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The inspector finished his muffin, thanked the Muffin Man for his time, and took another muffin. “For my partner,” he explained.
The heads were neatly on a tray,
On a tray,
On a tray,
The heads were neatly on a tray
'Splayed resting on Drury Lane.
The following morning, three fresh bodies were discovered on Drury Lane. London was in a panic. There had not been a case like this since Jack the Ripper. All three girls had been decapitated and their heads left where they would be spotted by early morning pedestrians. It was a warning. But to whom?
At a loss for physical evidence, Scotland Yard turned to their psychological profiler to attempt to get into the head of the madman.
“About 35 to 40 years old, Caucasian,” he prophesied, “physically unattractive, probably never had a girlfriend, lives alone or with his mother.
“Look for an older but well-maintained vehicle. Not a sports car. Probably a four-door sedan or a station wagon, though he has no use for the rear seat. The car will have high mileage, as the killer lives in the suburbs and spends a lot of time driving around – looking for his victims.”
Throughout the city, Londoners were denouncing their neighbors or making frantic calls to the police to report having seen a vehicle that matched the description of the murder car. The police could not keep up with all the tips flooding their switchboard.
The eyes were poked out on display,
On display,
On display,
The eyes were poked out on display
To see on Drury Lane.
“The murders will become more gruesome,” the psychological profiler added, “Because of the killer's sexual frustration, he will require more and more contact with the victims to satisfy his inhuman lusts.”
The Muffin Man's business was not hurt by all the attention focused on Drury Lane. In fact, it improved, for there were many gawkers standing around trying to peer over the crime-scene tape. And they were often hungry for muffins.
The inspector stopped by every day to learn if the Muffin Man had seen anything new – and to pick up a dozen muffins for the guys back at the Yard. Investigating murders is hungry work.
“I've got your number on speed dial,” the Muffin Man assured him.
The bodies neatly gutted out,
Gutted out,
Gutted out,
The bodies neatly gutted out
The organs down the drain.
“This is definitely a sex crime,” the psychological profiler explained, “even though the girls are never sexually assaulted before death. The murderer is probably unable to have sex – possibly a eunuch. Look for a thin, muscular man in his thirties who has never played in an organized sport.
“The killer must have great strength to overcome these girls so decisively, though it is probably all from lifting weights. A eunuch would not have wanted to play organized sports lest the guys in the locker room notice that there was something missing between his legs.”
The Muffin Man's wife of thirty years fretted over his safety, but he assured her that his shop was quite secure. Anyway, he told her, he had to get started even earlier in the morning now, for he was selling twice as many muffins as before the killings. His three grown children offered to take turns helping him with the oven in the mornings and to be there if the killer might turn up.
“No, no,” the Muffin Man told them, “I'm quite alright working on my own.”
That afternoon the inspector showed up, this time accompanied by two constables.
“A break-though in the case, I hope?” said the Muffin Man, as he took three blueberry muffins out of the oven for his guests.
“We found a fingerprint.”
“Anybody I might know?”
“As a matter of fact, it was yours,” said the inspector, producing a pair of handcuffs, “Please turn around and put your hands against the wall.”
Moving impossibly fast for an overweight 60-year-old, the Muffin Man pushed a hot muffin into the inspector's face, kicked him in the shin and turned and ran out the back door, the two constables in hot pursuit.
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