It’s best to interview the kids right away, while the incident is still fresh. The longer you wait, the more wild their stories grow. A couple minutes into my questioning and I realize I’m too late as it is. The grip of imagination has clasped around the kid’s tiny mind. He starts spouting off nonsense about a huge monster, an abomination with claws and teeth and four eyes.
His babble isn’t entirely worthless. If whatever deprived potato that did the Russet in was large enough to come off as a monster to the kid, then that eliminates a large section of the potato populace. No sense in chasing after Fingerlings or Petites. I’m looking for something big. Bigger than the Russet at the very least.
I let the kid finish off his horror story. It’ll do him some good just to speak about it. That’s the problem with seeing sick shit like this. It’ll stay with him the rest of his life. He’s as much a victim here as the Russet was, caught up in some scumbag’s storming wrath, winds that’ll rip through his mind well into later age. It’s hard enough growing up in a place like this with a name like Peewee, add seeing a man slaughtered in the street, and this kid hardly has a chance. Hell, in a few years this might be an interrogation, not a witness statement. Life’s a cruel bitch that way.
I thank the kid for his time. I pause before I leave him, wishing I had some advice for him, some soothing saying. But I don’t. So I say nothing. I nod as I walk away, leaving the kid to deal with Potato Protective Services. They’re stretched thin, but at least they care. I head for the next witness, a potato named Red. Fully grown, hopefully he can shed a little more light on our shadowy monster…