The middle of nowhere. Montana. February. It had not snowed in a few weeks, but it didn’t matter. The world was frozen. Ice covered everything, slowing the decay and decomposition of the mountain town for another season.

The little boy was crucified in the abandoned chapel. Hung from the ceiling where the crucifix use to be before the church went bankrupt. Sex scandals do that to a business. The police department hadn’t released his name to the public yet, they were trying to find his parents first.

The coroner was called to the scene. Useless prick. He said it had been so cold the past week it was unlikely to determine time of death. Crows had picked out his eyes and other soft tissues as well, creating any sort of timeline was impossible.

“Have there been any missing kids reported?”

“Nope.”

“He looks too young for a record. Doubt the fingerprints will help.”

“Jesus.”

Why was the boy hanging from the ceiling? Symbolism? Or was he tortured before he died. Sunday schools teach how horrible it was to be hung from a cross. To drown in one’s own blood as the shoulder blades, aptly named, sliced muscle tissue away from the bones.

Did it matter? Either way a kid was dead.

“Have you seen anything like this before?”

“No.”

“I don’t know where to start. Whoever did this has done it before.”

“How about we get him down first?”

“Seems reasonable.”

This was harder than it looked. The boy was hung by a series of tangled red ropes, anchored to the walls and floor, seemingly at random.

“Which one do we cut?”

“Pick one.”

He picked the wrong one. The rudimentary cross of plywood lurched back and forth before falling to the frozen floor with an unceremonious thud. The planks of wood shatter like glass. Getting a fingerprint off the splinters would be a miracle.

“Someone close his eyes. I can’t stand it.”

The boy looked better on the floor; as if he had died in an accident, crushed by falling debris.

“Have C.S.I. check the walls for prints. Maybe we’ll get lucky. The ropes for hair too.”

“You got it boss.”

The crime scene investigators found nothing. The killer was meticulous. Nothing came back on the kid either. His teeth were too crooked. He’d never been to a dentist. No missing person reports either. Probably a runaway. Poor kid.

An article was published in the paper about the case. Two hundred fifty words. No pictures. Only a vague description of what the reporter could bring themselves to write. People didn’t care. Why would they? It wasn’t their kid. Probably only read the headline.

Why do they do this? What does it cost to walk into Hell? To look into the endless darkness of the world. For what? No suspects, no positive ID’s. Only waiting for him to kill again; maybe a girl this time, and hope for the evidence casual evil can leave behind.

But the coffee is free.