conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Sarah, Baldwin, Boston with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Natural Causes'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a plot for a book about Sarah, Baldwin, Boston with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Natural Causes (1994 film): A plot involving Vietnamese refugees is linked to the death of an American's mother in Bangkok.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Natural Causes
  McLean clicked the thumbnail page. Scrolling down, he counted over a hundred pictures, and there were dozens more pages like it.
  Damn. He'd been so sure. Was still sure. But this was too much to ignore. 'That's good work, Stuart. Get a report typed up as soon as and I'll make sure the chief superintendent knows who did all the work. Meantime I still want to work on the theory we've got our sixth man still out there and he's doing everything he can to make sure we don't find him.'
  McLean looked around to see the chief superintendent standing in the doorway. MacBride leapt to his feet as if someone had just zapped him with a tazer. Grumpy Bob nodded and took his feet off the desk.
  There weren't many places he could go when the shit really hit the fan. There was Phil, of course, except that Phil's normal cure for any ills came on tap or in a bottle, and McLean really didn't feel like getting drunk. Grumpy Bob could usually be relied on to keep him from getting too morose, but the old sergeant seemed to have taken an avuncular liking to Constable Kydd, and took the news of her death with uncharacteristic tears. McIntyre had told him to take the rest of the day off, told them all in that school-matron manner of hers that she didn't want to see any of them for twenty-four hours. She had enough shit of her own to deal with, so he couldn't really burden her with his own guilt. In the past there had been his grandmother; even when she was lying comatose in the hospital she'd been a good listener, but now even she had left him. Which was why, less than an hour after hearing the news, and still slightly numb, McLean found himself in the mortuary. So much for a wide and vibrant social circle.
  McLean nodded, although truth was, so much had happened since he'd been called to her suicide he'd forgotten all about it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Natural Causes
  McLean clicked the thumbnail page. Scrolling down, he counted over a hundred pictures, and there were dozens more pages like it.
  Damn. He'd been so sure. Was still sure. But this was too much to ignore. 'That's good work, Stuart. Get a report typed up as soon as and I'll make sure the chief superintendent knows who did all the work. Meantime I still want to work on the theory we've got our sixth man still out there and he's doing everything he can to make sure we don't find him.'
  McLean looked around to see the chief superintendent standing in the doorway. MacBride leapt to his feet as if someone had just zapped him with a tazer. Grumpy Bob nodded and took his feet off the desk.
  There weren't many places he could go when the shit really hit the fan. There was Phil, of course, except that Phil's normal cure for any ills came on tap or in a bottle, and McLean really didn't feel like getting drunk. Grumpy Bob could usually be relied on to keep him from getting too morose, but the old sergeant seemed to have taken an avuncular liking to Constable Kydd, and took the news of her death with uncharacteristic tears. McIntyre had told him to take the rest of the day off, told them all in that school-matron manner of hers that she didn't want to see any of them for twenty-four hours. She had enough shit of her own to deal with, so he couldn't really burden her with his own guilt. In the past there had been his grandmother; even when she was lying comatose in the hospital she'd been a good listener, but now even she had left him. Which was why, less than an hour after hearing the news, and still slightly numb, McLean found himself in the mortuary. So much for a wide and vibrant social circle.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide four more paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' What would happen if he disappeared for a whole month? Would the office eventually choke up with paper? Or would someone else finally roll up their sleeves and get on with it?'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At the sound of the detective constable's voice, the white figure with his back to them stood up and turned. 'You do bring me the most interesting bodies, Tony,' Angus Cadwallader said. 'This one seems to have been beaten heavily with fists. I've seen similar bruising on men injured in bare-knuckle boxing fights. Only there doesn't seem to be enough damage to have killed him.'
  McLean stepped forward to view the body. He had been a short, stout man, though perhaps bloating had made his stomach stretch at his pale blue shirt a bit more than it would have done in life. He lay sprawled in the leaf mould, arms thrown out as if he had just rolled onto his back to have a snooze. His head was tilted over to one side, his face bruised, nose broken. His clothes were tattered and dirty, a tiny red 'Virgin Rail' insignia on his dark blue jacket.
  DC MacBride handed over a slim leather wallet. 'He was carrying this, sir. Face fits the photo in his driver's licence.'
  The post-mortem on David Brown was scheduled for later that afternoon. McLean filled the time by wading through the mountain of paperwork on his desk. It didn't matter that he had been told to take a week's leave, the overtime sheets, requisition orders and a thousand and one other useless bits and pieces had still continued to mount up. What would happen if he disappeared for a whole month? Would the office eventually choke up with paper? Or would someone else finally roll up their sleeves and get on with it?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: More lights flickering in the darkness downstairs were Detective Sergeant Bob Laird and Police Constable Taffy Jones stumbling through the rubbish sacks in the entrance hall. If they'd found anything they'd have shouted, so it looked like the whole episode was a complete waste of time. Just like every other bloody raid. Wonderful. Dagwood was going to be so pleased.
  McLean shoved his torch in his mouth, then trod gently in the cup made by the constable's interlocked fingers. There was nothing to hold onto except a small lip below the hatch, and he had to stretch his other leg out to the wobbly banister before he could reach up with one hand and unclip the hasp. It gleamed where until recently a padlock had swung.
  Removing the rubbish bags had helped clear the air, but the flagstone floor they had covered was sticky and slippery with fluids best not thought about too deeply. McLean watched the stream of white-suited SOC officers as they trooped from their van, along the corridor and up the stairs, lugging battered aluminium cases of expensive equipment.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: McLean watched the stream of white-suited SOC officers as they trooped from their van, along the corridor and up the stairs, lugging battered aluminium cases of expensive equipment..
  Removing the rubbish bags had helped clear the air, but the flagstone floor they had covered was sticky and slippery with fluids best not thought about too deeply. It gleamed where until recently a padlock had swung. There was nothing to hold onto except a small lip below the hatch, and he had to stretch his other leg out to the wobbly banister before he could reach up with one hand and unclip the hasp.
  McLean shoved his torch in his mouth, then trod gently in the cup made by the constable's interlocked fingers. Dagwood was going to be so pleased. Wonderful. Just like every other bloody raid. If they'd found anything they'd have shouted, so it looked like the whole episode was a complete waste of time.More lights flickering in the darkness downstairs were Detective Sergeant Bob Laird and Police Constable Taffy Jones stumbling through the rubbish sacks in the entrance hall