The Death of Callum Mackenzie

An elderly woman sat there, a blanket over her legs, and a cross-stitch frame in her lap. If it wasn't for the cook's knife that pinned her to the chair through the throat, I'd have almost called her serene. On the floor in front of her, two corpses, mid-laged with rough, weathered faces were entwined together in an embrace that almost looked affectionate. They had each had their own throats cut, crudely, and plastered across their faces was a smile that seemed to occupy a frozen space halfway between ecstasy and an all-consuming anger. Their murderer was in the kitchen, head forced into an oven, now cold

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