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The Inspector With Long Sleeves

By Arik Cohen

A semi-circle of suspects surrounded Inspector Fentible as he paced the crime scene. Two days ago this extravagant living room featured a dead man, bleeding from the head onto the bewilderingly expensive carpet. Today it was immaculate, sparkling even. But it was no matter to the Inspector, for he finally solved the case.

Inspector Fentible wore his trademark long trench coat. Although the coat fit him perfectly everywhere else, its sleeves were way too long. A good six inches of empty sleeve hung off his fully extended hands. It was the appearance of a kid in his father's coat. But, and this is important to reiterate, the rest of the coat fit him like a glove so it's not like he bought the wrong size coat. The arms were just long for some reason.

"I noticed the day of the mur-der," he separated the syllables for dramatic effect, "that the deceased was lying to the north, despite the trail of blood splashed in the direction of the west." His sleeves flapped as he pointed in the appropriate directions.

"Which means… he was moved!" He waited for the gasps of shock from the suspects: The deceased's wife, parents, siblings, and mansion support staff.

"Where were YOU the night of the mur-der?" he asked the victim's sister, while his over-sleeved arm flailed a few inches from her face.

"I was out of state!" she said, "I'm offended you would even think it to be me."

"But of course!" he continued, "You were out of town with your older brother. Being each other's alibis is convenient."

"Nothing convenient about it!" the victim's brother said. "We're devastated we couldn’t have gotten here sooner!"

"I'm sure! With the deceased no longer with us, each of you would be getting 17% more inheritance. But maybe you had someone do your bidding for you. Like... the butler!" He rushed over to the butler, the fabric of his ostentatious sleeves dancing in the air just centimeters from the butler's face. The flapping of the beige coat sleeves was distracting, and on the other side of the room, the victim's mother was wondering how the hell this guy acquired a trench coat that fit him perfectly everywhere except his arms. Are his arms weirdly short? Is the coat weirdly made? She thought to herself.

"Fine! It’s true! I did it!" the butler said as he wept. "But it wasn't at the bidding of the siblings. It was me alone! I wanted his--"

The Inspector cut him off short, unlike his sleeves. "You wanted the now-dead man's wife. I know. I saw the way you looked at her."

"WHAT?!" the wife screamed.

"Don’t worry ma'am. I know you’re innocent in all of this. The butler did this mur-der alone."

"I thought if he died, you might fall for me. I don’t know..." the butler said, barely.

"I respected you, but not now. Not after you killed my husband."

The butler took a deep breath. "I won’t make a fuss," he said, "You can take me in. But I must ask, Inspector, how did you know it was me?"

"You made a single mistake," Inspector Fentible said. "You underestimated me because of how long my sleeves are."

"It's true," said the butler, "It's true."

"Why are your sleeves so long, though?" asked the victim's father.

"Yeah, I was wondering that too." said the victim's sister.

"Us too!" added the cooks, in unison.

"That," said the infamous Inspector Fentible, with a dramatic hip turn that caused the fabric hanging off his arms to dance like raw balloons, "is a mystery that may never be solved."

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Illustrations by Scott Thiede