Sleuth and Flatfoot

Detective Sleuth and Detective Flatfoot are sent to solve the case of a spontaneous death by piano. The detectives track the incident to a confrontation upstairs, only to find, to their dismay, a second body. The only thing to point them towards the culprit are a broken piano, bullet casings, and sprinkles. Will the detectives be able to solve this deliciously intriguing mystery?

What is Sleuth and Flatfoot?

Introducing Sleuth & Flatfoot: Private Eye. Two bumbling detectives, ridiculous mysteries, loads of fun. Follow along this old school radio dramedy where Detectives Sleuth and Flatfoot face an array of crazy crimes, solving them with their cunning wit and perfectly timed luck. The 1930’s era, dark and dreary atmosphere that they live and work in backdrops the
increasingly ridiculous crimes they encounter as the story unfolds. Will these wacky detectives crack their cases? Tune in to find out.

Narrator:

It's a dreary afternoon and the dark air hangs over the city of New Los Angeles. A dramatic jazz sting pulls us into a rickety old cruiser where two cats puff on a couple of Cubans, filling the car with a thick cloud. The young upstart in the driver's side fitted with a brown fedora and a scruffy blonde beard grips the wheel with a fiery determination.

Detective Sleuth:

Detective Sleuth.

Narrator:

Beside him is an older gentleman, a black bowler hat sat upon his head over his wide doe eyes.

Detective Flatfoot:

Detective Flatfoot.

Narrator:

The two men stare heroically forward towards their destination.

Detective Sleuth:

Golly gee, Willikers, these cars just keep coming. Don't they know we're trying to get to a crime scene? Don't they know that this is a matter of life and death, more important than anything they might do in their sad little lives.

Detective Flatfoot:

Gee boss. If only there was a way to let them know we was going somewhere important.

Detective Sleuth:

If only. Wait.

Detective Sleuth:

Clear the way you schmucks.

Detective Flatfoot:

Maybe you should, you know, turn on the

Detective Sleuth:

Dagnabbit, Flatfoot. You didn't tell me the lights and siren weren't on.

Narrator:

Welcome to Sleuth and Flatfoot Private Eye. Outside, officers flood the streets of this busy metropolitan downtown and wooden barriers block off the public to the gruesome crime scene. And the center of the commotion is to their surprise a smashed grand piano next to a large lavish skyscraper, glass shards surrounding the scene. The detectives are first drawn to the piano only to notice bloody hand sticking out from below the wreckage. Someone was murdered via piano.

Narrator:

A falling piano, just in case it wasn't obvious.

Detective Flatfoot:

This poor fellow, what a tragedy to befall this poor pedestrian. Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.

Detective Sleuth:

No, you half wit loon. This was a murder. There's foul play afoot.

Detective Sleuth:

Pianos don't just fall from the sky.

Detective Flatfoot:

This one clearly did.

Narrator:

Flatfoot points up to the skyscraper where an obvious hole is seen in a window 32 stories up.

Detective Sleuth:

Well, any elementary detective would have come to that conclusion. And it wasn't from the sky, it was from a window.

Detective Flatfoot:

What was that boss?

Detective Sleuth:

It was from a window. Did you not hear me the first time?

Narrator:

The detectives make their way into the skyscraper and take the elevator up to the 32nd Floor, where officers circulate in and out of a room at the end of the hall. Showing their badges and walking inside, the duo stumbles across a grisly scene, yet another body. This one is riddled with bullets, discarded by the broken window where the wind blows back the blood splattered curtains.

Detective Sleuth:

Foul play, good man. As I suspected. Although it seems we got more than we bargained for. A double homicide, two for the price of one. Dastardly deal.

Detective Flatfoot:

And it seems you

Detective Flatfoot:

were right, boss. Look there. Scratches from the grand piano leading towards the window. That's one way to place someone out. Do you think the instrument was pushed on purpose?

Detective Sleuth:

Why, of course.

Narrator:

Sleuth pulls out a cigar and lights it, beginning to pace the room in circles, stepping in time with his declaration of the crime.

Detective Sleuth:

I know exactly what happened here. It's genius. The poor lad on the floor is actually our instrumental killer. After a heated night of passion with his lover, our victim serenaded her beau with a song upon our murder weapon. Only to sing the name of another man.

Detective Sleuth:

Blinded with rage, the gentleman shot his trollop and as she reeled from the blast, she and the instruments were sent tumbling into the glass and down onto the street where she now lays. It's scandalous, it's diabolical, we all have our metaphorical breaking point and this here is the result of a man's ability to kill. I call it the falling crescendo. Case closed. Another one in the bag for old Sleuth.

Detective Sleuth:

Alright, Flatfoot. I say we deserve a little treat. I saw a donut shop across the way. Let's pick up a dozen for

Detective Sleuth:

the chief.

Detective Flatfoot:

Wow, boss. You really live up to your name.

Detective Sleuth:

Well, yes. I am a detective.

