A Big, Fat Case Of Murder

“Any clues yet as to who killed my husband, inspector?”, asked Doris Spratt, sitting up in bed and scooping another spoonful of ice-cream from a tub that rested upon her enormous stomach before shovelling it into her mouth; tears running into the tub as she sobbed and ice-cream
trickling down one of her several quivering chins.

Inspector Jaffrey looked down at the morbidly obese woman before, turning his head away from her in revulsion, he replied, “I’m afraid not, Mrs Spratt. As you know, several eye witnesses say that they saw a man in a red, hooded track suit and bomber jacket, with a balaclava over his face, stab your husband repeatedly in the back before running off down the street. So far, however, we’ve had no luck in identifying the man or what his motive might have been for killing your husband. Certainly, it was not a mugging as we had first suspected, since there was nothing stolen from your husband”.

Doris belched loudly before chomping upon a cream filled, chocolate éclair, “It really is a mystery why anyone would have wanted to kill Jack. He was such a lovely, kind, considerate and honest person. No one could have asked for a better husband”.

“Well, he gave up his job to be a full time carer for you, Mrs Spratt. That’s certainly a sign of a loving husband”, agreed the Detective, pulling a Kleenex out of a box by Mrs Spratt’s bedside and handing it to her so that she could wipe a pendulous glob of cream from the corner of her mouth.

“Thankfully, we managed to get enough benefit to cover the care costs”, said Mrs Spratt, burping again, “I don’t think we ever would have managed otherwise”.

The detective averted his gaze again, seemingly out of disgust, “Yes. It’s a wonderful system we have in this country for those who really need it”, he said.

“I don’t blame you, Inspector, for being so revolted by me”, she said, “I’m disgusted by myself every single day”.

The inspector just coughed awkwardly, “Well, anyway. I just thought that I ought to tell you how the investigation was going, Mrs Spratt. I’m sorry that I haven’t any better news to tell you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be getting back to the station”.

Mrs Spratt smiled, “Thank you, Inspector”, she said, “It was very considerate of you”.

The inspector smiled back at Mrs Spratt then turned, about to leave, but then, just as he was opening the door of her room, he stopped with a look upon his face as if he had just thought of something.

“Oh, there’s something I forgot to mention earlier”, he said, “Something very important actually. You see, on your husband’s body; in his inside coat pocket, we found a letter written in his handwriting; a letter written and addressed to you, Mrs Spratt. I think he was on his way to give you that letter but he was murdered before he had the chance. I thought it only right that I should come and give you that letter”.

Suddenly, Mrs Spratt’s smile faded and she looked outraged, her eyes glaring and then she snapped,
“Forgot to mention?! How could you forget to mention something like that?”.

The inspector then fished the letter out of his coat pocket and handed it to her, confessing, “I’ve read the letter, by the way, and I really think you ought to before you say anything more”.

Now, starting to become nervous, Mrs Spratt snatched the letter out of the inspectors hand, her large bingo wings shuddering as she did so.

“You’ve read it?”, she asked, anxiously and then, as she looked at the contents of the letter herself, her eyes widened.

“Dear Doris”, it said, “I can’t continue living a lie; carrying on this charade any farther. You in your ridiculous rubber make-up and fat suit and me pretending to be a carer, just so that we can cheat the social security out of money.

Also, I’ve met another woman. Her name is Laura and I really like her. She’s a nice, honest, decent person and I’ve decided that I want to start my life again; with her”.

“I think you knew your husband was planning on leaving you, Mrs Spratt”, said the Inspector, “And that’s why you murdered him; took off that fat suit you wear; have worn for atleast four years and then, dressed up in a man’s clothing and with your face covered, stabbed him five times in the back; killed him in cold blood”.

Mrs Spratt smiled, coldly, laying the letter down and looking up at the detective, “Now I realize why you were so revolted by me inspector, because you knew all the time what I had done”.

The detective just reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of police handcuffs, “I hope you don’t mind. We had these specially made up for you”, he said, “They’re extra-large”.