The police detective furrowed his brow and lifted a shredded, bloody piece of sheet or perhaps pillow case with the back of his ballpoint pen. The small house was empty aside from the remains of what had to be Michael’s mother, Anne.
“Hey, boss. There are no more dated entries after the 2nd. What’s today?” a rookie officer asked.
Boss replied, “The nineteenth.”
They moved to the living room and kitchen looking at more destruction. Claw marks covered the furniture and sheetrock, and the carpet and linoleum were soiled by all manner of bodily expulsions. Bits of black fur stuck in the urine stains on the linoleum.
The rookie opened the dented refrigerator door to see puddles of red juice and bits of ground beef throughout. A solitary Styrofoam tray sat on the top glass shelf.
“Nineteenth? No wonder it stinks so bad. Good thing it’s cold outside, eh?”
The boss shook his head, “You’re a piece o’ shit, Reynolds.”
“Hey, that ain’t necessary,” Reynolds replied.
“This mess ain’t necessary. Get your notes so we can get outta this bloodbath. Tag that journal as well and quit flippin’ the pages. That’s evidence.”
The rookie, Reynolds, did as he was told, mumbling under his breath.