Two words sprang to mind. Fat Chance.  What were the odds on a crime scene being this neat?  The victim, a message written in his own blood, and the murder weapon all within a few yards of each other.   My gut told me something was wrong.

The boys in blue were happy enough to sign off on it. Even though the accused had a cast iron alibi, but I smelt a rat. 

I went over the evidence again.  There was only one fatal blow to the victim’s head.  He’d have been dead before he hit the floor.  The baseball bat had been wiped clean.  The question was how could a dead man write his killer’s name in his own blood?

“Follow the money”, my instincts shouted. “Who was set to gain by this murder?”