The alarm went off, just like it did at ten o'clock every morning. And as usual, I reached over to adjust it. Soon the current time had been reset to four thirty-seven a.m., the radio station changed to static, the volume increased, the new alarm set for one twenty-four a.m., and finally, I managed to locate the snooze button. Settling back into bed, I wondered if there would be any new crimes for me to solve today. My name's Fred Ace, and I'm almost a private eye.

Okay, my name's not actually Fred Ace, but that's how I introduce myself. Private eyes need cool sounding names like Jack Spade and the like. I rolled over and glanced at the half-empty bottle of Sprite and imagined it was something more impressive like whiskey. Yeah, I was tough. With a name like Fred Ace, you know I'm tough. I forced myself to get up and put on my trenchcoat. I didn't have to get dressed because I had slept in my clothes. Know why? Because I'm tough.

I pulled on my trenchcoat and went outside. It was a cold day, the kind of day where the snot freezes in your nose in preparation to trickle down once you get inside. The kind of day when most people are inside to begin with because nobody wants frozen snot in their nose. The kind of day for a murder. I wasn't sure, but my hunch was that maybe there had been a murder, and if I could solve it everyone would have to respect me as a private eye. Now I just needed some clues.

My first clue that a murder had taken place was the complete lack of evidence. Fred Ace is no dummy, and so I knew that every two-bit hoodlum who has ever read a mystery novel thinks he could plan the perfect murder. "Stab someone with an icicle," they always say, "and the weapon will melt away and no evidence remains." But to me, it was obvious. Obvious like Don King at a chemotherapy ward. I scanned the sidewalk, and sure enough, no evidence at all aside from some melted snow and ice. There was foul play at work. Foul like the restroom at a New Jersey gas station. But this time, they weren't just going to fill their tires, microwave their burrito, drink their slurpee, and drive off without paying. This time they would pay, and they would have to use exact change. Fred Ace was on the case.

I knew the case would be a difficult one, because the murder weapon had already melted. I decided to check the melted puddles of water for fingerprints. I failed. But then something caught my eye. It was a snowball. "Watch it punk," I yelled, "You caught me in the eye with that thing." By the time I could get a good look, the culprit was already gone. I wondered if he was connected to the murder. Wiping the snow out of my eye, I continued to look for clues. Maybe there was a dame involved. There always is. Dames are nothing but trouble. Well, trouble and legs. Dames are a lot like millipedes, in that respect.

Insect aside, this tangled web was starting to bug me, and I knew my theory wouldn't fly unless I found some hard evidence. Unfortunately, the best I could come up with was some mushy, slushy evidence. Examining the snow around me, I found indentations which suggested that human fingers had once been pressed into the snow. There seemed to be five indentations. This didn't narrow my suspect pool too much, as there could be any number of people walking around with five fingers. I hoped maybe they would have left a telltale finger in the snow. No such luck.

All of a sudden, it hit me. "Goddammit," I yelled, "stop throwing snowballs at me!" Again, by the time I had recovered the culprit was gone. Like the tinman's testicle, this case was going to be a tough nut to crack. The evidence I had accumulated ran through my mind, I wondered if any of it would fit together. Finkel and Einhorn, Einhorn and Finkel. Wait, wrong case. But twice I had been close to discovering who had stuck their fingers in the snow, only to be distracted by a snowball. Maybe, just maybe, there was a connection. Finger indentations in the snow, snowballs hitting me in the head. Snowballs hitting me in the head, finger indentations in the snow...I needed a clue and a drink. One of them I knew where to find.

As I was walking to the coffee bar I reflected on my line of work. It's not easy being a private investigator. Nobody pays you, the labor is hard and thankless, and people are idiots. No one else even had a clue that a murder had occurred, much less were they willing to help my investigation. Like a proctologist wearing diamond rings, this case was beginning to be a pain in the butt. Still, it would all be worth it once I solved my first case. Then I would be showered in money, fame, and women, although not necessarily in that order.

