The fog of misery hangs heavy over the Kemerovo regions, where the soot of the mines stains not only the cobblestones but the very souls of men. A dark cloud of anxiety had gripped the district since the twenty-fifth of June, for a young maid, scarce twelve years of age, had vanished into the thin air, leaving her kin in a state of wretched despair.

For days, the search continued through the mud and the gloom. Then came the blow that froze the blood: the poor child was discovered. Not in her bed, nor in the arms of a protector, but cast away in the silent, haunting solitude of a cemetery in the Kirov district. The signs were grim; it was a death brought by violence, a crime that would make even the most hardened denizen of the slums shudder.

But justice, though slow as a weary cabbie's horse, eventually trotted its path. The detectives, following a trail of sinister clues, laid their hands upon a local scoundrel—a man of fifty-five winters, already well-acquainted with the inside of a gaol and the cold gaze of the law. This rogue, a recidivist of the worst sort, now finds himself in the iron grip of the authorities.

As we speak, the constables and the crown's investigators are scouring the filth for every scrap of evidence, weaving a net of proof to ensure this monster does not slip through. The wretch remains detained, awaiting the magistrate's word to be cast into the depths of a dungeon, where he shall rot until the gallows or the sentence of the court claims him.