How did she do it? How could anyone do such a monstrous deed, not to mention her? The officer couldn’t make sense of it all. There really was just too much going on to make sense out of. The scene, the evidence, the crime, the victim, the girl. It seemed an impossible task putting it all in comprehensible order, and then just leaving it behind without the questions. How could they expect him to just put it all in some worn out box and never think of it again? Never question the decisions, and especially the outcome. Never wonder about her.
First there was the scene to think of. It had been, to put it lightly, one of the most repulsive things the young officer had ever seen. Blood and guts everywhere; it was gruesome even to think of. It had been like something out of a horror movie, only worse. It wasn’t worse because it was bigger or redder or anything of the like. No, it was worse because it wasn’t as big and dramatic, it was worse because in it’s small, sick way, it was so much more real than anything the horror movies had ever made. And all of it, all of the mess, all of the blood, was the responsibility of the little girl.
That was the part that really got to him. How someone so small and innocent – though perhaps she’d only feigned innocence – could do such a thing. Not only had she supposedly done it all, without any help, but after she’d gone on in perfect grievance. She’d acted the way the officer would have thought any young daughter would after finding out about the terrible occurrence. But, as he had learned to believe, it had all just been the act of a gilt free conscience.
"It gets easier," one of his colleagues, an older and more experienced police officer had told him. At first he’d believed the man had been speaking of looking at the scenes, and not wanting to seem like a sissy, had said he’d no problem with it. But the man had merely replied with a little chuckled, "No. It gets easier to believe."
At the time the culprit had still been unknown, and the younger man had been sure even the experienced officer would be shocked by who had been accused of the crime. But, he hadn’t. He hadn’t even raised his eyes at the knowledge. It had been as though he’d known it all along - or at least guessed it. Perhaps that had been what he had been talking about. That it got easier to believe who committed the crimes. That it became easier to believe that the ones who seemed most innocent were the ones guilty.
Although he tried, the officer couldn’t file away his doubts and questions with the paper work. They clung to him, demanding to be listened to and answered. He didn’t even try the latter; with time the answers may spring up, he reasoned, but at the moment his mind couldn’t make sense of it all. How could she have done it? How could the little girl have made such a mess?
