"Mr. Sasha Bruce of Hartford, Connecticut,� a sheriff announced, his voice void of all emotion, as he read the tag on the victim�s foot.
�Is there any clue as to how he died?� the chief-of-police scowled at the body before him.
�Nothing but badly damaged eardrums and signs that the victim bled from the inside out,� replied the coroner. �But, his case still baffles me.�
The chief nodded. �Quite baffling indeed.�
A hired detective, who was sitting in the corner of the room, going over his notes and minding his own business, now stood and came forward to the table upon which the victim lay.
�You have yet to ask me what I�ve discovered over the past week,� he commented to the chief.
�Oh yes, Mr. Quax! Please�if it can shed any light upon the situation,� the chief said with little confidence.
�Very well then, gentlemen,� the detective began, thumbing through his observations. �I shall start sixty years from this present date�July 21st, 1916�with a modest home in Boston and an infant by the name of Sylvester Baxel��
* * * *
Here follows the detective�s report:
Sylvester Baxel was born to Alexander and Betsy Stoker Baxel in Boston, Massachusetts on the 21st of July in 1916. His father was a clockmaker and taught his son to develop a passion for timepieces. Alexander Baxel taught his son well, for at the age of 18, he opened his first antique clock store. He kept clocks for all classes and occasions. But, the one clock that he let very few people ever see was his dearest. He kept a journal throughout his life that he had hidden in the false bottom of his dresser (also where he kept the clock) and wrote about his clocks excessively. But, none more than his favorite: the �one my father gave to me when I opened my first shop.� The clock that he was referring to was so old and so crude that it has not yet been identified. But, its value is imeasurable in terms of money.
The owner guarded this clock with his very life, for it was that dear to him. When he received threats from someone that they knew about his clock and were coming for it, he ran to Connecticut and settled down in Hartford in 1969. He even took a new name, Sasha Bruce, to throw his pursuer off of his track.
Somehow, his unknown stalker caught up with him, after seven years, one warm and pleasant night in July. His last journal entry explained that he was listening to his radio when he felt another presence within the room. (Then the entry halts.) His attacker turned the radio up as high as possible and somehow magnified the sound to have a strong enough effect on the man�s ears to cause them to burst. His attacker left him to bleed to death yet did not take the clock as promised.
* * * * *
The coroner frowned and approached the detective, �Fascinating, yet how does this help us.�
�Is it not clear?� Mr. Q asked.
�No, it is not,� the coroner replied.
Mr. Quax chuckled, �It was suicide.�
�Suicide?� the chief laughed again.
�Yes, you see, I have submitted the journal to psychologists throughout the nation, and each of them have come to the conclusion that the man was mentally unstable. Why would someone go to such great lengths to hide a clock, and then say out of the blue that someone had threatened to take it? The attacker was a made-up character to everyone but Mr. Baxel. To him, his attacker was unmistakably real because it was an image of his delirious mind. He was the one that turned the volume of his radio up as high as it would go and then placed his ear next to the speaker. He killed himself either because the stress of keeping the clock had finally gotten to him or something (or someone) drove him to it. However, the latter we know is not possible because there was no motive for a murderer. The clock remained in the false bottom of his dresser. (And we know that it is this clock because he said explicitly in his journal �I have hidden it where no one�not even �he��will be able to find it.�) As for the chosen method of suicide, he was not well and so chose to use the tools at hand. He was listening to his radio when the thought struck him.�
�Interesting, it does indeed help us,� the coroner said, placing the white sheet over the cold, pale figure.
�Then, if you won�t be needing me again, gentlemen, I shall take my leave of you,� the detective left, and no one bothered to note how the man had kept his face concealed the entire time.
�But, what I�d like to know is how he went mad,� the chief said after some time.
The sheriff�s face turned as pale as the victim�s, �I can tell you that, chief.�
�Then go ahead, I�ve heard enough babble, a little more won�t hurt.�
The officer gulped and then said, �I remember those names�Mr. Baxel and Mr. Quax. They were all written up in the paper some time ago. It involved a clock maker and a very conspicuous, very expensive clock. It seems that an Alexander Baxel was killed 50 years ago. I remember it was in Boston. They sent his orphan son to a psychiatrist. He had been rather shook-up, and they had pronounced him incurable. But, right when he was being transported to a ward, the little devil escaped.�
�Yes, but what does that have to do with Mr. Quax?� the chief asked.
�Oh, didn�t I tell ya? He was the guy that killed the kid�s dad.