conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'A Dirty Shame'
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Dirty Shame
  The way it surrounded completely—a gentle embrace that comforted with a soft sigh and a delicate touch. The way it could intimidate and threaten, so the blackness was almost debilitating.
  But to me, the darkness was a place to hide—a place to bury my face when it was covered with tears, and a place to huddle protectively when the nightmares came lurking. And they always lurked. The darkness was a place to escape when life invariably turned to shit.
  My name is J.J. Graves, and the darkness had become my friend over the past months. So it seemed fitting that I wait until that blackest time of the night to slink my way back home—to the place that had left a bitter taste in my mouth and sweat coating the palms of my hands. To sneak back into the town that had raised me and gossiped about me with equal fervor.
  I jerked at the wheel of the old Suburban and pulled to the side of the road on the outskirts of Bloody Mary, Virginia. I lowered my head to the steering wheel and took a few desperate breaths that did nothing to relieve the tightness in my chest. The windows steamed slightly and the sound of harsh breathing echoed in my ears. I tried to ignore the pounding inside my skull and the way the heater couldn't quite chase away the chills that racked my body, but it was no use.
  My voice was still hoarse and low, though the pain had been gone for several weeks. The doctors said to be patient. That things would return to normal the more I let myself heal. But I wondered how anything would ever be normal again when all I could think about was the blood coating the floors of my childhood home—violent splatters that gleamed like the black center of a Burmese ruby as death tried to claim me. I still heard the deafening sound of the gunshot and felt the blood that rained down on my skin like scalding tears in my dreams. It was easy to forget how hot fresh blood was. It was always cold by the time I had my hands in a body on my table.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Dirty Shame
  The way it surrounded completely—a gentle embrace that comforted with a soft sigh and a delicate touch. The way it could intimidate and threaten, so the blackness was almost debilitating.
  But to me, the darkness was a place to hide—a place to bury my face when it was covered with tears, and a place to huddle protectively when the nightmares came lurking. And they always lurked. The darkness was a place to escape when life invariably turned to shit.
  My name is J.J. Graves, and the darkness had become my friend over the past months. So it seemed fitting that I wait until that blackest time of the night to slink my way back home—to the place that had left a bitter taste in my mouth and sweat coating the palms of my hands. To sneak back into the town that had raised me and gossiped about me with equal fervor.
  I jerked at the wheel of the old Suburban and pulled to the side of the road on the outskirts of Bloody Mary, Virginia. I lowered my head to the steering wheel and took a few desperate breaths that did nothing to relieve the tightness in my chest. The windows steamed slightly and the sound of harsh breathing echoed in my ears. I tried to ignore the pounding inside my skull and the way the heater couldn't quite chase away the chills that racked my body, but it was no use.
  My voice was still hoarse and low, though the pain had been gone for several weeks. The doctors said to be patient. That things would return to normal the more I let myself heal. But I wondered how anything would ever be normal again when all I could think about was the blood coating the floors of my childhood home—violent splatters that gleamed like the black center of a Burmese ruby as death tried to claim me. I still heard the deafening sound of the gunshot and felt the blood that rained down on my skin like scalding tears in my dreams. It was easy to forget how hot fresh blood was.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I got him cleaned up and started my external examination, documenting everything I came across, including the tattoo on his tricep. Three-point crown. Not five. I finished and ran him through x-rays, not expecting to find anything, but not expecting is what always led to surprises.
  I saw what looked like crumpled paper in his trachea, so I grabbed my forceps and adjusted the light. I opened his mouth carefully and tilted back his head and I could barely see the corner of what I'd seen on the x-rays. I used the forceps and gently reached in to pull it out.
  I took it to the counter and opened it up. It was a photograph, slightly faded and a little worse for wear, but I recognized Murphy's Auto Shop. There was a smattering of people standing in front of the bays—some were mechanics—but it was mostly local men. The auto shop had always been a gathering place, and I didn't see anything incriminating or suspect in the photo. It looked like any other day at that particular spot. Nothing in Bloody Mary really changed. I had the proof in my hand.
  I grabbed an evidence bag and logged and dated the information on the outside before placing the photo inside. It wasn't until then that I noticed Frank Greenbaum and Jesse Fife in the photo. It didn't explain anything really. It just meant the photo was eight to ten years old, since Frank and Jesse had both passed on—both of natural causes—some time back. I'd been away at college when Frank had died, but I'd been back home for the Christmas holidays when Jesse had gone, so I'd had to help my parents with his interment. I looked closely at all the others in the photograph, but didn't see anyone else who made me think there was anything out of the ordinary happening.
  The rest of George's body didn't give me any more clues to his murder, and the autopsy didn't take nearly as long as normal since most of his brain was missing. His tox screen came back negative, and there were no abnormalities internally that I could find. Gunshot to the head was official COD, and there was no amount of putty in the world that would make George presentable for an open coffin. It was a little sad to think George would probably be going into the plot next to the one we'd dug for his wife only a few months before.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last paragraph
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Declan nodded somberly. Not many people knew the details about Brant's first wife. Declan was one of them.