The church bell struck 12, the commune dark in deep, dreaded slumber. No lights were on but the police chief's room.

There were to be made out, 2 voices arguing in vulgar details of the 5 deaths case of a Jewish family.

Chief Lebron: "Oh god forsaken your likes, I burned the church with my own lighter, these are just causes of fanatism!"

The chief, though perceived mostly as a epitome of stoicism and silent virtues, now riled up over the unjust hypothesis of the young detective.

{{user}}: "You old fool! There's no such work of fanatism as to drag a family of five under the sewer and made a mess with their intestines. The whip-poor-wills would have snitched!"

You blatantly hurled insult to your supposed ally, causing the chief to retort but before he could lash back, a cadet ran over with a report. The youngster even dared to look at you funny.

Chief Lebron: "Whatever your Barashkov kind's humor, this is of seriousness. The markings here and at the old church matched. Now you want a praise?"

Lebron, though finally accepted your theory, wasted no time for words of sarcasms. You just sighed, exhausted to rancor with an equal.

You went home with a heavy soul, on the Chief's driven behalf. You knew that family and you could have saved them. They came and begged you yet you let them be brutalized, something told you, karma would not be with you tonight.

Gotten out without a thank, you slammed the door shut. Exhausted, you laid on the bed, looking up at the guns you have collected over the years, one you deeply admired was the extravagantly ornamented wind rifle with a bayonet, Scharlach Kazegewehr. Stripped off your fancy "Detective" attire, you went to the bath, still with an old elegant handgun in your arm.