The bodies were grotesque, left in some ritualistic pose that baffled even the most hardened investigator.  The woman was sitting in a recliner, head held up by sewing thread and almost looking relaxed and waiting.  She was covered by an afghan that was strangely dull in color.  Flashes were going off in a multitude of strobe-like synopses lending an eerie quality to her features.  She was nude under the afghan, that much was clear.  As the light flickered on and off it gave alternating images of the woman she was, and who she had been reduced to.  Suppressing a shudder, he looked at the surrounding two bodies lying posed around the woman. 

There was a little girl, no more than seven or eight propped up with kitchen knives in a supplicating posture as if reaching out to her mother.  Her eyes had been removed and placed into her outstretched hand.  All of her clothes had been removed except for her panties, but they were altered.  Just enough of them were left to cover her, as if the intruder was embarrassed by what he might see.  The detective was reminded of cutting out paper figures as a child, but there the resemblance ended.  The little girl was covered in blood and it looked as if the intruder had finger painted on her torso.  Next to her was another child, this one looked to be about twelve or thirteen.  She too was posed and on the other side of the little girl.  They were facing each other looking up at their mother as if reaching out.  Her eyes were also removed and resting in her outstretched hand.  The image was stark, both girls were similarly positioned, each reduced to a mere shell of their former selves.  Almost totally nude, although the older girl also had a portion of her bra still covering her breasts, they lie in wait.  

The pictures were taken and the medical personnel gently lifted the afghan off of the woman.  A young police officer, who already was showing stress and looked about ready to lose it at any minute, mewed deep in her chest and fled the room looking for solace in the front yard.  The woman in the chair had been eviscerated.  She was opened from just below the breastbone to the top of her pubis.  Her skin had been flayed open and pinned to the sides of the chair.  More flashes immediately, a hush had fallen.  No background buzz that was always around in an investigation of this type.  People were ashen, many covering their mouths and gasping for air.  She was holding her insides with hands that had been cupped together with thread.  On top of the pile of intestines was pinned a note.  The writing was not visible it was so saturated with blood.  More pictures.

Detective First Class Richard D. Morton, a veteran of twenty-three years, took a step back.  He sucked in a deep breath and tried to focus on something else, anything else.  He looked around the room and surrealistically took inventory.  A large oak entertainment center with a large silver RCA television surrounded by a video recorder, stereo and DVD players interspaced with photographs of the family.  One looked like a birthday shot, the youngest girl grinning at the camera as only the young can.  Hair curly, framing a happy, cute little girl with a button nose and wearing a pretty, pink party dress, eyes lit with excitement.  Another showed the mother, posed with the two girls, arms around each smiling more with her eyes than her mouth, but looking very content, very happy.  Another showed the older girl, decked out in riding clothes on the back of a magnificent looking stallion, pride in her face, happiness shining from her eyes, the pride of the family.  In the corner behind the front door were a set of golf clubs, apparently thrown down in a hurry, scattered on the floor.

He had to look away.  He was forced back little by little to the grotesque scene in front of him.  He noticed the little girl’s hair was soaked, and still dripping blood.  He again took in the once sparkling eyes of the girls, held in their hands as if being handed out for treats.  He noticed the tan carpet was saturated with blood from the victims, slowly spreading in an ever-widening circle.  He looked above the woman and saw the entrance to the kitchen.  To his left was a sofa and coffee table with magazines and newspapers sitting in precise order.  Behind the couch was a piano with vases of flowers sitting on top, offering a false gaiety.  The picture windows looked out to a front yard very well cared for.  The lawn was lush, freshly mowed.  There were flowerbeds lining the driveway adding color and order to the property.  Birds sat in the tree in the front yard carrying on with their happy chattering, flitting occasionally from branch to branch.  The young officer was on her knees, supplicating herself to the heavens still white as a ghost.

He slowly returned to the scene, met the eyes of Officer John Rawlins, who with a nod, motioned him to come over.  Next to Rawlins was another officer reading from a notepad.  Every once in a while, Rawlins would nod his head while trying hard not to succumb to the emotions broiling inside.  Rawlins was a very large man; with his cap he almost hit the sill of the doorway.  For some reason Morton could only focus on the gap between the hat and the doorway.  He ambled over to them, making a large detour around the victims and picked up the last of the conversation.

“…and he is sitting in the corner of their bedroom, head down, rocking back and forth.  He won’t acknowledge our presence.  Officer McMurtry is trying to talk to him now.”

Rawlins looked over at Detective Morton and nodded off the speaker.  The man went back to the crime scene and began furiously writing notes. 

Morton followed his passage and took in the scene.  The two girls were both on gurneys already zipped into their body bags.  The medical team was carefully lifting the woman from the chair.  They laid her gently on another gurney and began zipping up the bag.  Her right arm slipped off the gurney and what followed made him blanch.  What was left of her insides followed the arm down.  One of the medics made a futile effort to keep them on the gurney, but only created more havoc.  All motion ceased, everyone looked at everyone else.  Finally another medic grabbed a newspaper and scooped up the mess, set it on top of the body and zipped it up.  Motion started again as people began moving with a purpose.  The gurneys were wheeled outside; the forensic team began searching the area for more clues and the background buzz started up again.

“Good Lord, Rich, I can’t…I just can’t…Shit!”  He jerked his head away from Morton and stared out the window.  In a monosyllabic tone he said, “Daughters eight and twelve.  A son age ten visiting friends.  Mother thirty-three.  Found by husband when returning from a game of golf.  Ran into the bedroom and called 911.  Officers Williams and Stackhouse first on the scene.  Husband has not moved, refuses…” Rawlins looked back at Morton with ravaged eyes and continued, “…or can’t talk to us.  Very shaken up.”  He let out a snort, half derision, half to save himself from going over the edge.  “Who the hell wouldn’t be?  What the fuck happened here?  Why in God’s name did…”

“John.  Let’s go talk to the husband.”  He grabbed Rawlins’ arm and led him down the hall.

More pictures on the walls.  Beautiful family, looked like they were very happy together.  Passed an immaculate bathroom, light, cheery, the epitome of a happy content home.  Swallowing, he slowly turned the corner into the master bedroom.  Solid, heavy oak furniture freshly polished, an antique armoire standing against the wall that surprisingly blended well with the bedroom furniture, and a large king size bed with a light and airy floral print spread. 

In the corner he felt rather than saw the man slowly rocking to himself.  Officer McMurtry was sitting on the corner of the bed, head down.  When the two officers entered the room, he looked up at them with raw, wounded eyes, begging for release.  Morton gave him a nod and he quickly got up and left the room.  Taking a moment, he looked around the room and noticed a large photograph printed on canvas.  It was a family portrait.  In the center was the husband looking down with a smile of pride at his wife and children.  All the children were beaming, like they had just been told of an extra Christmas and the wife was so thoroughly happy that he had to look away, quickly.

Looking at Rawlins, Morton knelt down on the floor in front of the husband.  Gently, every so gently he reached out for him.  The husband stopped rocking, and with a groan so deep it hurt Morton, he grabbed him in a fierce bear hug and wept.  His body racked with intense shudders, the pain of a man forced to face a thing that could not be faced.  As the shudders subsided, Detective Morton helped him rise to his feet.  Turning him slowly, he set him on the bed and sat next to him.  The man was still holding on to the detective, still shuddering slightly.  Without looking up, he spoke in a voice from the dead, but filled with malice.