The tour guide insisted a local pottery artist created the painted skulls, but my goosebumps didn’t believe him. While the colors looked fake, the skulls themselves didn’t. There were real. Theses had been living breathing humans at one time. Now they were reduced to be cheesy decorations on a shelf, a conversation piece designed to elicit oohs, and ahhs and Questions about how they were made.Stepping closer he picked up one. Turning over in his hands he could feel the fractures under the paint. The slight indent where an object had stuck it when it contained a brain and was covered with living tissue. Blunt force trauma, Not enough to kill, but enough to make one unable to move or react, whatever killed him had happened to the body. Which like the rest of them was long gone. Picking up a second one, he felt it. Again he found the telltales signs of damage. But it wasn’t an indentation. It was a hole. Feeling closer with his fingers, he could tell, it was a bullet hole. A rather large one at that. At least the size of a thirty-eight. The hole had been plugged with some clay and painted over. He pulled the tour guide aside and flashed his badge. Telling her that the skulls and any other bones that had were now a crime scene.
The exhibit was closed and the visitors were sent home.
He had done it again.
It seemed almost everywhere he went, he found trouble. In this case, he’d stumbled on the remains of some dead bodies.
The exhibit was closed and the visitors were sent home.
He had done it again.
It seemed almost everywhere he went, he found trouble. In this case, he’d stumbled on the remains of some dead bodies.
