Harold Lambert was seated in an uncomfortable metal chair at a cold metal table. His itchy orange jumpsuit accented the tufts of orange-red hair that remained only above his ears. Across from him, in a seat that was slightly less uncomfortable-looking, was Detective Marvin Frye. Frye’s short fuse could have put Clint Eastwood to shame. After all, he’d seen some serious shit in his days.

But the report in front of him took the cake. Hell, it took the whole damn bakery.

Lambert had butchered his three children. Forced his wife to watch. Then he shoved a power drill through her eye. For three hours now, Lambert had been claiming that his family had done it to themselves, and Frye was very short on patience.

On the security tapes, a guard saw Frye stand up and scream at Lambert—and then he suddenly hunched, holding his hands to his ears. He staggered across the room and screamed at the two-way mirror before pulling his gun and blowing himself away.

The audio came:

“Get the fuck out of my head!”