It was clear that the pencil-box murders were just beginning. Five victims in five days, and the perp still on the loose. They were all needlessly horrific, of course, but this last one hit just a little too close to home—Chief Sharpie passed out cold when he heard the news, and that stain ain’t coming out of the office carpet for a while.

“What kind of maniac goes around preying on the elderly… with a shredder?” my partner Crayola whispered. Stupid question for any detective to ask. I’d been on the force for most of my adult life, but this guy was obviously still green. Jungle green, actually.

I ignored him.

The crime scene was a mess, hundreds of barely recognizable paperboard flakes were all that remained of the Chief’s late father-in-law. Strewn across the desktop in all manner of disarray. “I think I’m going to be sick,” moaned Crayola.

I took a closer look. Mingled among the shreds was a white powder that appeared to be…

“Chalk dust,” said the Chief. “Should’ve known an eraser would be to blame.”