From the diary of Detective Roger (Roy) Bucher:
I’ve never heard my brother Myles speak, but I have heard him scream. I’ve also heard him cry. The last time I heard him cry was the day we went to the orphanage, he was only four and I was six. Someone from around town investigated the odor coming from our grandparents’ house and found our grandparents’ two-week-old corpses festering in their favorite chairs right next to their radio tuned in to their favorite religious station. The social workers and police officials came to look over the house and collect us. Myles ran to Grandma, jumped right into her lap, and hugged her around her decrepit neck and started crying. He didn’t want to leave them. I heard her weak, dead bones break from the fuss. Her decomposing head nearly came clean off when the cops yanked him away from her, leaving her head hanging by its rotting neck since Myles accidentally pulled her skull off the spine. He screamed all the way through town.
That wasn’t the last time I’d hear him scream, though. To the other kids in the orphanage, immediately, we were outsiders. We didn’t belong there. Problem was, I knew it too. Myles though, he didn’t care. He just wanted to go back home, but no one would let him. They picked on us – well – they tried picking on us.
Grandpa used to take Myles hunting with him. He’d use Myles as a game hound to spook the birds and fetch their bodies, but Myles had also acquired hunting skills. Occasionally, Myles would straight up fight whichever bastard was picking on him at the time, but Myles also developed patience. If he couldn’t go home, he’d make the best of a bad situation. He would wait. He would stalk these kids like he’d stalk a quail. Whenever I heard Myles screaming, I knew there was bloodshed. Some of the orphans didn’t live to see puberty. Some of them lived, and killed themselves anyway because of the mutilations Myles had dealt them. Orphans who felt they were unwanted by their real parents, and after Myles got a hold of them, disfigured them; who would want them anymore?
Not a day passed that I wasn’t frightened over what Myles was becoming. The worst day was when we were separated. I stayed at the orphanage; he wound up at a juvenile mental institution. All he ever wanted was to go back home and these idiots kept taking him further away. Not me. When the time came, I moved as far north as I could. I guess Chicago wasn’t far enough because sure enough, I heard his screams again. Soon after I got wind of the murders happening back home. The more I thought about it, I think Myles wanted me to hear about them. How he knew I became a police detective is beyond me. I never told anyone about my plans because I didn’t know anyone and because it was never planned. It just happened.
Maybe it wasn’t planned. Maybe this is what was meant to be all along. Yes, my brother Myles Bucher is the killer the media refers to as The Devil’s Enforcer. I should be ashamed to say that to him, what he’s doing actually makes sense. I’m not, because it makes sense to me too; but Myles has gone mad.
I’m sorry, Myles. Mad dogs gotta be put down.
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