Muddy Murder Cloudy Judgement

     Murder?
 
      Mr. Smith, or so he had wanted to be called was particularly well groomed, but he had a spec of blood just on the side of his thumb. It was a dead giveaway that he had killed his wife. "So, Mr. Smith where were you between 10:00 and 11:00pm?"
      "Who keeps track of what they were doing between particular hours of the day? What were you doing 10:00 and 11:00pm?" Smith asked me.
      "Watching Grey's Anatomy," I said to him. "Your turn."
      "I was also watching Grey's Anatomy," Mr. Smith said back. He flipped his hair out of his eyes and laughed.
      "What channel?"
       "Netflix."
       "Are you ever going to be honest with me? I've been questioning you for hours. I can't get anything out of you. If you don't help me, I'm going to have to hold you in a cell all weekend," I said to him. I moved around him, trying to catch another droplet of blood he had missed, but he had cleaned up really well.
       "Sure. Ask me any question, but you better make it good, because I know so much," Smith said. He used his sweaty hand to write a question mark on the chrome of the table in front of him.
      "Did you kill your wife?"
      "You can ask me anything and you choose a trivial question like that?" Smith shook his head at me. "You could have asked anything!"
      "You said you'd answer."
      "True enough!" He settled down so that he was expressionless. "Nope," he said as he nodded his head.