Detective Flatfoot:

So you said something about the shop across the street.

Narrator:

As they victoriously head towards the door, a sudden voice chimes in.

Officer Smithson:

Officer Smithson. Hold on, see? There's one thing you didn't account for, see? Why is the murderer shot? See?

Officer Smithson:

You got an explanation for that, wise guy? See?

Detective Sleuth:

Well, of course. Overcome with guilt. He shot himself several times. The end.

Officer Smithson:

The man was shot 28 times in the chest. See?

Detective Sleuth:

I don't see how that's all relevant to this case, son.

Detective Flatfoot:

I mean, she

Detective Flatfoot:

does have a point, boss. The bullets belong to a standard revolver. A suicide wouldn't leave this many bullets on account of him having to reload and all.

Detective Sleuth:

I don't like what you're interpolating here, Flatfoot. Whose side are you on anyway? The law or mine?

Detective Flatfoot:

Yours, boss. Of course.

Officer Smithson:

And you don't think it's strange that the man is holding half an uneaten doughnut? See?

Detective Flatfoot:

Strawberry with rainbow sprinkles. My favorite.

Detective Sleuth:

Settle in, Flatfoot. Looks like this isn't quite over.

Narrator:

Sleuth sauntered towards the icebox and begins to rummage through it.

Detective Sleuth:

I still know my story is right. Just a few more loose strings that need a tie. Just put a bow on this little gift.

Narrator:

As Sleuth takes a chug of the milk, he notices on the counter in front of him a receipt to the donut shop directly across the street.

Detective Sleuth:

Great, Scott. I've got it. To the window.

Narrator:

Sleuth and Flatfoot rushed to the window and looked down to the city below, noticing the donut hole across the street where a small group of distraught employees gather by the police barrier. Sleuth looks at Flatfoot and Flatfoot at Sleuth and then at the shop.

Detective Flatfoot:

Hungry boss?

Detective Sleuth:

Hungry for justice, my young compatriot.

Narrator:

Sleuth and Flatfoot enter slyly into the donut shop. The shop echoing with the ring of the bell as the door swings open. Standing at the counter is a young fellow in a bright pink apron. Sleuth marches up to the counter, nostrils flaring.

Detective Sleuth:

I know you were involved, shopkeep. The way you've been eyeing this investigation reeks of guilt. What do you know? What do you have to say for yourself?

Donut Hole Boss:

I know I did it. I'm guilty. I sent the pushy mug home early so he could volunteer with the animal shelter. Of course, as soon as he crossed the street, he had to be crushed. It's all my fault. If I didn't allow flexibility in my employee schedules, you'd still be alive.

Donut Hole Boss:

Oh, the humanity.

Detective Flatfoot:

There there, little shopkeeper.

Detective Sleuth:

Sounds like a confession to me. To the slammer you go.

Detective Flatfoot:

Come on, detective. Have a little sympathy for your fellow man. He may be fully responsible for the death of an innocent man, but he ain't guilty. Not of murder, just neglect.

Detective Sleuth:

Fine.

Detective Sleuth:

But I'm on to you, Bub.

Detective Flatfoot:

Maybe our murderer just hated this place and wanted the baker dead. What a monster. Who could hate donuts?

Detective Sleuth:

I don't know. Has to be one twisted son of a

Detective Sleuth:

I think you're onto something, rookie.

Detective Flatfoot:

Oh, shucks. Thanks, boss. Twenty five years of experience has done me good. It ain't nothing compared to your diploma, though.

Detective Sleuth:

Two years at Con Schuster's School of Private Eyeing is better than any amount of fieldwork, good man. Maybe you should apply. It taught me a whole bunch. For example, always trust your senses. How long are these bake bags been out for?

Donut Hole Boss:

We haven't taken them out since yesterday morning with with all the the murdering and all. We haven't had time to get rid of them. We haven't even been open.

Detective Sleuth:

Caught red handed. Serving expired pastries is not just a health hazard, but an insult to bakers everywhere. Your dead friend would be ashamed. Your mother would be ashamed. You should be ashamed.

Detective Sleuth:

You're coming with us.

Detective Flatfoot:

I was trying to help you out, Bub, but that's too far, even for me.

Narrator:

As Sleuth begins to put the cashier into handcuffs, two more employees in the kitchen come out to see what the fuss is all about.

Donut Hole Employee #1:

What's the fuss all about?

Donut Hole Employee #2:

What are you arresting him for? His employee died today. Where's your badge?

Detective Sleuth:

Who needs a badge when you have Lady Justice on your side And your friend is the police commissioner. And the mayor's my uncle.

Detective Flatfoot:

And he was selling expired doughnuts.

Donut Hole Employee #1:

What? How could you, boss? Johnny ate one this morning. It's off to

Donut Hole Employee #2:

the stony lonesome with you.

