The stench hit them first in the cluttered garage. A wheelbarrow overflowed with a crimson tide – human blood, thick and viscous. A pair of women’s panties lay discarded on the floor, a grotesque echo amongst the coils of rope and the rolled-up tarps. A chainsaw, its metallic teeth glinting in the harsh light, stood upright against the wall, stained a rusty red with the remnants of its grisly work. Neighbors, questioned later, spoke of strange odors emanating from the garage – they’d assumed it was insecticide, a tool of his landscaping business. A terrible misunderstanding, a horrifying truth hidden in plain sight.
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","author_name":"Thomas Rosseland Wiborg-Thune"}