Ken M

A detective story.

It was 3 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. I knocked on the door for what seemed like five seconds. I remember thinking, “What gives?”

Finally, a little girl opened the door. From the look on her face, I could tell she’d been crying.

“Mommy says no more reporters.”

“Save the guff,” I replied. “I’m here to find out who murdered your father.”

I muscled my way into the kitchen and was greeted by the victim’s bawling widow. From the look on her face, I could tell she was still in the process of crying. I’m not made of rubber, so I placed my warmest hand on her shoulder and said, “There’s no need to cry, Mrs. Patterson. I’ll find out who butchered your husband.”

Before viewing the crime scene, I sat down and asked a few questions:

“You call this coffee?”

That one usually gets a laugh, but in this case… (Read on) »