I spotted a streak of green lying in the snow, and most dogs don't pee in that color. Upon further investigation, it turned out to be a soggy glove. I examined it for the name of the owner, and found a tag which read "Eddie Bauer". Who was this Bauer character? Could he be the one who had been tossing snowballs at me? Or perhaps he was the cause of all those indentations in the snow. Then I had a sudden insight. The finger indentations in the snow could be from the same person who had been throwing snowballs at me. Maybe Big Boy Bauer had bitten off more sno-cone than he could chew. But why would he leave his glove there as evidence?

Entering the coffee bar, I sat down as the frozen snot began trickling down my nose. I slipped the bartender a dollar for my coffee and asked if he knew of any way I could meet with a Mister Eddie Bauer. He merely laughed at me. Why was he laughing? What if the two of them were in cahoots? I asked one of the patrons about Bauer, and got the same response. Was Bauer such a big criminal that everyone in town was in on it, and he could afford to leave evidence at the scene of the crime? It just didn't make sense.

And then, all of a sudden, it did. The murderer wouldn't have left his glove in the snow, but the victim might have. Which explains why everyone at the coffee bar was amused when I asked to meet with a dead man. If they all knew about it, the body had certainly already been disposed of, but I still had the glove. And the murder weapon may have already melted, but it wouldn't fool Fred Ace. Things were coming together faster than Ted Kennedy and a vodka martini. I had my victim and my murder weapon, now I just needed to catch a murderer. And I had a pretty good idea where I could find one.

I returned to the scene of the crime by an alternate route, taking pains to make sure no one saw me. I slid along the wall until I could see around the corner without revealing my position. Just as I suspected, a figure in a coat and hat was stooping down and picking up some snow. Why does someone throw snowballs and stick their fingers in the snow? To get an alibi, that's why. And it conveniently would explain any water on their fingers from the icicle. Yeah, this was my perp, alright.

I leapt around the corner and tackled the thug, pulling off his hat. He was a she. I should have guessed. "Okay, sing it sister," I said, "why'd you do it? Was it for money? Love? Or are you just another cold-hearted witch?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Fred Ace, and I'm bringing you in for the murder of Eddie Bauer. You're going up the river and down shit's creek without a paddle. You'll be sent to the pen, doing ten years in Leavenworth and eleven years in Twelveworth. Your murdering days are over."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't play coy with me. You stabbed Eddie Bauer to death with an icicle. You thought it was the perfect murder, and that nobody would ever catch you. You disposed of the body and the murder weapon melted away leaving no evidence aside from your wet hands. You thought it was foolproof, and you were right. But you didn't count on Fred Ace, and Fred Ace is no fool. That water dripping from your hands may as well be blood, as far as I'm concerned. I'm calling the cops to take you in."

"Did it ever occur to you that my hands might be wet because I was throwing snowballs?"

"Yeah, that's a convenient alibi, it establishes you doing another activity at the time of the murder and accounts for the evidence on your hands. It all fits together nice and tight. A little too tight if you ask me, like those handcuffs that Candy likes to experiment with on Sunday nights. Or like sharing a taxi cab with a pair of sumo wrestlers. Tell it to the cops."

I yelled for the police, but when the nearest officer arrived he was unwilling to arrest the murderer. I attempted to explain the gravity of the situation, but the officer was no physicist, and hence entirely useless. Useless like a screen door on a submarine. Useless like a solar-powered flashlight. Useless like a book of fireproof matches. Except now I was burning because instead of arresting the culprit, this lousy cop was suggesting that I stop harassing innocent people.

The cop left the scene and I decided to drag in the perp myself. Unfortunately, she slapped me in the face and ran off. Chalk another one up for the millipedes. Dames, who needs 'em? Not me. I had better things to do, like starting to search for signs of a burglary. My name's Fred Ace, and I'm almost a private eye.