a bad case

A pair of legs, 
one tilted one straight 
stick out of a barrel 
with one shoe on 

water spread all round. 

The detective arrives and
scents blood. He calls his
assistants, gives orders and
soon is seen everywhere, 
knocking on all doors. The 
assistants stand to the side:
holding up the wrinkled,
soaked
corpse, 
while their boss barks 
questions at who comes 
to door: 

Starting with
"Do you know who this is?"...
"Do you know who I am?"...often
ending with "Why did you do it!!" 

The case rip-roars about with many
a tearful, hysterical breakdown during
questioning, but those answering the door
are rather more bemused. Disdainful,
maybe. Finally, one grows

suspicious

at this
departing trio - or
quartet, if we count
the dead. Calls the 
police. 

Behind oak empaneled
doors at aitch cue: plans
are laid. Made and remade, 
relaid, and finalized, 
and refinalized. 

Now the detective strides 
imperious and arrogant, his 
assistants lagging, laboring
behind, now dragging their
feet, now the corpse - long 
since dried out.

He's sure as now, 
again:
the solution
to this mystery
lies behind this door. 

His job, challenge, meat & métier 
is how to spot, crack and break down 
those lies with proof! Find who did it
and why. He grins, not exactly evilly. 
Not exactly well, either. He is the best
in the world at this detective method. 

He invented it. 
He knocks. 
The door opens, 

oh shit it's the cops

"Officers," so smooth. 
"We think there's been 
a murder at the old barrel."
A look of disgust crosses
his face: "We found this."