It was the night of my 5th birthday. The rain soaked my cholthes: a wool sweater two sizes too large weighed down my shoulders like an anchor while my fuzzy socks sloshed in the puddles inside my shoes. Existing was misery, as nothing I wore trapped heat once the freezing rain filled it. None the less, I wrapped it tighter around me in an attempt to find comfort and shivered. “It’s going to be fine,” my father grunted, placing a hand on my back to hurry me down the trail. “Everything will be fine,” my mother assured me, trudging along in front of me. They kept saying everything would be fine… but parents lie… parents lie! Parents lie! *** The middle aged man with long unkept hair that was talking slams his hands on the wooden table in front of him: a loud thud echoes through the court room as the crowd collectively jumps. Chains rattle as the man wails and pulls on the restraints. Three guards and a nurse in blue scrubs creep up behind the man before the table breaks with a resounding crack! Two guards jump on the man as he whirls around; despite the shackles on his wrists, the man manages to land a few punches to the larger, rounder guard’s face. Blood splatters from the guards nose as the other two manage to pin him to the ground, screaming for the nurse. Inching forward with trebling hands, the nurse sticks a syringe into the man’s stomach through his bright orange shirt. Breaking free again, the man kicks one of the other guards before running across the room and collapsing on the ground. Cameras and phones snap pictures as murmurs spread throughout the crowd that stare wide-eyed at the scene unfolding before them. Finally, the judge bangs his gavel once sharply on the desk and sighs, “We will adjourn until tomorrow morning, when the defendant will continue his story.” As whispers intensify in the crowd, they stand up to leave. Moving as one solid mass, they exit the court room, watching as a team of EMTs place the man on a stretcher and check his vitals. As the crowd shuffles towards the door, a large burly man approaches a tall thin man with a small notepad. “What do you think, Joe,” the burly man asks. “Going hard for the insanity plea?” After scribbling a bit in his notepad, Joe responds, “Maybe, Charlie, but I don’t think that was an act.” “You think he will get off with insanity? After killing 38 people?” “No—I don’t think that. I’m just saying that we haven’t heard the entire story yet. He might actually be insane, but the Orpan Maker was too calculated to be this manic… it just doesn’t add up.” “Exactly, there is no way a man as meticulous as that could be insane: he is trying to get a lighter sentence.” “Perhaps… I want to hear the rest of this story before I post that though.” “Always so cautious!” Charlie chuckles. “This time I think you are going to fall behind. Let’s not forget, this is the biggest case in the last few decades…” “How could anyone forget!” Joe scoffs. “I’d rather get an accurate story late than a bad one first: that’s the difference between us, Charlie.” “Fair, fair… I’ll see you tomorrow then?” “I doubt any journalist in the country will miss this one… the podcasters will be here too.” Charlie chuckles and waves a hand. “You are right as always, my friend,” he admits as he turns to leave. “See you tomorrow, Charlie,” Joe calls after him, scanning his notes again. *** They brought me to the cabin and left me alone in the rain. It was my first time at the cabin. The first time I met him. When he came back to the cabin, he found me shviering in the rain. Two beady red eyes glared at me from the darkness. All I could see where those eyes as he brought me into the cabin—a one room hut with nothing but a small fire, two cots and mud floor. It was barely warmer than the rain, but the tin roof kept the blankets dry. He stripped me of my wet sweater and socks, hanging them above the fire to dry, as he shoved me into the smaller cot. Not word was spoken—ever—and that night the silence was heavy as I shivered on that cot. Exhaustion won in the end, and I drifted into a restless sleep. However, those glowing red eyes never stopped watching me, even in my dreams. Everything I did, everything I dreamed, he was there. He saw all of my dreams with those aweful red eyes. The next morning the rain had stopped, and I woke up when the sun heated the cabin like a furnace. Outside it wasn’t cooler. Beating down like a hammer, the sunlight baked my bare shoulders and back. He was there. A small white rabbit in a cage that seemed too small sat on his lap. There was a small fire burning next to the stump they rested on. The fire was too hot for the already blistering day, but he still had on his mask with those red eyes and a trench coat. At first, I thought the rabbit was there for me. We were both sitting in the sunlight—baking in cages—yet shivering despite the heat. When he gave the