The 'Suit' Case
The name’s D.I. Harry Bat, and I’m a hard-boiled homicide detective from the dark side of Chicago. My mother taught me three things. One, rules are for board games. Two, is the type of diabetes I have. And three is the number of Klingons needed to change a Dilithium crystal. One to change it and two to chastise him for doing such a menial task when he’s a member of a proud warrior race.
Currently I was pursuing my latest case, the murder of one Ted Marston, a former full blown, mid-west rawhide hillbilly, who struck oil while trying to claw his way into an armadillo’s front room, before moving himself, and his now sizable fortune, to my city. These days he’s known as Gentleman T. Marston, the world’s only million-dollar hermit.
Upon arriving at the Vic’s residence, I reluctantly introduced my ego to the short, stumpy, two hundred pound arm of the law administrating the scene. Rudolph Murphy was a man who could only be described as morbidly ‘jolly’, except that he wouldn’t recognise a pun if it jumped him in the street and offered him tickets to Live at the Apollo.
After discontinuing my conversation with The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, I moved to the scene.
The apartment was in a worse condition than roadkill hit with a napalm strike, and as I made my way through the still smoldering remnants of the Gentleman’s living room, a scene of unadulterated horror greeted me.
Upon a rocking chair in the middle of the balcony sat the time worn skeleton of Ted Marston, his suit drenched in blood.