“Phew,” the dashing mustachioed Inspector Griffith Park exhaled as he stepped into the cramped, messy kitchen on a routine call, “What's that awful smell?”
“Sorry sir,” Constable Hammond said, fanning the air. “I had one of those breakfast burritos this morning. Always ties my stomach into knots.”
“No,” Inspector Park said, squinting. “It smells like murder.”
The elderly Mr. Martin Smithwick was seated at his breakfast table, staring morbidly at a copy of Cheeses of the World Monthly. “It's funny you should mention that, because my wife was murdered three days ago today.”
Hammond’s eyes bulged in shock and he spat out his coffee, which was odd, because he wasn't drinking coffee. “Why didn't you call us sooner?”
“The place was a mess. I didn't find her body until yesterday afternoon. I tried to call the police as soon as I could, but it took me all night before I realized I was dialing a fish.”
“Ah.”
“It is a bit of a mess in here,” Park noted, glancing around the room. Smtihwick was obviously a packrat. Stacks of magazines, dishes, blankets and bed sheets, towered over the kitchen table, dwarfing their humble owner in the process. Also, it was kind of dusty.
“The body’s over here gentlemen.” Smithwick stood, pushing aside a chair filled with towels to make a path. A bald eagle, which had made its nest in the towels, shrieked in despair and flew into a wall. Park and Hammond followed Smithwick around plastic model of the Taj Mahal cradled on top of some cardboard boxes, and saw the body. The late Mrs. Smithwick’s head had been sawed brutally off and was missing; a sticky trail of blood dripped into the adjoining room.
“You don't,” Hammond ventured, “You don't suppose it was a suicide sir?”
Park glanced down at the body, glanced up at Hammond, back to the body. He scratched his head and cleared his throat. “No,” he said softly, “That would be stupid.”
“Well I thought,” exclaimed Smithwick suddenly, “That some of these boxes might have fallen on her head, cut it clean off. A pure accident.”
Park closed one eye, stuck out his tongue, and blew a raspberry. “Yes,” he said finally. “That seems a most sensible solution.”
Suddenly, a sharply dressed, hawk nosed man entered the room. “Will you be taking any breakfast this morning sir?” All eyes turned to him.
“Who's that?” Constable Hammond asked.
“That's my butler, Rawlings,” answered Smithwick.
“No gentlemen,” Inspector Park exclaimed, pointing a guilty finger at the servant. “That's the murderer!”
How did Inspector Park know that Rawlings killed Mrs. Smithwick?
Solution: When Rawlings entered he was carrying Mrs. Smithwick’s severed head in a plastic bag and a bloody butcher knife. As soon as Inspector Park pointed at him, he sheepishly looked around before backing slowly out of the room.