rabbit to me, it was soft, plump, still… I named him fluffy because he was the only soft thing at the cabin. Fluffy seemed to calm down when I took him from the cage. I held Fluffy against my heart; that’s when he dropped a hatchet and left. We both stopped shaking when he left: no one was there with us. It was like we were free. It was like I could protect fluffy. However, no one was there to feed us. My stomach ached. There was no food in the cabin, no food since before the long walk through the woods: there was just me and Fluffy. Eventually, I knew what I had to do… I couldn’t in the morning—or that evening—but by the time the sun was waning the pain was too much. Fluffy had settled down on the log: he didn’t even run when I picked up the hatchet. He was my friend. He was food. I… I killed him… killed him! Killed him! *** The Orphan Maker cries hysterically, pulling on his chains and howling like a wild animal. Everyone in the courtroom leans back; their eyes widen as the guards close in with batons ready. Flailing, kicking, screaming, the man who was talking falls to the floor and thrashes about until a slender woman rushes to him. She is able to get him to sit still, but not before the heavy restraints cut into his wrists and blood smears across his prison clothes. “He needs a break,” the woman barks. “This is too much for him.” “I agree let’s recess for lunch before assessing the Defendant’s… mental state,” the judge orders. Pictures snap as the woman instructs the guards to remove the chain from the table and escort the prisoner out. Approaching with tripidation, a small but built guard removes the chains from the table, and shackles the crying man’s hands behind his back. They push through a crowd of guards at the ready out a back entrence as the crowd collectively lets out a breath. People begin to mutter back and forth as they crowd around or stroll out of the courtroom for lunch. Joe is quiet as he finishes a few hand written notes. He notices Charlie talking to a few of their colleagues, but avoids eye contact. Pulling out his phone, Joe pulls up the internet and sees Charlie’s headline plastered across his homepage. “Orphan Maker fakes insanity to avoid consequences,” the title reads. Shaking his head, Joe sighs. “We will see…” he utters to no one in particular as he packs up his leather messenger bag.

By Josef Levi Everyone has heard of the Orphan Maker. His killing spree has left 38 dead, 23 children without parents, two children missing and millions terrified. Parents have locked doors—not just to protect their children—but to ensure their own safety as the most prolific serial killer in recent history operated with shocking precision and efficiency. Not a single coherent clue about the mysterious and meticulous Orphan Maker turned up, even as bodies piled by the dozens. He left no DNA, footprints, tire treads, photographs, security camera footage, witnesses or any other sort of workable data. Only legends told from family members with holes in their hearts that grew over time. Fear griped our society and changed our everyday life, until Nathan P. Wright happened. Nathan was caught in the home of Roger and Becky Frump after breaking in and attempting to raise his body count to an even 40; at least, that is what we were told. 8 months ago, Nathan was arrested under suspicion of being the Orphan Maker. But is he? The circumstances of his capture were strange, especially compared to what people expected from this legendary killer. An anonomous tip from an “eye witness” informed the police of a suspicious person entering the Frump’s house at 9:00 pm on an unassuming Wednesday night last Februrary. Returning home at 9:15—like usual— the Frumps noticed their house was ransacked and confronted an unkept stranger in their living room. Police would show up to arrest this trespasser minutes later. The evidence they collected at the scene proved Nathan was guilty that night. Over a half dozen DNA samples were collected and, after testing, confirmed to match Mr. Wright. He also aided police in finding the bodies of several more suspected victims of the Orphan Maker, while knowing the location of other bodies previously found despite details not yet being made public. With all of this, it seems obvious to most people to conclude that Nathan P. Wright is the orphan maker. This would mean that our streets are safe again. However, more evidence was collected in that one night than all of the Orphan Makers previous crimes combined. It begs a question: why was this time so different? If Nathan is the Orphan Maker, he changed several things about his M.O. on the night he was caught. Targeting parents with young children was what gave the Orphan Maker his name, but the Frumps don’t have children. Trace evidence was always meticulously removed or accounted for, except for this time. Also, the Frumps were