearing proud. He had a thick, respectable mustache and wide shoulders. He wore a brown suit and clasped his large hands together as he approached Devine. Only his eyes betrayed his pose of authority and giftedness. Devine stared into those clear, blue eyes and saw reflected the surgeon's weakness, his failure to control his strange urgings and fearful thoughts, and his pitiful story. All the pain was restrained inside his body by that clear blue disk, all his woe had converged within that spot and had slowly worn away the fabric of his eyes.

"What is your name?" asked Devine, not being able to help his own curiosity, and partiality towards family names.

"I would prefer it remained a secret." the surgeon said, now that he was outside and more confident of his influence.

"I am your confessor," Devine said huffily, "I am bound to secrecy!"

The surgeon pointed towards the confession box. "You are not. We are no longer inside the confession box." He was regaining his arrogance.

Without answering the last remark, Devine took his arm and began guiding him to the altar.

"Jim!" he yelled.

The construction man came running from the back of the church.

"You called, Father?" he grinned toothlessly.

"Bring me the strongest iron bar you can find." Devine said, as he simultaneously set down a chair in front of the altar.

"Yes, Father." Jim winked, before hurrying back to his equipment.
**

The brown jacket lay strewn on the floor as the surgeon sat in the chair, gripping the iron bar in his two strong hands. They almost enveloped the thick bar in their massive sway. The man breathed in and suddenly his face wrinkled in effort. His muscles began straining within his shirt, and the veins in his arms began bulging. His whole body was concentrated on the single act of bending the ends of the bar against each other. Sweat slid down his temples and neck as he continued pushing in a relentless struggle. He persisted during a couple of minutes, using all of his beastly force to overcome the bar. Finally, his body relaxed, and he let the bar drop at his feet. It wasn't visibly changed, but the man had crumbled into his seat. He expelled air in loud gasps and then sucked it back in. The priest, Devine, had seated him in front of a statue of Christ and given him the bar. Do not move from here in three days until you have bent this bar, he had said. Your food will be delivered to you daily. You may not move from the altar. The small bar hadn't seemed so mighty at first glance.

The door unexpectedly opened from behind him, and Father Dole, eyeing the surgeon strangely, deposited a plate of food on the floor.

"Your dinner." he said, and exited.

The surgeon glanced at his dinner. It consisted of a plate of soup and a loaf of bread. Do they laugh at me? he thought. He turned his back on the plate and focused his attention back on the bar. I'll have to hurry up and finish this so I can get out of here, he thought, almost forgetting why he had come here in the first place. He tried reasoning. Man's intelligence was capable of doing anything much more cleverly than brute force. There must be some way to bend the bar, there must be a trick, or else he wouldn't have made me attempt it.

After a while, Father Dole returned to collect the plate and spoon. He saw the untouched food.

"You don't like pea soup?" he asked. The surgeon did not answer, deep in reverie. Father Dole laughed and left the food behind. "You'll soon be hungry."

However much thought he employed, the surgeon could not find any mathematical or scientific answer to his problem, and the bar remained as horizontal as before. That night, he hungrily gulped down the cold soup and bread before dozing off on the floor.

The next day, the surgeon was surprised to find himself in the middle of mass in a wrinkled suit. People began walking into the church in the early morning, warming their hands and feet. The surgeon started from his seat and began to move away, but Devine bade him to stay there. As the mass progressed, the surgeon sat awkwardly in the altar, his hands in prayer.

"The power of God is unchallengeable." Devine let slip in his sermon. When the churchgoers had left, the surgeon was once again left alone. He now realized that he was beginning to smell of sweat. The new sun had given him fresh strength, however, and he confidently began his task again. The evening wore on, and he received little food. The bar, as always, remained flat. In vexation, he tried stomping on it, used it as a lever, bit it, kicked it, threw against the ground, flung it against the stone walls and sat on it with his chair, but to no effect on the unwilling iron.

The third day, the surgeon sat with the bar enclosed within his hands. He held it up to the light, mesmerized by its shape and coldness. He felt as if he were holding a battle of will against this metallic object. You will bend, he thought.

Slowly he saw the bar begin to bend before his eyes as midday peaked. He blinked, and the bar returned to its original position, unruffled by the bright sun. He felt as though the bar was smiling in triumph at him, and as every hour closed upon him, he had the sensation that the cold iron was gaining possession of his heart and overcoming his resolve. He was only a ghost of the man he had been, his will was broken. Gently, he put down the bar on the floor. His thoughts turned towards the operation table. Instead of a human being, he saw the bar lying on the table, waiting for him to break his tools upon it.

