Dick Tracy’s Case Journal. September 19, 2002. Entry 67, 9:27 AM.
The neighbor called in reporting that he had heard a blood-curdling scream from the house next to his. The police investigated, finding the home’s owner and sole resident, a Mr. Stefan Burnett, had been stabbed in the back thrice and had bled to death in his own home. As usual, the police found the evidence to be inconclusive, so Mr. Burnett’s close family has called me in to take a closer look. I’m on my way now.
Entry 68, 10:02 AM.
I’m starting a perimeter search of Mr. Burnett’s domicile. His home is one story tall, and has a sloping roof. The outer walls are covered in horizontal wooden planks. Very clean-looking. Very modern. The bright green grass smells fresh, and doesn’t have a hint of pesticides about it. Seems like Mr. Burnett respects nature. To the right of the front lawn is a nice, light-blue doghouse. Further inspection reveals light-golden wisps of fur, and the pungent smell of dog. Not enough hair to be a shedding breed though. Probably a golden retriever. Good breed. There’s a white stone walk-way leading up to the house. The individual pebbles seemed to be mostly shifted to the sides. Somebody’s walked down this path recently. Could have been the police. Could have been the murderer.
Entry 69, 10:11 AM.
I’ve circled around the house. There was a barrier between the front and back yards, but that was easy enough to hop. The murderer could have hopped it too. The back yard is considerably larger than the front. It’s ringed by tall trees that bleed into a larger forest. The trees are dense, perfect hiding place from which to spy discreetly. The trees are pine, and exude a sharp, nature-y smell. In the center of the lawn is a small camping tent. Despite its bright, garish color scheme it seems high quality. I step inside. The nylon rubs together and the zip screeches, both producing sounds I don’t particularly enjoy. Inside is a dirty sleeping bag and a small pile of books. Perhaps Mr. Burnett had a campout the night before he died.
Entry 70, 10:26 AM.
I enter through the back door. It’s very solid, and makes a satisfying “thunk” as I enter. The walls also seem fairly thick. I knock against them with my knuckles. There’s barely a noise. The walls must be solid. Most likely soundproof. I scan the room. It’s a kitchen of sorts. Stove, oven, fridge, coffee-maker; all the necessities. The walls are a light blue, contrasting the bright orange painting above the coffee-pot. I approach the work of art. It’s modern, depicts a raccoon perched on a cup of joe. Nice conservation of color. Quality piece. I glance down at the coffee-pot and spot a loose bag of coffee beans. I snag a handful to snack on. They’re less bitter than I’m used to, but enjoyable all the same.
Entry 71, 10:31.
I head into the bathroom. Scene of the crime. The body was removed when the police searched the place, but there’s till dried blood on the counter and cold linoleum floor. The blood is crusty to touch. It’s had time to dry. Above the counter is a mirror. I envision Burnett’s horror right before his death. I imagine him brushing his teeth, perhaps humming to himself. The murderer would have heard the scrubbing, he would have flung the door open as fast as possible. Caught Burnett by surprise, and stabbed him in the back. Burnett’s last sight would have been through the bathroom mirror, staring into his own eyes as a knife sunk between his shoulder blades. Gruesome. I avert my eyes and spy a bright yellow rubber duck by the shower. Despite myself, I chuckle. I give the duck a squeeze and hear its wheezing cry. Like a lung cancer patient. I’d end up that way if I didn’t quit on the smokes.
Entry 72, 10:45 AM.
I head to my car and begin the long drive back to the city. I knew exactly who murdered Mr. Burnett. He was going to pay.
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Have your deductive skills brought you to a conclusion yet? If not, read the story again. Pay attention to the details and think like a detective. If you think you’ve got it figured out, check out the next page. The mystery is described in full there.
Solution.
In entry 70 of Dick Tracey’s case journal he notices that the walls of Mr. Burnett’s hose are sound-proof. However, according to police reports, Mr. Burnett’s neighbor reported hearing a “blood-curdling scream” from Mr. Burnett’s house. Either the neighbor has a very active imagination, or he was a little closer to the murder than he let on.
Fin.