attacked on their own home—another oddity compared to all previous cases. One might also consider who Nathan P. Wright is to be strange. Profilers had predicted that the Orphan Maker was a professional in a high pressure job: an individual who could blend in with society while liking order and control over their surroundings. Nathan had no job or presence in society; in fact, he was a missing child himself. Sydney and Kyle Wright reported their son missing 37 years ago, before mysteriously disappearing themselves. This was long before the Orphan Maker’s reign of terror, and the boy was under two years old. After seven years without any trace of the Wrights, they were all presumed dead. This does not align with Nathan’s own recollection of being abandoned by his mother and father at the age of 5. According to the defendant, he was dropped off at a mysterious cabin on his 5th birthday by his “parents”. After that, he was forced to kill live animals to earn his own survival from an unnamed parental figure. This parental figure has been described as a large man with glowing red eyes—possibly wearing a mask—and a trench coat. This “parent” was mostly absent, other than bringing Nathan live anmials to hunt and helping him harvest people as “bug food.” According to the defendant, this bug food was critical to keep the bugs around this cabin from biting himself. While my colleagues—many of which have stories pubically announcing their opinions—write this strange story off as a prefabricated insanity plea designed to avoid the death penalty. This journalist is not so certain. The defendant’s manic episodes and loss of control, occasionally leading to Nathan injuring himself or lashing out at others, do not fit the profile of someone calculated enough to plan the careful assassination of so many civilians without any trace of their misdeeds. Even as a charade, this seems out of character for the Orphan Maker. It is possible that Nathan’s story is true, or perhaps, partially true. This masked surrogate parent is a lead that could corroborate the defendants story or provide a more coherent story in its place: if he exists. Nathan’s parents could also be alive to clarify details of his story or where he was found. However, no details that could be used to find these people have been mentioned in any form. Science could help fill in the gaps in this strange story as well. The Orphan Maker left no physical evidence to be tested, but Nathan did. Crime scene analysts are working on determining where Nathan was living as well as other details that could confirm or debunk parts of his story. Every detail they uncover provides a way to measure the defendants story against actual facts. For example, they know that he lived a rural life style with very few modern amenities in a location that appears to have been controlled to create a more temperate climate where bugs—in particular Carrion Beetles and other biting insects—thrive. This, at the very least, aligns with the defendants claim that bugs were everywhere in his home and bit him. There are more questions than answers at this point of the hearing the defendant was granted to tell his story. Nathan is certainly not obsolved of blame. He knows too much to be a bystander; however, is he the Orphan Maker? We simply do not know. This journalist is dedicated to finding out.

Life went on like that. He watched me, brought me food—live, fresh food—and I hunted. No one else came but him and food and me. We were alone at the cabin. He watched me sleep, stalked my dreams, and had food for me in the morning, however, he never stayed. I was alone all day—everyday. Me, food, my axe and the small stream where I drank were the only signs of life in the dense forrest around the cabin. Even other critters besides food were scarce. There were bugs. Biting, scratching, swarming bugs were everywhere. They flew, crawled, jumped, and inched around trying to bite me. Every bug has a bite. They bite… they bite… they bite! *** Scratching his head and neck, the Orphan Maker trashes against the chains. They dig into his arms as he claws himself everywhere his fingers can reach, pulling on the handcuffs and bending over to allow his nails to dig into his face. The crowd of journalists and podcasters leans in to record the hysteria. Guards stand dumbfounded while the prisoner’s psychiatrist and nurses rush in. They manage to stop him from scratching, but not before he is bleeding at the wrists, neck and face. Several clumps of his long hair are still in his clenched fists as he sobs. “Do we need to stop again?” The judge asks, raising an eyebrow. A murmur spreads throughout the crowd gathered to watch. Rumors, speculation, accusations, arguments, the noise intensifies until the judge smacks his gavel on his desk once. “Everyone needs to be silent if they want to stay!” Taking the newfound quiet