Excerpt
From a Story by Robert Jeschonek: "Why The Cop With a Rose for a Head Wears a Rose-Head Mask"
The woman with a daisy for a head—her name is Gravelina Scalding—runs out the front door of her townhouse with a pair of pruning shears pointed in my direction. The silver-shining blades are scissored open wide, ready to snip my green throat with a squeeze of the handles.
Myself, I have a red rose for a head, but not for long if I don't make a major move right this instant. Then, who'll find the killer of things roselike, the man, woman, or thing the papers call the Pruner? Who'll avenge the murders of my dear darling wife and seedlings?
The very thought of their deaths is enough to fill my red red heart and my green heart too with rage.
My partner, Chub, is nearby, but I know better than to look to him for help. While I have the head of a rose and the body of a man, Chub has the head of a man (though it's a fat, pasty man's head like a pile of mashed potatoes) and the thick-stalked body of a sunflower. He gets around on flippery roots, but he's useless in a pinch because he just can't run.
So it's up to me, as usual.
Since I'm more interested in questioning Gravelina than killing her, I don't reach for the pistols in the pockets of my lemon yellow suit jacket. Instead, as Gravelina charges, I grab a nearby lawn chair and charge right back, jamming the aluminum frame into the blades of the shears. Gravelina keeps pushing—she's stronger than I expected—but I hold her off. One last shove and I knock her back off her feet, sprawling on the cobblestone walk.
The shears fall from her grip, and I kick them away. Dropping on top of her, I pin her wrists to the walk and cough a cloud of ester vapor in her face. This particular ester is meant to tranquilize and bring out the truth.
"We know you're connected to the Pruner," I say in the language of the flower-headed people, the play of scents and the rustling of petals. "Now tell me the killer's name."
Gravelina thrashes violently beneath me, nearly freeing one arm. "The weeds must be pruned if we are to touch the sun," she says.
The blood and chlorophyll syrup in my veins freezes. She is quoting the message that was left hanging in wisps of fragrance in the air at each of the Pruner's twenty-one known murders.
I press the thorns in the palms of my hands more deeply into the meat of Gravelina's wrists. "Tell me! Who is the Pruner?"
"The question you should ask, Inspector Glisten," she says, "is who isn't?"
