Short stories by Mace Styx.

Ms. Warner could not help thinking of the burnt streaks that ran down the sides of the tiny carcass she had disposed of that day. The scalded paths that seemed to have seared through the fur and flesh of the poor animal. She had almost gagged at the unpalatable similarity between that vision and this highly detailed effigy.

The story was fantastical. One that I knew would be embellished and exaggerated and probably be recycled with alternative names as a spook story to scare children for years to come. At the time, I had not paid it much attention. To me, it didn't seem quite so significant.

Clearly, the child was nervous of his new school and the fact that he was already going to be branded "different" on account of his refusal to speak. Finding the dead kitty, he had sought comfort from caressing the fur the way that a child will with a stuffed toy. The model he had made as a way of processing the trauma of the scolding he had received and the unsettling nature of the animal’s demise. It was not exactly an ideal introduction to school life in Osbourne, but it was hardly something that the town sheriff should be concerned about.

It was when Mia Warner died that I became interested.

It had been a crash. Despite there being very little other traffic. No adverse weather conditions and no obvious cause, somehow and for whatever reason, Mia had lost control of the vehicle. She had driven the car off the road and hit a tree. Judging by the way that the car crumpled and imploded, she must have been travelling at tremendous speed. Though for what reason she would be accelerating like that through Osbourne, I will never know. She was crushed by the impact and folding accordion of metal that closed around her.

I was called to the scene, made an admittedly teary-eyed identification, and handed the matter over to the state police and the coroner’s office. At the time, shocked and appalled as I was, I had put the death down to a tragic accident. And with a heavy heart had headed back to the precinct. Little did I know that the night had not finished with me yet.

Around midnight, I was sitting behind my desk, when I heard a strange wailing coming from somewhere outside. At first, I thought it was a dog, but after a few moments, I recognized that it was a person, a man, crying at the top of his lungs. I jumped up from the desk and headed toward the door of the station, only to find Marvin Buckland standing on the steps. Carried in his arms was the body of Andrew Buckland - pale, limp, and dead.

I made an arrest. Marvin’s insistence that he had killed Andrew and that he “had to” meant that there could be no doubt that this was a homicide. And after summoning the coroner once more to take away and examine the body, I soberly led Marvin into a holding cell to be questioned.