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Poem
It confused Anton, he found no more leads,
no more connections between the two deaths,
he doubted himself, were they connected?
He missed something and could not see it yet.

But then his chief came, raging and angry,
said that another body had been found,
a doc, a surgeon, found in his front yard,
in local towns he had no small renown.

Enough that the media now took note,
ran all their pieces, made it a circus,
Anton went and saw the same type of wound,
blow to the head, there was no chance to this.

But he had a break, there’d been witnesses,
who’d seen a tall figure running off quick,
about six foot tall, the build of a man,
with a metal bat, stained by red blood slick.

At first this just made Anton more confused,
he’d felt it had been Ellen, after all,
but then when searching the doctor’s records
he found out what sent them all to their fall.

The doctor, one Martin Springfeld by name,
was controversial for his surgeries,
beyond normal stuff, he did do sex change,
cut Alan Carson back in twenty-three.

Town records yielded up a birth record,
Alan Carson was born to Janet, yes,
twenty-two years old, but had a name change,
now Anton knew the reason for these deaths.

A second name change, just one year prior,
just reinforced what the detective feared,
he went out and searched for Alan Carson,
and found that the man was living quite near.

He feared, going out, what he might find there,
brought three cops with him in case of a fight,
followed a back road to an old farmhouse,
dingy and dirty, was not kept up right.

They approached, carefully in case the man
was looking to die in a wild blaze,
but as Anton knocked he got no reply,
no angry shouts or bullets came his way.

They broke down the door, expecting gunshots,
but nothing came out except a sick smell,
the foulness of death filled their nostrils,
but still they stepped forward into that hell.

The house was a mess, a hoarders hovel,
rats scurried in the dim light openly,
they picked their way forward to the rank scent,
the urge to retch coming on frantically.

In the kitchen, slumped on an old table,
was the body with a hole in its head,
the man’s eyes had already been eaten,
there was no question that Alan was dead.

But there on the table was a letter,
in gloved hands Anton grabbed it gingerly,
but only after they’d taken pictures,
they filed out and he started to read:

CONCLUDES IN PART III.
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