Bad Crime Writing

With the relief you feel when you have your first good poop after a bout of diarrhea, Mark Crater lowered his gun, holstered it, patted its butt and then lifted his hand to his nose to smell the odor of flop sweat and burnished steel clinging to his fingers. He looked down, out he fourth-story window, where Ace McCracken, the vile criminal he’d been chasing all weekend, had just jumped to his death rather than being shot by Crater’s anxious bullets. Crater laughed cynically. “Didn’t have any bullets left, you idiot,” he said to the crumpled form on the wet alley cobbles. “Couldn’t have shot you if I’d wanted. And boy,” he said. “I wanted to.”