Write about: the doodle.
I can't believe we've almost reached September already. Doesn't seem right to me. At all.
Got back to the job search this morning. Nothing promising yet, but trying to remain positive and hopeful.
Harvesting corn tomorrow morning for local orders. Like, all of whatever is ready. We had someone order five dozen ears, which I don't think I'm going to be able to manage. But I do plan on giving it my best shot.
The drawing was found crumpled up into a jagged ball in the garbage can at the back of the garage. Just a messy doodle done in red and black crayon. Officer Westbrook discovered it, I think. Maybe Officer Whittaker. I'm always mixing those two up.
Anyway. Whoever it was that found it didn't think much of it at first. Probably figured it was a neighbour's kid who'd done it. The deceased found it blowing across his yard, maybe, and just tossed it in the trash.
But then somebody must have pointed out that the neighbour's don't have any kids. In fact, nobody on the whole block has kids.
That's when they called me in.
Who did it? they asked. And, more importantly, What the hell is it supposed to be?
The implications were easy enough to determine, even though nobody dared to speak them aloud: had the Crayon Kid come out of retirement to strike once again? And if so, would he dare to continue his dreadful work or was this simply one, sick, twisted finale?
Except we all knew that it was him. And, worse, we all knew the answer to that second question was that people like the Crayon Kid never stopped until somebody stopped them.
Somebody like me.