The door broke in. Police Chief Henderson and his squad flooded the apartment. The stench of blood clawed at their nostrils. A torn up woman, possible missing person Jane Everett, lounged in her drying blood on the bed.

Two squad men grabbed Max by the shoulders, while the others investigated the room. Not much really. Bloody sheets. Crooked picture-frame. Then they saw them. Peeking out from under the bed. Sergeant Henry pulled out the rolled fabric and unwrapped it, revealing an entire set of crooked, sharp instruments. Encrusted with blood, the dentistry tools were placed in a plastic bag.

“Max Wellings,” Henderson demands, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law.”

He nodded, raising his hand to point toward a bare space in the corner of the room; his eyes focusing on something. Henderson looked but saw nothing.

“He made me do it.”