He clasped his hands over his face to avoid the tears, but they could no longer be held in check by the cold blue disks of his eyes. He cried, remembering his patient's features. Then he turned towards the figure of Christ at the altar and begged for forgiveness.

At the end of the third day, Devine entered the church and immediately saw the change that had transformed the man. He immediately dropped on his knees as he saw Devine come in, and formed his hands into prayer. The bar, he had sat in the chair while he himself sat on the ground.

"You are forgiven." Devine said, resting his hand lightly over the surgeon's head. "There are many things which are out of our hands. You, who claimed to have the power of God, cannot bend this simple iron bar. God can bend man and iron, and it is not our place to challenge him. You must amend your wrong in every way possible. Go in peace."

**
The Romans invoked omens of beneficent luck, and as the sun rose, the eagles became visible, screeching patronizing tunes to hearten the soldiers in battle. There existed that specific comforting element in the somber note held in Turner's gloves. He breathed in through his nostrils heavily, savoring the smell of victory: ink on fresh paper. His retaliation against Phineus began here, hidden among the poisonous words withheld by the note. It was sad, really, that anybody had offended his pride; they could expect nothing but a savage counter-attack. He would deliver the fateful paper that very evening.

Turner deftly completed the message, and a strange, hybrid handwriting remained imprinted on the leaf of paper. 'A friend', he had concluded as the ink mercilessly stuck to the accursed sheet. He stood up from his chair, leaving the note on his desk. Emptying some water from a bucket into a basin, he rinsed his hands thoroughly and wiped them on a crimson towel. He heard an acute bell chime which always signified that the day had progressed into lunchtime. He looked around the room again, pausing, as if he'd forgotten something, then a bird-like cacophonous series of chimes rung throughout the church again, and Turner determinately marched towards the dining room.
**

Mick's wife, Debbie, hugged her daughter maternally again before releasing her.

"Take good care, Jeannie. You're very lucky that Andy McDonough has a piece of his mind for you. Thank God for that man, Jeannie. Where would you and I and Mick be without his help?" Debbie said.

She seemed happier, a glint of hope always present in her eyes.

"I know, mother. I'll be very careful." Jeannie smiled beautifully. "Although I'm sure I won't have anything to fear as long as I don't stray from the McDonoughs."

"God forbid anything happens on your first trip to the city, Jeannie." Debbie said, somewhat unsettled. She was nervous about something, as if she were having a premonitory feeling about a disaster. Shrugging it off, she kissed her daughter on the cheek once more.

Debbie and Jeannie had always been attached, as much as a mother and daughter could. Debbie loved Jeannie with all her heart, although there existed a certain coldness within Debbie's daughter that disconcerted her from time to time. During her whole life, Jeannie had maintained impartiality towards both of her parents, never taking sides in any argument. It always struck Debbie as unnatural, and she often wondered if she understood her daughter at all.

"Until next week, mother." Jeannie said, waving away as she began her walk to the McDonough's house.

Debbie felt a tear slide down her face as she watched Jeannie fade into the distance, carrying her small case of clothes. Debbie walked into the house, sat at the table and began crying freely. When she was done, she contemplated fondly a picture of Mick. Although she was alone now, she didn't feel solitary. Knowing that Devine would help her and her husband to restore their relationship comforted her. She really loved Mick, she now realized. Not as much as she loved Jeannie, but she loved him nonetheless. Debbie had changed in the past week. She had almost completely ceased her spiteful, biting criticism and she had replaced her acid-filled heart with an affective warmth. Devine had visited once to encourage her, noting with pleasure the improvement of her character. Truly, things were looking better.
**

Father Dole brusquely opened the door to Turner's room. Where the devil is that man? he wondered. Three times he'd rung the lunch bell, and Turner hadn't arrived, so that Dole had set out to look for him outside. When Dole found no trace of him there, he'd come back to Turner's room. And he wasn't here, either. Dole was in the process of closing the door when his eye glanced over the paper on Turner's desk. He reopened the door and curiously approached the desk.

Pandora, had she restrained her inquisitiveness, had she been able to snuffle the licking flame inside her with a douse of common sense, would have avoided a vast array of problems for humanity. Curiosity, evil and malignant curiosity, which plagues mankind with its rush of knowledge, has embittered existence. Was it not curiosity that killed the cat, that invulnerable animal of nine lives? Such interest in prying enlightens man, only to afflict him with a deep, corroding remorse.

