The two stand there in a stance of shock and uncertainty of what to do. 

“I will call the police,” says Thomas. “They should come quickly, there is a police station close by.”

The police came, and within moments, Mr. Hershey’s room became a crime scene. A new stage yet to hear Dr. Hirschstein’s tenth symphony he writes.

“Dr.  Hirschstein,” says a burly officer in a scruffy voice. “You say that Mr. Hershey is at a business meeting?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Dr. Hirschstein responds. Before continuing, he allows his brain to smile and continue the previously uninterrupted symphony, “but there is something I must tell you in private.”

As if he were about to cross the road, Dr. Hirschstein looks both ways, twice, before leaving the room with the officer.

“Mr. Bour over there,” Dr. Hirschstein explains. “He attacked me. He threatened me. And I had to act out of self-defense.”

“Sir, I am going to have to detain you for killing Mr. Bour.”

As if Death itself plucked a pizzicato with Hirschstein’s neck cords, Hirschstein pleads. Hirschstein is unable to use his instruments, he fumbles. He cannot think! The notes he thinks are not his own. His tenth symphony is left unfinished! It was such a clear blunder! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! God, what can I do? Can I be forgiven? His breathing pace is no longer even, his foot taps the ground to describe jerkish-walking—no longer with rhythm—his voice crooked.

“I didn’t do it!” Dr. Hirschstein denies. “Officer, I’m not guilty, I swear!”

The burly officer is silent.

“I swear!” Dr. Hirschstein angrily shouts. “You swines! Do you know who I even am?”

These shouts and slurs are heard echoing from the great, astounding, Dr. Hirschstein as officers drag him down the stairs. His profane lies drags horribly along with him, scratching the precious wooden floor. Moderately fast, with vigor-molto agitato. Hirschstein hears the crowd gasp at the melancholic tunes of judgmental Purgatorio and Paul Hindemith’s Symphony in B Flat. 

“Officer,” approaches Thomas. “He is innocent. What are you doing with him!?”

“Hilton here is not as innocent as the angels above,” responds the officer with high-cocksure. “He admitted that he killed Mr. Bour over some magical nonsense.”

“Thomas,” chuckles Hilton. “Tell this man that Mr. Hershey was turned into a chocolate bar! Tell him that—” 

“Thomas,” interrupts the officer. “Dr. Hirschstein killed Mr. Bour. He told me. Whatever you say won’t help him.”

The officers drags Hilton down the flight of stairs with slighter ease: Hilton’s core was shook. It was shot, it was electrocuted, it was decapitated, it was given the death sentence.

“The Great Dr. Hirschstein,” smiles Hudson. “A liar.”

“A liar?” asks the great Dr. Hirschstein. “What do you mean by that?”

“A damn lowlife liar.”

Hilton’s core reincarnates from its ashes and conjures a grand, destructive inferno that enveloped around his brain—a grand tantrum. The chaotic phoenix begins to breathe fire and throws its knuckles at Hudson. The man screeches and shouts and wants everyone to burn into ashes with him while only he is reborn. This diabolical rampage of foul curses and thrashing back and forth was the image of The Prideful Devil.

“You need ME to save Mr. Hershey!” Dr. Hirschstein bargains, “Only I have the skill to cure him! He has Anthelme Syndrome and only I can cure him! If you take me to prison or what not, Mr. Hershey will stay a chocolate bar!”

“You have the right to remain silent, damn lowlife,” says the officer as he begins to turn on the car’s ignition, unsure what he meant by “chocolate bar.”

The word, “lowlife” again strikes down the mighty phoenix and brings it down to ashes. . . but instead from the ashes came the sorrow of the bird’s death. From the ash it came, to the ash it returned. Water extinguishes the few embers that remained. Hilton begins to remember what he had planned, embarrassed. No longer The Great Dr. Hirschstein, only Hilton—Hilton the Liar, Hilton the Murderer, Hilton the damn lowlife.

Hilton mutters something unintelligible beneath the water. He gasps for breath from being underwater for too long. And like a cremated dear grandparent being sent down a river, the bystanders, Hilton, change their depressed mourning into acceptive humility. The officer shivers his shoulders before the car’s drive.

Many would likely believe that these exhales were because he had gone insane—though that is also true—but because he achieved his goal. . .

Dr. Hirschstein’s symphony (in E♭ major) would recollect and assemble in medical journals, news journals, and later historical journals “Anthelme Syndrome” they were labeled. It was the discovery of Dr. Hilton Hirschstein.

Finished.