Narrator:

At the station of the NLAPD, Sleuth and Flatfoot walk through the halls with Detective Gumshoe, a scruffy young prodigy who sips on a cup of joe as Sleuth fumes beside him and Flatfoot follows behind.

Detective Sleuth:

How many times do I have to tell you, Gumshoe? It's called a citizen's arrest.

Detective Gumshoe:

No, it is not. Illegal is what it is.

Detective Sleuth:

Well, how do you know? Did you go to Con Schuster's?

Detective Gumshoe:

Do you want the results from the casings or not, detective?

Detective Sleuth:

Of course I do. And we're not on a

Detective Sleuth:

first name basis yet, Gene.

Detective Gumshoe:

You too have found yourselves in a real fine pickle here. The gun used was a police issued revolver. Your murderer could very well be in this room.

Detective Flatfoot:

But an officer can't commit a murder. It's against their oath.

Detective Gumshoe:

Ever heard of a dirty cop?

Detective Flatfoot:

We all get a little messy sometimes. That doesn't mean we get to go around murdering people.

Detective Gumshoe:

You two seeing what I'm seeing over on Officer Manslaughter's desk? Isn't that the other half of your victim's donut? Strawberry with rainbow

Detective Gumshoe:

sprinkles. Gentlemen.

Narrator:

Sleuth and Flatfoot look at each other, mouths agape, bamboozled. But then they begin towards the officer with wide snarky grins. Sleuth approaches and sits on the edge of the desk, Flatfoot crossing his arms behind him.

Narrator:

Officer Manslaughter stares at them with a perplexed expression. There's a pause, and Sleuth leans closer.

Detective Sleuth:

Nice donut you got there.

Narrator:

And then Manslaughter runs. Sleuth and Flatfoot tumble over themselves to follow after, and the chase begins. Falling over filing cabinets and sliding over desks, jumping through a window and falling out of a dumpster, the detectives pursue Manslaughter through the streets. The sound of cars screeching to a stop, people shouting, cats yelling and chickens crying are heard before they corner the culprit in a public swimming pool. Manslaughter dives into the water, pushing the swimmers aside to clear the way until Sleuth dives onto the officer with a victorious scream.

Narrator:

The two struggle underwater as the bystanders rush to safety.

Detective Flatfoot:

Get 'em, boss. Get 'em.

Narrator:

In a dark room within the station, a bright white light is switched on and Officer Manslaughter reels from below it. With a slap, Flatfoot sets down a folder on the desk in front of the culprit, and the detectives sit down crossing their arms.

Detective Flatfoot:

How can we make you more comfortable, Mister Manslaughter? A pop? A quencher?

Officer Manslaughter:

It's actually pronounced mans laughter. And yes, that would be really nice, actually.

Detective Sleuth:

No drinks in my interrogation room. We know you did it. We know you hated that horrible pastry shopkeep.

Officer Manslaughter:

What?

Detective Sleuth:

Quit all this leg pulling mans laughter.

Detective Sleuth:

We know you did it. We know you murdered that pitiful pastry chef. In a fit of pure mediocre donut fueled rage, you pushed a piano on the poor schmuck who baked you a bad confection. Then, when the owner of the house came in to witness your heinous crime, you fired. And if that wasn't bad enough, your years on the force made you well aware of the talents of our business.

Detective Sleuth:

So to throw my bloodhound like senses off your scent, you frame the victim as the true denizen, enraged by a lover's quarrel,

Detective Sleuth:

the wit, the odiousness.

Officer Manslaughter:

The baker is dead?

Detective Flatfoot:

Well, yeah. You murdered him.

Detective Sleuth:

There there, murderer.

Officer Manslaughter:

It was an accident, I swear. I had no attention to harming that brilliant man.

Detective Sleuth:

So you didn't hate the man's guts?

Officer Manslaughter:

Hate him? The man was an artist, a bona fide Picasso of sweets. I've been working the force for ten years, and after the missus left, all I look forward to in this light were his little rings of sugary perfection every morning. And of course, by my luck, the no goodnick who cut the line got the last strawberry. I, I couldn't help myself.

Officer Manslaughter:

It was all a blur. But now I caused the death of a single person who held the meaning of my life in his very hands. What am I now? Just a no good scum like my father. I should have gone to law school.

Detective Sleuth:

Good god, man. Wow. That really dragged on. We got our man.

Detective Flatfoot:

Another one in the

Detective Flatfoot:

bag for old Flatfoot and Sleuth.

Detective Sleuth:

Sleuth and Flatfoot.

Detective Flatfoot:

Right. Right. Sorry, boss.

Narrator:

And so the case of the smoking donut comes to a close and the detectives come to a satisfying and completely intelligible conclusion. Officer Manslaughter is behind bars where he rightfully belongs. Now, our intrepid investigators, weary from a long day of seeking justice, retire, waiting for the next big case to pull them back into the fray, or the distant whistle of a locomotive beckons them to a well earned trip elsewhere.