At home, I went through the red wine like a hurricane. Now all I can do is stare at your photograph and listen to Bowie’s “Scary Monsters.” Side one, track four, if you must know.

Someone must pay.

Following the path, he dipped his finger across the mingled crimson and raised it to lips gone dry. A hurricane of emotion shook him, as it always did. From his early days when he learned scary monsters were more than a child’s imagination, he fought hard for control. Never again would he be the victim. If he had to kill them all, so be it.

Pulling the aging photograph from his inside pocket, he pressed it against the slow beating of his heart and began to cry. Why was there always so much drama? If only they wouldn’t make him so mad.

Brett received the call shortly before three a.m. At that hour, he knew someone else had died. That was his job. That was his life. There was no prophylactic cure for the atrocity of murder, and it never got easier. Making his way toward the morgue, Brett prayed it never did.

With Metallica blasting in hysterical, ear-splitting volume, Brett waved his hand in front of the face of the city’s coroner, Randy Watkins. 

“Yo, Randy, how the hell can you hear yourself think?”

Picking up a remote, Randy silenced his ironic song selection, And Justice For All. 

“We’re talking classic here,” Randy smiled, “Anyway, my guests don’t seem to mind.”

“Well, if any of them raise a hand in protest, let me know. What’s the word on my Jane Doe?”

Rolling his wheelchair over to an adjacent table, Randy pointed to her lower back.

“Here’s something that might interest you.”

Leaning close, Brett murmured, “What is that? A faded tattoo?

“More like a stain.”

“You mean a birthmark?”

“No, I mean a stain.”

“So, what is it?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. It’s hair dye.”

“Funny place for hair dye.”

“Exactly.”