The blood stains wouldn’t come out, no matter how many washing powder he poured onto the once squeaky clean white shirt he had worn that morning, when he bludgeoned his neighbour to death in a sudden burst of rage.
The shirt had been through the washing cycle three times now but the stains, though dimmer, were still clearly visible and – equally clearly – not the result of a lost skirmish with a ketchup bottle.
As he put the shirt in the washer for the fourth time, hoping for better results this time around, twirling blue lights filled the room and in burst a dozen police officers.
So intent on not panicking after the bludgeoning had he been, that the murderer – obliviously – had not broken his habit of doing his dirty laundry in the washing salon around the corner, where the local patrons had watched in disgust, and consequently called the police, as he desperately tried to get rid of the evidence.
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