Crazed and covered from head to foot with fresh blood, he ran up to the police cruiser and frantically pounded on the windshield. Sheriff Renee Maji and her deputy, Joey Watson, watched in a sense of disbelief as the scrawny geriatric pounded on the glass. With each strike, fresh blood streaked across the pane while he explained: "Someone killed Kenny! He's been murdered!"

Slowly, the sheriff and her deputy moved from the safety of their mobile armored fortress and were met with an uncomfortable chill that stung with the slightest of movements. Joey found his hand on the grip of his sidearm, with his thumb reactively already placed on the safety.

"Sir…," the Deputy said in a soft, yet authoritative tone. "Before we can help you, you need to move away from the vehicle."

A bit taken aback by the younger man's aggression, the old man tilted his head and puzzled over the request before lifting his hand from the vehicle and taking a few steps backward with his hands held in front of him.

"Mister… Please don't shoot me," the elderly man said in a frightened whisper. "I was the one who called you."

Sheriff Renee glanced over at her partner with a half grin. "Good job, Joey, you scared the old man more than he already was. I think he wet himself."

"He is covered in blood and came running wildly toward us," Joey growled. "Lucky I didn't put a slug in him, right there. All right, what's going on, and try to remain calm."

The old man glanced over at the Sheriff for approval, who gave him a soft nod. With a deep breath and slow exhale, he spoke.

"My name is Warren Martin," he started, though his tone was controlled, his eyes remained wild. "I am, and have been, the director of this camp for the last forty years. My assistant, Kenny, and I agreed to meet her this evening to start preparing for camp season for the kids."

Renee glanced up and surveyed her surroundings, and in the fast interaction with Martin, she had not realized they stood in front of Camp Burywood. It was a popular summer camp for children back in the nineteen eighties and nineties, but she had not realized that it was still operational. Her inspection moved along the dilapidated building and wondered, Who in their right mind would allow their children to stay here for the summer?

As if knowing her thoughts, Warren Martin explained, "Camp Burywood has always been dedicated for those families who could not afford the more pricier summer camps…Unfortunately, because less money is made from the other camps, renovations are lackluster at best, I am afraid."

"I'm not here to judge, Mister Martin," Sheriff Renee reassured the elderly man. She looked over at her deputy, who was visibly becoming impatient, and with a sigh, continued, "Where is the body, Mister Martin?"

The elderly man rambled as he began to move toward the old wooden cabins. "Kenny is in the main office. I met him here this afternoon, and we started looking at what we had to work with, and then we tossed ideas about souvenirs for the children…I went to make a phone call to see why electricity wasn't on yet, and when I returned he was dead!"

Warren Martin traveled in front and quickly moved up the creaky wooden stairs which led into the main office. He opened the door, and a strong musk met the sheriff and deputy's senses with an unsolicited response. The area was without electricity and uncomfortably dark, and both officers retrieved their flashlights and illuminated the crime scene.

There on the floor was a man, perhaps in his forties. His hair was transitioning to gray, with streaks of brown, and his blue eyes glowed once the artificial light made contact. The Sheriff noted that it appeared that the man's teeth were removed, but the cause of death was the long, diagonal cut along his upper body.

"Do you think the camp can still open Monday?" Martin asked as he looked down at the dead body.

"Not likely," Deputy Joey replied with the same soft, yet authoritative tone. But there was a hint of annoyance woven into his words.

"We need to call this in," Sheriff Renee said and stood up straight. "You wait here with Mr. Martin, Joey."

#

Sheriff Renee Maji stood outside her cruiser with a CB radio in hand. "Dispatch, this is Sheriff Maji. Deputy Watson and I responded to a possible homicide at Camp Burywood…we were met by the camp's director and he directed us to the location of the victim. Over.

#

Deputy Joey Watson felt a wave of uneasiness assail his senses. He was not afraid that he was in a room with a murdered victim, and over the years his soul had hardened to such madness. But, perhaps it was that he was in a dark room, with no working lights that sincerely unnerved him.

Watson felt himself growing on edge and decided to strike up conversation with the elderly camp director.

"So you have run this place in nineteen eighty-five," the deputy asked, his tone audibly different from previous dialogue.

"Eighty-six," Martin corrected. "I was twenty-one when I got the job. I will be sixty-one this October."

"That's a hell of a run." He said flatly.

"Indeed," Martin declared, and went silent for a beat, lost in his own thoughts, and then reemerged and asked, "Would you like a camp souvenir?"

"Oh no, I couldn't be of any trouble," the Deputy answered in more of an evading manner than sincerity.

"Oh. No. No. It is no trouble, I have one in my desk, let me please give it to you," Warren said with excitement in his tone.

Watson knew that it would be pointless to argue with the frail man and finally said, "Okay, fine. I'd like a souvenir."

#

The sharp sting of the cold faded into numbness as Sheriff Renee Maji waited for dispatch to respond.

"Dispatch, did you copy?"

"I did, Sheriff, but I wasn't positive what you said the camp's name was, over."

"Camp Burywood, over. Just off of Element Lake Highway, over."

There was a long moment of silence before dispatch returned to the line.

"Sheriff, Camp Burywood had been closed since nineteen ninety-five. We have had calls of a vagrant squatting on the property a few times in the last few weeks, but no activity there for decades."

"Is the vagrant an elderly man, frail, looks like a gust of wind could knock him over?"

"No, Sheriff, just the opposite," Dispatch explained. "This man was a large man in his forties with long gray and brown hair."

The Sheriff dropped the CB in disbelief.

"That's our victim," she stammered, and then began moving quickly toward the office. Once the door was again in view, Renee called out, "Joey! I need you and Mr. Martin to come outside."

Maji was halfway up the stairs when she realized there was no response. Drawing her sidearm and crossing over her forearm with her mag light into a readied position. "Joey!"

Sheriff Renee moved into the dark room and saw the Deputy, and though it was difficult to see, she made out that he was leaning back into the chair.

"Joey…," the Sheriff said in a whisper.

He did not respond, but in the corner of the room at a small desk, the elder man was hunched over his old wooden desk and appeared to be doing something with his hands. Although the sight was aided by the Deputy's flashlight, she could not determine what. "I am almost finished with your partner's request."

"What did you do to him?" Renee demanded, then turned a thin shaft of light fell onto the man she rode in with. "Joey!"

Before her was the dead body of Deputy Joey Watson. He had a gaping hole where his Adam's Apple once was, and she followed the blood upward and saw his mouth hung open, and the fresh ichor escaped the open wounds in his gum line where his teeth once were.

Now, with her gun readied on the back of the elderly man's head, she exclaimed, "Don't move, or by all I hold holy I wil—"

Renee's words were interrupted as Warren Martin turned from his desk. He was smiling and had excited eyes as he spoke. "I'm sorry it took so long," he said. "He wanted a souvenir." In that moment, he held up a necklace that was a long string that held an equally long row of freshly extracted teeth. With a tenderness in his voice, he asked, "Would you like a souvenir for your troubles?"

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