around by the elbow.

There were four victims: Henry Emerson, his wife July Emerson, and their children, fifteen-year old Colin and twelve-year old Bailey. Captain Gunn gave me a brisk tour around the home, which was spotted with evidence cones and swarming with camera-toting forensics officers.

July was found dead in her bed, her face caved in by something large and round, but her body was otherwise undisturbed. The children's fate was no so peaceful.

"Can I see where they were found?" I asked the Captain.

Gunn's stoic posture was slightly shaken, she did not want to see the children again, but she led me to the garage anyway.

It was a scene of chaos: boxes fallen to the ground, their contents spilled. Christmas ornaments coalesced with pool noodles and tennis rackets. In the middle of the car bay, two bodies lied sprawled out, blood dousing their clothes and the ground around them.

"What was the cause of death?"

"You know as well as I do that we won't know until the autopsy is done."

"What do you think it was?"

Gunn leaned closer. "Could be the stab wounds. Could be blunt damage. Could be their eyeballs being ripped from their sockets."

My blood ran cold. I would learn nothing here, where the crime was most interesting. "Where's the father?"

Gunn lead me to the backyard, where a man was erected on a cross, nails driven through his hands and feet and his eyes taped open. It was a bizarre and gruesome scene, more akin to some arthouse horror film than a suburban murder.
But at least his eyes were in tact.

I convinced Gunn to let me a little closer before I peered over the black lenses of my glasses and made eye contact with the corpse hanging before me.
The images rattled into my mind.

Bully.

Abuser.

Alcoholic.

Liar.

Racist.

Sexist.

Sadist.

Murderer.

"Did you know him?" I asked the Captain.

"He was an officer," she replied in a detached, stuffy police captain voice. "I can't say we saw eye-to-eye frequently, but it didn't deserve this."

And yet I knew he did. His family didn't, of course. From what I could tell, they'd been victims the whole time, only to meet a grisly end.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I told her.

"What did you see?" she whispered, either desperation or anger causing the end of her sentence to flutter.

She couldn't know about me. There was no way. But in some way that she couldn't explain out loud, she had picked up on my gift, or at least had come to understand some small piece of it.

I wanted to tell her he'd been brave; noble. I wanted to give the captain comfort. But kind lies would be an insult to a woman of her integrity.

"His family didn't deserve this."

She gave a curt nod before asking me to leave.

I snuck one more glance at the red, taped-open eyes staring at the ground.
"Excuse me," an officer with a camera asked me to move, and as I stepped aside, I saw my reflection in his lens for only a moment.

Traitor.

I doubled over and vomited bile from my empty stomach.

"Okay, okay," the Captain ushered me away quickly. "Let's not make more of a scene."