With a pitchfork in my hand, I surveyed the field below me. The man was a stranger to me, but I knew how to handle him. I was going to bury him in the same place as the rest of the dead men. The body lay upon the ground, crumpled up and bleeding onto the pavement. The body was young: probably in his early thirties. He wore a leather jacket, a dark button-up shirt, jeans, and some boots; he looked like he was going for a biker look-- which was rather odd, since I had never seen anyone else in that region dressing like that. His head was covered in wounds, although one of these wounds was fresher than the other, and his skin appeared to be rotting. I could hear the wind rustle the leaves above me. A boy walked up to me. "There was a thief in the barn," I explained. "This man will be buried in the same graves as the rest of the dead men. Just nod if you understand." The boy nodded. I was holding my pitchfork. He was a short boy with a pale face and short, brown hair. He looked at me and I saw the fear in his eyes. I was going to show him that I was not a violent man. "Do not worry, boy, I will not use this pitchfork to kill you. It would break my heart," I said. I looked at him and felt my heart twist into a little knot within my chest. I fancied myself a kind man. I was not the evil farmer and gravedigger he thought I was. "Help me bury the body, and I'll be on my way." He nodded again. He was a kind boy with a gentle soul. He helped me to bury the man like he had been instructed. When we finished, I thanked him. I smiled at him, and he smiled at me. It was the last time I saw him. I made my way across the twilight regions, those hills of shadow and sun where the air hangs heavy. The boy made tracks behind me. He followed until dusk. He left when the moon rose again. There would be no nighttime in this place. I walked on and I saw he had returned to his home. I walked and I didn't stop walking. They called me a madman, a demon in the flesh. I walked on. I will walk on until the stars fade. And when the sun swallows the universe the wind will sing a lullaby to us.

The victim had been beaten until his face was a mess of blood and broken flesh, his fingers were broken, and his eyes were gouged out.

His body lay along the side of the trail, in a pool of his own blood, in a narrow trail of dried blood, off the main path, down a steep embankment, halfway to the creek.

A hiker found the body. He reported it to the police.

I'm a blood splatter specialist. The gouges in the eyes could be a sign of a personal attack, but we would need to run further tests to be sure. I collected and labeled the forensic evidence. I found a single, perfectly round drop of blood that looked like it had been scooped right out of the victim's eye socket. We also found trace amounts of saliva near the body. And we found a broken fingernail; perhaps it broke off as the victim fought to escape his attacker. And then a piece of a red balloon caught on the thorns of a bush alongside the embankment a few feet away. I could tell from the stains the balloon had been in the man's pocket. The balloon may be filled with helium gas. Helium can be detected in very small amounts. It may have provided enough buoyancy to carry it away from where he fell, off the main path, down a steep embankment, halfway to the creek. The balloon would be my best lead. The killer probably left it behind in his hurry to finish the job; he wouldn't expect anybody to look for it. It might have his fingerprints on it, or his breath, or some other clue that could lead me to his identity.

It had begun to rain. The trail was a river now, running red with blood from the body.

We had all the clues we needed to solve the case: the blood drop from the killer's eyedropper; the single golden leaf left behind by the balloon; the fingernail still on the root; and a perfect cast of the footprint left in the dirt next to the body. The only thing that was missing was the balloon. I didn't tell the media about that. I told them I needed help finding an indigo balloon, filled with helium, with images printed on it. I knew nobody would look for it with a description like that, but I needed time to prepare for a more specific description with more details. All I needed, for now, was more time. But there was none to spare.

The police ran the prints and discovered the killer's identity. They found a fingerprint on the balloon and tied it to the killer. I took his picture, but I couldn't see his face. He was wearing a mask. The killer was on the run, and I never got a look at his face. He remains at large. No one has seen hide nor hair of him since that day.

The man walked into the room. He had blood on his hands, an arrow in his left eye, an open wound on his arm, and an impossibly large smile. Behind him, a woman knelt, holding what could've once been his right arm. I thought of him as a king. He ruled over the largest most powerful empire that ever existed. He brought prosperity and freedom to his people. He led his men into battle with all the glory and honor of a lion. He was powerful and fearless. The mightiest warrior in the land.

But he was nothing but a monster! Now here he stands, smiling, and not a single drop of blood or a tear in his eye, nor so much as a single hair or a sliver of pain in his body. I had never seen something more sinister in my life.

What was the crime?

Murder. The man was convicted of many murders.

The man said,"You have to leave," but the woman stayed for a long time.

The next day, the sun shone and all the birds sang. The whole village gathered for the celebration, dancing around the young family to celebrate their great love for each other.

The man looked up at the sky and realized there was a great evil afoot, and there's no telling what'll happen next! His heart started to race; he had to warn the village. A moment later the village elder raised her voice to the town and said, "Tonight, we eat chicken!"