Inspector Poon climbed the staircase that led to the study of Hanson Winkle, noted pornographic philanthropist. He wheezed with the effort, pausing on the third step to catch his breath and rearrange the five cigarettes in his mouth, the smoke from which was getting in his eyes.

Winkle had been found dead earlier that afternoon, in a case so mysterious and bizarre that no one on the police force had actually cared enough to solve it. With apathy reigning throughout the precinct, the mystery had fallen into the lap of Inspector Poon, who had been asleep at his desk when everyone else had drawn straws. He awoke later in the afternoon with a post-it note attached to his forehead containing the directions to the Winkle Estate, as well as several longish straws up his nose.

Poon entered the study and quietly surveyed the scene. In the corner of the room a group of police officers took pictures and expensive-looking ashtrays, jamming the frames and trays into their bursting pockets. Hanging over the fireplace was a large portrait of the comely Mrs. Winkle, recently widowed. Poon lit a cigarette as calmly as his shaking hands would allow, bringing his attention to the body.

Winkle lay prone on the floor near his desk, in a state of death that was uncharacteristic of the millionaire. In his left hand Poon discovered a smoking revolver. Suspiciously, however, the smoke poured not from the barrel but the entire gun itself, in a series of fat concentric rings. Poon scrawled a note on his pad — "Indians?" — and returned his attention to the crime scene.

Mr. Winkle's head had a single hole in it, which Poon presumed had been made by the bullet. He poked a pencil around in it to justify his curiosity.

"Poon, what the hell are you doing?" asked Captain Mallory, who looked over at Poon with the most profound look of tired distaste an expression can convey. Poon embarrassedly tried to remove the pencil, but found it had become snagged somewhere, and so left it awkwardly hanging out of Winkle's forehead. Whistling, Poon moved on, trying to ignore Mallory's heated stare.

Poon noticed a note just under the forearm of the body. Scrawled in red ink were the words: "Goodbye cruel world. I've just committed suicide." The note was signed by Mr. Winkle and notarized by his attorney, Pendleton Benderclap.

Further investigation uncovered a large grandfather clock in the far corner of the room, with a bullet lodged in the face and the hands stopped at precisely 12:31. Poon noted the current time was 2:48, and — realizing he was due a reward — excused himself briefly to do a few lines in the coatroom.

When Poon returned, he called Captain Mallory to his side. "Odd, isn't it?" he asked Mallory, pointing at the clock. "A bullet seems to have stopped the clock. And yet there is only one shot missing from Winkle's pistol. From this we can deduce that the same bullet that killed Winkle stopped this clock. It must have ricochet'd around in Winkle's skull, then exited the skull and ended up here."

Mallory observed Poon like a piece of dog excrement for a full five minutes before answering. "There's only one hole in Winkle's head, Poon," he replied coldly.

"Exactly," rallied Poon, flushing a little with embarrassment. "I deduce further that the bullet exited through Winkle's forehead through the self-same hole it entered."

"Right," said Mallory. "That makes much more sense than just supposing Winkle shot the clock weeks ago and it has nothing to do with the murder at all."

"Exactly," said Poon, scratching his chin pensively. Mallory rolled his eyes and checked his watch. "Alright. So how is a clock stopped at 12:31 important?"

"Exactly," said Poon, scratching his chin even more pensively in the hopes that Mallory would get bored and go away.

"Forensics already confirmed the time of death at 11:03," Mallory said.

"I see," said Poon, scratching his chin at a feverishly pensive rate. "Then I deduce that perhaps this grandfather clock has nothing to do with the case at all."

"Right," sighed Mallory. "Did you happen to notice that the suicide note matches attorney Pendleton Benderclap's handwriting? There are several letters from Benderclap on the desk over—"

"No time for that, my dear Captain," interrupted Poon. "I've seen enough." Picking up the gun, he walked out of the stately wooden doors and into the hallway.

"Where are you going?" asked one of the police officers, before several of the more senior officers could make any silent gestures not to encourage Poon.

"To arrest Mr. Winkle's wife Margaret," he replied calmly.

"For what?" said the police officer. "Arson?"

"Burglary, I'd wager," said another officer.

"Mail fraud," responded a third.

"No, for none of those things, gentlemen. In fact, I intend to arrest the woman..." Inspector Poon made crossing gestures over his crotch, then pumped his fists in the air. "...for mail fraud."

"Yes!" shouted the second officer.

"No, wait. Sorry. I meant for murder. For murder."

"Oh, for God's sake," muttered Captain Mallory.

How did Inspector Poon know Mr. Winkle's death was not a suicide? Inspector Poon had smoked a sizable rock of his most favorite of cocaines, crack cocaine , before driving over to the Winkle Estate. A bad hallucination on the way over had put him in a bad mood, which Captain Mallory's undisguised hatred of the Inspector had done nothing to alleviate. Eager to be the first to solve the mystery, thus making Mallory look like a big fat stupid know-it-all who really knows nothing, Inspector Poon decided to start randomly pointing a few fingers in the hopes that someone might confess. He decided to start with the window Winkle, since he'd observed the portrait hanging in the study. Poon deduced that she was attractive, and that the accusation might be a great way to break the ice and maybe even have sex with her. To his considerable shock, Mrs. Winkle quickly confessed to the crime. Inspector Poon was greatly relieved no one would discover yet that he didn't know anything about solving mysteries.