All this and more, Dole remembered as he hung in balance, deciding fate by which way he fell. His morals, his priestly conscience and fear of God finally decided for him. He slowly withdrew from the room once more, gently closing the door and self-chastising himself for nearly falling to temptation.

What irony, that his rule-abiding and good sense would restrict him from averting a disaster. Had he but read the note, held it in his hands and repudiated it as if it were his own creation. And then he would have taken the vile note and stopped the madness which would ensue. How cruel that a man bred by God fell prey to prudence!


Chapter 5 B

The evening chill had already made its effect on the waiting company. They had finished packing everything into the car trunk, and now they all sat contemplatively, warming their hands. Jeannie sat next to Phineus, who she had become fast friends with. It was hard not to love the dotty man, and he always had some curious anecdote to recount.

"I've been carried to Athena in an eight-wheeled carriage pulled by flying oxen, but I've never been inside one of these before." he admitted, sliding his hand over the car window.

"I hope you don't find yourself sick during the journey." giggled Jeannie, well-knowing of the effects the first car-ride had for some people.

"Me?" asked Phineus indignantly, "I who have sailed the eleven seas? Nay, poor girl, not I!"

"Eleven seas? I must have counted wrong, I thought there were only seven." Jeannie said, beginning to enjoy herself.

"There were eleven, for I counted them." Phineus said, holding up his two index fingers in an attempt to recreate the number, in order to further assert his point. "And I could have traveled the twelfth, had there been one. They tried to hold my freedom from me, all those god-fearing people. You must marry, and have children, and be tied down to one monotonous purpose for the rest of your life, they said. I spited them, and they in turn spited me back. And who is to say who is the happier now?" he continued, beginning to enter one of his pronouncement moods.

"But who will take care of you when you grow irremediably old and weak?" ventured Jeannie.

"Fortune." answered Phineus. "Fortune and fate shall guide my way. If it is my destiny to die, then at least I shall do so in contentment of a pleasurable life."

"There are those who would judge you as selfish, Phineus." Jeannie said, growing somewhat serious.

"They would, and they would not be wrong. But who are they to judge; they who have not felt, and who have not seen an infinitesimal piece of what I have seen? And when I am dead, will my egoism make any difference to me? There is no justice maker, God, who will separate the wrong and the righteous and then escort each to their appropriate compensation. No, for in death there only exists the nothingness, devoid of feeling and beyond comprehension. We are all sent to Hades, all, with no distinction among us. In that plane of the dead, men feel no differentiation, because we are all equally meaningless and mortal to the gods. Our human weakness catalogs us all under one unvarying assemblage. We are fated to comprise the dead, those who will never return." delivered Phineus, ending his speech with a grandiose flourish of his arm and wrist.

"And yet," whispered Jeannie, "what is the reason for believing in a life which offers no hope?"

They were interrupted by voices at the footsteps of the McDonough's house.

"Are you sure you can stay here alone?" asked Andy. He was wearing thick driving goggles, a motoring cap, a duster, and brown leather gloves.

"I won't be alone, dear. Joan will visit every day until I feel better." Alice said. At that moment, Joan's husband and Abigail emerged from inside, brushing past Andy and loading the last of the traveling cases into the trunk.

"I'm sorry that you happened to get sick this evening. How unlucky, just before the trip began..." Andy muttered.

"I know dear. Maybe I'll be able to join you tomorrow in the city, when the fever recedes." his wife smiled weakly. Andy kissed her on the cheek.

"Take good care of her, Joan." he said to his elder daughter, who was already guiding Alice back to the warmth and comfort of her bed-sheets. He closed the door and strode over to the car.

"Let's go!" he said cheerfully. Phineus, Jeannie, Abigail, and Joan's husband (Nick) all cheered in unison. Everyone waved towards the house as the car jumped to a rumbling start. Andy pressed down euphorically on the gas pedal, and the car suddenly lurched down the street, leaving Phineus somewhat disturbed.
**

Jeannie heard footsteps and woke up, her bed almost empty. The stairs of the hotel creaked, and slowly she peeked through a slit in her door. Andy's silhouette was visible in the moonlit corridor, stepping cautiously on each wooden board. She followed his fully dressed figure with her eyes, down the stairs until he disappeared. She then heard the car motor and through the window saw Andy drive away. The trees swayed gently among the light and shadows.
**

The night occupied the church and Devine's room as an old friend. Then the knocking began, frightening Devine and forcing him into an upright position. He began sweating. The knocking had returned to torture him. Thankfully, Devine was not a superstitious man, his only concern was in faith of God. His feet slipped into his slippers and he lighted a lamp.

