In a quiet Michigan home, in May of two thousand fifteen, the air was thick with the metallic scent of gunpowder. Down a silent hallway, Martin Duram lay dead from a gunshot wound. The only other living creature in the room was his African grey parrot, Bud, whose cage sat by the window, its bars smudged by a curious beak. In the aftermath, a house of evidence held one piece that was stranger th...
