Sadly, it was about as botched a case
as possible, with so much mishandling
of evidence that no criminal was ever
likely to be brought up on charges.
The police chief held himself responsible.
Colleagues warned him not to hire the boy
to fill the forensic examiner position, but
the lad had graduated top of his class
from university and he'd already struggled
so mightily against adversity and the unfortunate
hand he'd been dealt at birth—helping his
nephew out thus seemed almost automatic,
the same way all along, when the boy
was growing up, he'd manifestly correct
people when they referred to him by that
awful name. "It's called Scheuermann's
kyphosis, my friends. Please update
your awareness."
All the same, he'd clearly made a mish-
mash out of his tyro case.
According to the boy's report, the
dead giant was something known
as a chimera, having radically different
patterns of DNA in various parts of his
lumbering frame. Identification, he
claimed, was therefore going to be
difficult, if not impossible.
Victim # 2, however, was a known American
and had almost certainly been shot to death.
The bullet, in fact, lay glistening on the metal tray
over by the window, etched in silver light
from the late rising moon; yet for some reason
his nephew wanted to waste an ungodly amount
of money having dog fibers sent to the capital
for "canine mitochondrial sequencing."
Even more incredible, he'd totally
misplaced the last of the murdered troika,
a member of the aristocracy from the
looks of the crime scene photos, wearing
such fine clothing he could have been a baron
or count. ("His paleness hints of some
hereditary coagulopathy," the report glossed.)
He claimed he'd put him in morgue drawer
#12, yet found it empty upon returning
to conduct follow-up analyses. Odder still,
there remained traces of the original
internment soil on the slab, along with
what looked to be bat droppings.
So much for giving the lad a chance:
such incompetence was intolerable.
The police chief had his own reputation
to protect; plus he would brook no charges
of nepotism. He therefore had little choice
but to crumple the report and toss it
into the wastebasket.
Such a shame, too. For someone so gnarled
and crooked of frame, Igor's handwriting
was a thing of intricate beauty.
Meanwhile, before the village woke up
and a mad rush for pitchforks broke out,
it was time to check the state registry
for mad scientists—then roust the usual
suspects.