With a nervous pulse, he reached the altar door and pulled it open. He shuffled through the pews as the knockings increased. The light of his lamp created shadows around him menacingly. The church door loomed and Devine soon rested his hand upon it. There was another knock, and Devine immediately pulled it open with all his strength, hoping to shock the knocker.

The man facing him stepped backwards in surprise, and then stepped forward again.

"Father Devine?" he inquired as he watched the trembling old priest through his glasses.

"Yes." Devine answered hoarsely.

The man was formally dressed, wearing an overcoat and hat to guard him from the cold. "I am Inspector Charles, from the Irish police. This," he pointed at a man besides him who Devine had not seen, "is my assistant."

"I fear we have bad news for you, Father." he said, as he handed his identification to Devine, who scanned it hastily before returning it. By now, Turner had reached the door, and stood curiously behind Devine.

"What happened?" he asked.

"That is precisely what I wanted to communicate. A murder has been committed." He eyed them both sternly, and not without suspicion.

"Who?" asked Turner, with an inhalation of anticipation.

"What was her name?" the inspector asked his assistant.

"Debbie Rennold." he answered, reading from his notebook with the help of the police-car lights, two steady beams aiming at the church wall.

"Not Mick's wife!" cried Devine. He shuddered. Turner furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"I'm afraid so." the inspector spoke without much emotion. "We suspect her husband killed her. One of our officers went over to the convent he was residing in and found his cell empty. He apparently escaped tonight. I believe they had been separated because of constant disputes?"

"No...he..." Devine attempted to explain, but was cut short.

"In any case, I had a feeling that perhaps the church would want to take care of her body. Her daughter is traveling, that being the main cause the victim was alone. She was killed inside her house, with no sign of force. Apparently, she must have let the killer inside willingly before her death. It is improbable that he could have found any other way inside." The inspector continued.

Devine was feeling weak, and Turner was standing somewhat dumbstruck.

"May I speak to you in private, Father Devine?" the inspector said, arching his left eyebrow. Devine nodded, and Turner apologized, leaving the two men alone.

"Father Devine," the inspector said secretively, "I understand that you have much knowledge of what goes around in this town. I also understand you have to respect your priestly vows... but, in a serious case like this, isn't it possible that you conform to facilitating our job? In order to help find the murderer of this poor woman, isn't it possible to disclose some information from inside the confession box? Couldn't you also...as a priest, can you use your powers to help us find information?"

Skip to Chapter 6

[JezSharp]

It is clear that where an offence of this magnitude has been commited it is his justice to assist the police as much as possible, whilst preserving as much privacy for his confessors, therefore he should part with the information cautiously, and do so without restricting the confession box secrecy pact.

In this case he could always go for the tried and tested hypothetical example situation: Supposing a man... or If a priest was told...should he be made to give such information to the police?

Or he could drop hints and clues, I think it would be wise to pursue this course, or I think that is a safe assumption to draw from the facts...etc.

[LordoftheNight]

I think that by mentally reviewing what he knows, he doesn't know anything that can really help the police. They already know he advised Mick to take novice vows.

I think he can inform the police in good concience that he knows nothing that will help them, and do so without breaking his vows.

[D-Lotus]

Just to clarify- At first I meant the question to be: Do you know anything that can help?

But now I feel that it would make a better DP if the question were: As a priest, can you use your powers to help us find information?

Sorry for the change. I'll make a slight edit in the story. :)

[LordoftheNight]

Btw - this section here
Quote: The Romans invoked omens of beneficent luck, and as the sun rose, the eagles became visible, screeching patronizing tunes to hearten the soldiers in battle. There existed that specific comforting element in the somber note held in Turner's gloves. He breathed in through his nostrils heavily, savoring the smell of victory: ink on fresh paper. His retaliation against Phineus began here, hidden among the poisonous words withheld by the note. It was sad, really, that anybody had offended his pride; they could expect nothing but a savage counter-attack. He would deliver the fateful paper that very evening.

