|
|
<<
2 >>
Peter held up a bloody knife sealed in a Ziploc bag, and wrote the particulars
in the log. He repeated the procedure for some hair samples, jewellery, and a filthy scarf. Then he pulled out
the next item, and dropped it with a start.
"Ha-ha-ha!" said Terry. "That would've been worth a ten-spot if I'd had my camera."
Peter composed himself, picked up the bag, and examined the grotesque contents.
"What on Earth is this?" he said.
"Have a guess."
"It looks... like a sock puppet. An evil, evil sock puppet... mangled almost beyond recognition."
"Spot on," said Terry. "If you think that's nasty, you should've seen what happened to its owner."
"Oh?"
Terry leaned forward in his chair.
"It happened about three days ago, down at Montaine Mental Institute. I thought you'd heard about it? It was
all they talked about in the canteen..."
Peter shook his head, agape.
"Oh, that's right, I forget that you're cooped up in here most of the time. Anyway, first this guy shoots
himself in the hand, then he puts the gun to his head, and bam! I was on duty when homicide got the call."
Now peter saw the knuckle fragments still clinging to the shredded and blood-soaked sock. One broken button-eye
stared out at him through the plastic. He shuddered.
"It was a mess," Terry continued, "one of the worst I'd seen. Blood, brains, and people losing their
breakfasts left, right, and centre."
"It sounds like this guy should've been admitted sooner."
"He was being released."
Peter looked up.
"They called it a suicide, but everyone I talk to says it was the sock that did it. Peter... what in heaven's
name are you doing?"
"Hmm?"
Peter heard the crinkle of plastic. His left hand had reached into the evidence bag, and slipped itself into the
horrible tattered mess of the sock.
|
|
