“I thought I would get better,” I tell the detective in the interrogation room.

“I was saving lives,” I assured him. “I’m a criminal profiler, I save lives.”

He questions me as if he doesn’t believe the report in his hands, “Says here you have a disease? Dementia?”

“Dementia itself isn’t a disease, it’s a symptom of disease. There’s nothing wrong with me, and it’s not even Alzheimer’s, it’s Korsakoff Syndrome.”

“Correct me if this report is wrong. You have confabulation and hallucinations?”

I defend myself “They’re not!…they aren’t hallucinations. They happened. I didn’t kill that girl but I don’t know who did.”

“Really? Because we found her crusted old blood under your nails. We found your wind chimes.”

I appear confused, “I’d hope you would, they were on my desk.”

The detective shakes his head, “we found human remains within the materials you use in your…craft.”

“What?” I scoff, “No.”

“What do you mean no?” He gets frustrated.

“No. I mean no. I mean I have a system. I have a _design_. I don’t…I wouldn’t **kill** someone.”

“Seems like you would.”