Turner deftly completed the message, and a strange, hybrid handwriting remained imprinted on the leaf of paper. 'A friend', he had concluded as the ink mercilessly stuck to the accursed sheet. He stood up from his chair, leaving the note on his desk. Emptying some water from a bucket into a basin, he rinsed his hands thoroughly and wiped them on a crimson towel. He heard an acute bell chime which always signified that the day had progressed into lunchtime. He looked around the room again, pausing, as if he'd forgotten something, then a bird-like cacophonous series of chimes rung throughout the church again, and Turner determinately marched towards the dining room.
**

Mick's wife, Debbie, hugged her daughter maternally again before releasing her.

"Take good care, Jeannie. You're very lucky that Andy McDonough has a piece of his mind for you. Thank God for that man, Jeannie. Where would you and I and Mick be without his help?" Debbie said.

She seemed happier, a glint of hope always present in her eyes.

"I know, mother. I'll be very careful." Jeannie smiled beautifully. "Although I'm sure I won't have anything to fear as long as I don't stray from the McDonoughs."

"God forbid anything happens on your first trip to the city, Jeannie." Debbie said, somewhat unsettled. She was nervous about something, as if she were having a premonitory feeling about a disaster. Shrugging it off, she kissed her daughter on the cheek once more.

Debbie and Jeannie had always been attached, as much as a mother and daughter could. Debbie loved Jeannie with all her heart, although there existed a certain coldness within Debbie's daughter that disconcerted her from time to time. During her whole life, Jeannie had maintained impartiality towards both of her parents, never taking sides in any argument. It always struck Debbie as unnatural, and she often wondered if she understood her daughter at all.

"Until next week, mother." Jeannie said, waving away as she began her walk to the McDonough's house.

Debbie felt a tear slide down her face as she watched Jeannie fade into the distance, carrying her small case of clothes. Debbie walked into the house, sat at the table and began crying freely. When she was done, she contemplated fondly a picture of Mick. Although she was alone now, she didn't feel solitary. Knowing that Devine would help her and her husband to restore their relationship comforted her. She really loved Mick, she now realized. Not as much as she loved Jeannie, but she loved him nonetheless. Debbie had changed in the past week. She had almost completely ceased her spiteful, biting criticism and she had replaced her acid-filled heart with an affective warmth. Devine had visited once to encourage her, noting with pleasure the improvement of her character. Truly, things were looking better.
**

Father Dole brusquely opened the door to Turner's room. Where the devil is that man? he wondered. Three times he'd rung the lunch bell, and Turner hadn't arrived, so that Dole had set out to look for him outside. When Dole found no trace of him there, he'd come back to Turner's room. And he wasn't here, either. Dole was in the process of closing the door when his eye glanced over the paper on Turner's desk. He reopened the door and curiously approached the desk.

Pandora, had she restrained her inquisitiveness, had she been able to snuffle the licking flame inside her with a douse of common sense, would have avoided a vast array of problems for humanity. Curiosity, evil and malignant curiosity, which plagues mankind with its rush of knowledge, has embittered existence. Was it not curiosity that killed the cat, that invulnerable animal of nine lives? Such interest in prying enlightens man, only to afflict him with a deep, corroding remorse.

All this and more, Dole remembered as he hung in balance, deciding fate by which way he fell. His morals, his priestly conscience and fear of God finally decided for him. He slowly withdrew from the room once more, gently closing the door and self-chastising himself for nearly falling to temptation.

What irony, that his rule-abiding and good sense would restrict him from averting a disaster. Had he but read the note, held it in his hands and repudiated it as if it were his own creation. And then he would have taken the vile note and stopped the madness which would ensue. How cruel that a man bred by God fell prey to prudence!

Was this in it when you first put the chapter up? I read it yesterday, and I don't remember it.

[D-Lotus]

Yes. I distinctively remember writing that first. There is a lot of symbolism in that chapter.

Quote: The Romans invoked omens of beneficent luck

Quote: Emptying some water from a bucket into a basin, he rinsed his hands thoroughly and wiped them on a crimson towel

Like Pontius Pilate- playing back on the thing about the Romans. He wipes his hand on a blood-colored towel.

I insert these things into the story that nobody ever notices (or at least I think nobody does). I dislike having to explain it... :(

btw, anybody like my drawing? I did it quickly, but it isn't too bad of an outline.

[JezSharp]

Yes its good, might be a little large though

[Chinaren]

Good chapter, lots happening!

