Tempted by Flesh.

Inspector Rickets flipped through the pictures that his assistant, Dr. Lourdes, had just handed him.

Rickets had seen many ghastly things since being promoted to inspector twenty-odd years earlier. There had been the case of the French Dahlia, hacked to pieces, her remains scattered through the French district. He still had nightmares about the Middlesex Mauler, a killer who targeted prostitutes that reminded him of his mother; all in all, he took the lives of thirteen women, gouging out their eyes before slicing their wombs out. And of course there was the Heisenberg Highwayman, a hitchhiker who delighted in garroting his female victims with piano wire before stealing their shoes, and polluting them with his filthy seed.

Yes, Rickets had seen a lot of things, but this was different.

First, in this case all of the victims were male, and save one, they were all children.

The adult male, a reclusive and aging roboticist known to the locals as Dr. Geppetto, had been stabbed through the heart with a wooden proboscis. Dr. Geppetto had made a name for himself using nanotechnology to program organic materials, especially wood. However, he left that world behind years ago, holing himself up in a house in the woods. Given his antisocial nature, it took weeks for anyone to notice his demise.

It was in his shack that the other bodies were found. The shack had a root cellar; there, on meat-hooks, were the bodies of twelve young boys, all stripped of their flesh. All had been reported missing from the surrounding areas over the course of the previous year.

Rickets' uncle had been a butcher. It reminded him of going into the ice-locker as a youth, staring at the cadavers of cows and goats with a mixture of pity and curiosity.

“Case shut and closed, right Inspector?” asked Dr. Lourdes.

“How do you mean?” responded Rickets.

“The mad scientist did this to the children, and then took his own life out of guilt.”

“Look old man, you're a doctor. Could this chap actually have impaled himself through the heart, sitting in a rocking chair? Someone else did this.”

Rickets lit his pipe, and leaned back. A little tincture of opium helped keep the demons at bay.

His other uncle had been a leather tanner. His uncle the butcher supplied his uncle the tanner with all the skin he needed.

“What do you do with skin, Dr Lourdes?”

“You can fry it, you can bake it, you can pickle it...”

“You can wear it, Dr. Lourdes.”

Rickets took another hit from his pipe, and closed his eyes.

“You can wear it.”

For a moment, through wisps of smoke, he could he see it all.

The machine who wanted to be human. The automaton who wanted to be a child. The robot who couldn't tell a lie.

The wooden child who told twelve lies, and hid them in the root cellar.

His creator, so angry, like the gods of lore. The god who would destroy his creation, and the creation who fought back, stabbing Father through the heart with the device designed to keep him honest.

And now, the creation that rivaled the creator, at least on the outside.

Rickets' vision was interrupted by his assistant.

“One more thing, sir. Autopsy just texted me. The old scientist had a cricket rammed down his throat.”

“Of course he did.”

Rickets took another his, and meditated out loud.

“We do it all the time. Plastic surgery, augmentation, implants. Why? So we can look like our idols. The thing is, we'll never be them. We'll still be the same on the inside, regardless of our skins.”

“Excuse me, inspector?”

Rickets straightened up, his glassy eyes coming into sharp focus.

“Put out an A.P.B. We're looking for a wooden boy, about four feet tall, wearing a patchwork of human flesh. Approach with caution, this thing has overwritten all of its Asimov protocols.”

“I don't understand, Inspector.”

Rickets looked at his assistant, and cocked a smile.

“Dr. Lourdes, I know about your after hours work at the The Cage. It's a transvestite club. By the way, you look dashing in velvet.”

The doctor blushed, while growing outraged.

“Have you been,” he stammered, “have you been spying on me?”

“No, I've been admiring your work. From a safe distance, mind you.”

“What does this have to do with this case?” demanded a very flustered Dr. Lourdes.

“Everything, old chap. You can't be a woman, but you can dress like one. Our killer can't be a boy, but he can dress like one. The difference is, you're content with the clothing. Our little monster has been tempted by flesh.”

Off in the distance shambled something that resembled a child. For the first time in his short life, Pinocchio finally knew what it felt like to be a little boy.

At least, on the outside.