Where is Mr. Denis

I got up at four in the dark moring on Saturday. Quite unlike me, but when these kinds of miracles occur, I am glad. It is relatively quiet, especially the psychic space, as the damn televisions are turned off. Sitting outside the cafe at five, cup of fresh coffee in hand, a smoke in the other is, well, meditative. All you hear is the faint buzzing of civilization; the hum of electricity idling in the wires; the sound of the street lamps pouring orange tinted light on the resting asphalt. But that is not what I wanted to tell you about.
As I pedaled my faithfull bicycle onto Caledonia Street (named after a region on Mars, where that Face is) I noticed that someone had drawn and written on the street. I stopped to read. There was a crude chalk drawing of what appeared to be a pumpkin with the words "Where is Mr. Denis". I noticed that some toilet paper lay about, in the tradition of sneakily decorating selected people's houses. I thought that maybe it was a message for someone in the house nearby. Awww, how sweet, somebody misses somebody. I kept pedaling. The crime scene kept unfolding. Next, within a block a cleverly done ejaculating penis. Then, by the kid's playground, another. Fifty feet later another and one in front of the cafe and another on the sidewalk in front of the cafe. Some budding artist had a field day of practice on the largest canvas in the world. Wow. With my not so considerable powers of deductive reasoning, I Then the police arrived. Trying to acertain the identity of the drawer and mumbling about having to erase the trail of graffiti. I mentioned that probably the chalk came from the cafe and better chalk than spray paint. Then it occured to me that I had misread "Where is Mr. Denis".
That is the crime report for the week.