I don't understand this statement though:

Quote: her bed almost empty

Almost empty? :?

As for the DP. He could offer to help, but I think he is so devout that he wouldn't consider revealing any information from confession. He would offer to help where possible, but not through confession box relelations.

[Geek_girl72]

Yes, ethically, has is bound to keep what people tell him in the box to himself.(Theres actually a good movie about that) This is a big problem though, he seems to have to much respect for justice to let a murderer get away. I think he should tell the police he doesn't know anything, and offer to help investigate outside of the confession box. He should not try to pry parishiners for information, but keep his eyes open around town and ask the police to keep his help secret so he doesn't lose the confidence of his flock.

I think he should try to find that disturbed doctor and see if he had anything to do with it, and convince him to turn himself in if he did. That way he isn't violating anything.

[D-Lotus]

Quote: Almost empty?

Congratulations, China. You have just picked up on one of the clues! (Or at least it has something to do with the murder).

Anyway, I'm glad there is varying opinion. It shows that the character, Devine, is complex beyond one or two traits. :)

Keep the comments coming*! :D


*The more comments, the more fables...Muhahah!

[Masterweaver]

Wow. Good tale. Make it more complicated. Then it be great tale.

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[Lebrenth]

Quote: He fitted his slippers into his feet and lighted a lamp.

I would like an explanation on how one fits slippers into one's feet.

Beautifully crafted, D. Your sketch is surprisingly well done as well. Probably shouldn't have outlined the bridge of the nose so much. Makes it look fat. I took note of the 'washing of hands' but since it was Turner, I didn't really spend any time thinking about it. It didn't challenge my perception of him.


DP. I'm unimpressed with these investigators. They've barely started an investigation and they've already decided who did it and that she was alone (besides the murderer) when it happened. Plus they've leaked information to two people (even if they're men of the cloth). They're going to corrupt everyone's account of the night before they've even talked to anyone. If, say, Father Turner did it, they've handed him the perfect explanation.

But then I suppose we can't be too picky, or else Devine wouldn't be part of the investigation, yes?

Mick didn't say anything that would help the investigators. They already knew there was a lot of bickering, so the motive is already perfectly established. Anything more would be hearsay at best. Hopefully they're looking for hard facts by now.

Judging from the story, I would say Devine is the antipode of the author: devout but not preachy (no offense D :)). He believes in God completely but would never presume to impose his beliefs upon anyone. Thus, I think he would bend in favor of the investigators if they asked for him to divulge information from confession, if he felt it would do them any good. A few good words on Mick's behalf would seem appropriate. Anyway, spying seems far too immoral to agree to, but he might do so anyway if something startling came his way. Anyway there's really nothing Devine can do at this point to help the investigators except give them sound advice on how they should do their job!

I would ask the investigators who found the body. People don't just walk into other people's houses and it wasn't Jeannie or Mick, plus they said there was no sign of force. Did someone hear a gunshot? A scream? That would help figure out the time of death which would help clear or condemn Mick. They need to talk to everyone (the pub would be a good place to ask about Mick). And not just about that night. They need to be asked about previous nights, perhaps she even had a secret lover that others have noticed.

If we had a little more information about the murder, we could do more. When the church gets the body, respectfully check it to find out how she died and whether she was actually pregnant (or lying as some speculated). I think it would be interesting for Father Devine to do some sleuthing, but it really isn't his place. He has no reason to suspect Turner, though we do, so he should stay out of the investigation. He should focus on funeral rights (after investigating!) and consoling the aggrieved.

Decision: Try to find Mick. Search for pubs and friends, talk to the people at the convent. Help him as much as reasonably possible, maybe even hide him, and just generally be on his side until we know he's guilty.

[D-Lotus]

Quote: I would like an explanation on how one fits slippers into one's feet.

He used mind powers?

ok...I'll correct that.

Quote: Probably shouldn't have outlined the bridge of the nose so much. Makes it look fat.

I thought so, but I also feared no one would catch it.

Quote: but since it was Turner, I didn't really spend any time thinking about it. It didn't challenge my perception of him.

Good advice. Thanks for the reply. I have enough options to post a poll tomorrow. :)

Quote: I would say Devine is the antipode of the author: devout but not preachy (no offense D ).

??? I am preachy but not devout? :lol:

[Mother Goose]

The seal of Confession is not something a believing priest takes lightly, and Devine is a believer. He would never divulge something learned under that seal.

