The Man with the Basilisk Eyes
I tow my stone dog carefully up the ramp in front of Precinct 45, the rear wheel of the red wagon squeaking with the weight. A woman holds the door, trying to smother her amusement.
Squeak, squeak, squeak. All the way to the desk sergeant.
“Hey Sarge, I want to report a crime.”
He peers over at me. “You don’t say? How old are you?”
“Ten. What, ten year olds don’t have any rights?”
“Touché. What’s the crime?”
“A man in the park turned my dog Scruffy to stone. I was playing fetch with him and Scruffy ran over by this man with real yellow eyes, like a basilisk, like in Harry Potter. Scruffy gave a yelp and ran back, but he started running slower and slower like he was caught in molasses. By the time he got back, he was like this.” I tap the stone dog in the wagon.
“So . . . you want me to arrest this ba-zo-lisk eyed man?”
“Of course! He killed my dog. Ain’t petrification a crime?”
“Here’s the thing.” The sergeant leans over. “My buddy over at Precinct 28 told me a kid came in last week with a stone dog and the same story.”
“Well, if you can’t get justice one place, you go somewhere else,” I say, but it’s clear I’m getting no sympathy there. I wheel ol’ Scruffy out to where Brad is waiting.
“Any luck?” he asks. I shake my head.
“Let’s try 51. I hear the sergeant over there is a fantasy nerd.”
“Okay,” Brad says, “but let’s hurry. Mom’s going to be pissed if she notices her lawn ornament missing.”
