Inspector Robertson pulled out his magnifying glass and knelt beside a puddle. A small glint had caught his eye as he walked through the park on a cold November evening. On the surface floated a tooth.
The poor child lost his tooth before he could put it under his pillow,
he thought at first, but Occam’s razor went dull. It was undoubtedly a “wisdom tooth”,
surrounded by a puddle of blood. In
fact, the Inspector soon realized it wasn’t a mud puddle at all. No tooth could have caused such trauma in and
The Inspector scanned around the
puddle with his magnifying glass. A few
drops of blood led to a small shrub off the gravel path of the park. Beyond, a solid stream ran from bush to bush,
darting across the park in a zigzag.
A gust of wind cried out,
sending a shiver down the Inspector’s back.
Occam is wrong again, he
thought, breaking into a run. That is the whimper of a young lady, surely
the owner of that tooth.
Sure enough, a girl, seventeen
by the Inspector’s estimate, lay on the ground holding her jaw. A large man stood over her, a sneer plain on
his face. He stopped his boot an inch
from her chin when he noticed the Inspector.
“What is the meaning of this?”
said Inspector Robertson. He stifled a
laugh at his own cliché.
The man went pale. A trickle of blood dripped down from the
corner of his lip. “She punched me in
the face when I pumped into her. Knocked
out a molar.”
The Inspector helped the girl
to her feet. She smiled up at him,
dripping sarcasm. All of her teeth were
there. That Occam fellow struck out today, it seems.