Other than that, I agree with Lebby and Zephyr. I don't think Mick did it, and the police are very slipshod in their methods. I can't see Devine doing an autopsy though. His methods of investigation have to be more on the lines of talking to people and figuring out their emotions and motivations.

[D-Lotus]

The Poll is now posted!

I would have waited longer, but there were more than enough options.

Happy voting. :D

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[Chinaren]

I picked 1, but I f5 Zeph. I would have done 1 and 5 mix.

[DELETED]

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[Chinaren]

Zephyr wrote: he modified the poll after I posted that china... does that mean you meant option 5?

Oops, yes. I just can't count! :D

[Masterweaver]

WOW. I must say, you have written quite a story!

Though you might have portrayed the criminal as a bit more desperate, but that's just me.

[LordoftheNight]

Masterweaver wrote: WOW. I must say, you have written quite a story!

Though you might have portrayed the criminal as a bit more desperate, but that's just me.

What criminal - have you even read this story?

[Masterweaver]

I assumed the confesser was a criminal...

[D-Lotus]

chinaren wrote: Zephyr wrote: he modified the poll after I posted that china... does that mean you meant option 5?

Oops, yes. I just can't count! :D

Ok, I will keep this change in mind, China. That means that there is curently one vote in favor for option 1, and two votes in favor for option 5 (including yours).

[Chinaren]

D-Lotus wrote: chinaren wrote: Zephyr wrote: he modified the poll after I posted that china... does that mean you meant option 5?

Oops, yes. I just can't count! :D

Ok, I will keep this change in mind, China. That means that there is curently one vote in favor for option 1, and two votes in favor for option 5 (including yours).

Well, I meant I would go for kinda 1 and kinda 5. A mix essentially. As the plot stands I choose 1 over 5.

[D-Lotus]

Ok, then the votes are normalized.

[Mother Goose]

I voted for 1 but I still don't understand how the priest is supposed to investigate Debbie's pregnancy. Anyway, wouldn't the police have done that already, or are they so incompetent they didn't bother with an autopsy?

[Lebrenth]

Mother Goose wrote: I voted for 1 but I still don't understand how the priest is supposed to investigate Debbie's pregnancy. Anyway, wouldn't the police have done that already, or are they so incompetent they didn't bother with an autopsy?

They might not conduct an autopsy if the cause of death is obvious. I assume that if they're ready to hand her body to the church already that it's very clear how she died. And if the police don't know that she's supposedly pregnant, they wouldn't think to check.

And I've never checked a corpse to see if it's pregnant, so I'm not sure if there's any way besides cutting her open. I'm willing to let Devine figure it out.

[D-Lotus]

When Leb suggested it, I imagined that Devine would call a doctor to help as much as he could. We must remember, however, that it is the beginning of the twentieth century, and technology is limited. It would be especially hard to determine in a dead body, and when the pregnancy is in early development stages. I will investigate on Wikipedia, Google, etc, to see how much a doctor could really find out.

In any case, it is not a major clue in the crime, although it would reveal much about her as a character- was she really so desperate to regain her husband...etc.

By the way, you guys are destroying all my plot points, the way the votes are going. It is frustrating me, but I'll figure a way out to adapt them. Curse storygames, and their unpredictable results. :mad:

[Lebrenth]

D-Lotus wrote: By the way, you guys are destroying all my plot points, the way the votes are going. It is frustrating me, but I'll figure a way out to adapt them. Curse storygames, and their unpredictable results. :mad:

I laugh at your pain! HAHAHAHAHA!

[D-Lotus]

My hands are tied. I need someone to break the vote, please. I'll try to send a PM to someone, if necessary. If within two days nobody votes, I will exercise my right as a reader and resolve the tie. Normally I don't like to do this, but this time the DP affects almost all the aspects of the story, and I'd like to start writing so that hopefully I can finish by sunday.

[hewithoutaname]

Tie broken :) .

[D-Lotus]

Wow, that was incredibly fast! :shock:

Well, two determining votes in favor of option 5 mean its the winner! Thanks, hewithoutaname and Masterweaver.

Poll is Closed.

This was the winning option:

He appears to help the police somewhat, but he also launches his own investigation.

I will begin writing ASAP. :D

[solus.serpen]

Hey, D.

Just caught up with the sg - Very well written and intriguing.
Will almost def vote on this on SGOTM.

~Solus ;)