to jot down a few notes, Joe scratches his head and sips on his bland, black hotel coffee. “Fear of bugs?” he writes on a stickey note before turning to a section of his notebook labeled “Nathan Wright” and posting it with the other notes on that page. He then flips to a page book marked as “cabin?” and scribbles until the therapist responds. “I don’t think so, your honor,” the young, slender woman sighs. “We might just need a minute to bandage him and make sure he is coherent… these episodes don’t usually last long. Once Nathan is calm he can return to a conscious state quickly.” Flipping between sections labeled for the psychiatrist, judge, and Nathan Wright, his eyes gloss over the defendants name. There are sparse notes under it, but he adds a few more stickey notes of unverified information to the growing collection and sighs. Just then, a hush falls over the room as Nathan is cleared to continue speaking. *** The bugs were hungry. Hungry bugs bite, they bit me. He said the bugs needed to be fed, so I fed the bugs. They ate a lot. Feeding me, feeding bugs, it was hard to feed them because the food was small for so many bugs. Fortunately, he knew how to feed them. Rabbits are small; people are bigger. I got them at night—the people. They were just there, waiting to be food for bugs. Getting them was easy, and they kept the bugs from biting. The people would last weeks: for weeks the bugs would be fed. Finding more was never a problem—they were easy to find at night. Fifteen suns, that’s how long I would be free from the bugs. Every fifteen suns it would be easy to find more bug food. He helped get bug food every fifteen suns. First, I found bug food at a park. I hadn’t been to a park since before—with my parents. My parents who lied. I liked the swings. Swings were fun when my mother pushed me on them. I would go up and come back down; my mother went up and fell down. She didn’t get back up. I found her there under the swing. Father was there too, right behind the swing like he always was. He showed me mother and father by the swing. All I had to do was take them to the bugs. It was hard, feeding them to the bugs… that first time, but he helped me. “They betrayed you,” he said. “Now they can help you by feeding the bugs.” Mother didn’t look like how I remembered her. Her hands were too small, and her head was too big. However, I hadn’t seen mother in since… I was 5! I was 5! I was 5! *** Nathan grows hysterical again, screaming incoherently and thrashing against his restraints. Nurses rush in without hesitation and begin to restrain him. He calms quickly, until a spectator in the front row reaches forward with their camera phone. Smacking at the phone—sending it sprawling across the floor with a shattered screen—Nathan howls at the podcaster. Looking at the crowd like he is just noticing them, the Orphan Maker shouts jibberish and laughs manically. He lunges towards the first row, falling when his restraints prevent him from reaching the shaking podcaster reaching in vain for his phone. “Don’t provoke him!” the therapist cries, holding her arms out and shooing away the first row of onlookers. “Everyone out!” the judge roars, turning red as he slams his gavel on his desk hard enough to break it. “This isn’t a circus: put away the phones and get out of my courtroom!” Furiously taking notes, Joe watches everything from the back of the room expressionless. He keeps his notebook open as he follows the line of journalists exiting the room—letting people cut in front of him at every opportunity. Eyes fixed on Nathan pulling against his restraints and grunting while his therapist tries to get him to stop, Joe is the last one out of the courtroom. “Joe!” a deep voice booms in the open lobby. Finishing up a few more notes, the journalist looks up to see his boss scowling and stomping towards him. “What’s wrong, David?” Joe asks before scribbling one last item in his notebook. “Where is your story?” “What story?” David rolls his eyes, “Don’t give me that ‘what story’ crap! Everyone has a story about the Orphan Maker case, except for me. You do remember that everyone could only send one journalist to the hearing—one—Joe!” “There isn’t enough information to make a comprehensive piece. Those other stories are wild speculation and assumptions,” Joe scoffs. “Then speculate! I don’t care! This is the only thing people are talking about, and we are the only news outlet without a story about it!” “Fine, fine…” “It can be a teaser, but have something on my desk before tomorrow morning or I’m pulling you off this! I mean it, Joe,” David huffs, then takes a deep breath. “We need to stay relevant now so people will pay attention to your amazing comprehensive piece at the end.” “It’ll be in your inbox before you wake up tomorrow,” Joe assures him, before slamming his notebook closed and walking out of the courthouse.