An empty jar. A monster’s grinning blue head in shattered porcelain on the floor, coated in a fine brown dust. I kneel down and run my finger lightly across the remains, tasting it. What is that? Chocolate? Remember. Every detail matters.
I make coffee in the dead thing’s kitchen, gulping in the rising steam as if its dense substance lends gravitas to my guesswork. The suspects are limited; the front door is locked and no one has left. Somewhere upstairs, the culprit is snoring, content with their crime. As I pour out the coffee, I can make out the corpse of the monster through the plastic decanter, its multiple pieces blurred and deformed by shifting refraction — good! New perspectives breed insight. Remember your training.
I pace back and forth, while my coffee cup cools. Hmm. Think! The interior of the jar is coated with the same fine brown dust as the monster’s remains, and there is no such thing as a coincidence. I kneel down beside the corpse, throwing protocol to the winds and tampering with the evidence, trying to reconstruct what was. My coffee’s stone cold but the jigsaw is finished and revelation’s at hand. I can see it all so clearly.
It was not a murder but theft — the death just an accident. My six-year-old niece stole the cookies and ran when Cookie Monster’s head toppled down. But careful — suspicion isn’t certainty and I pad up the stairs, following the trail of crumbs.