It was a humid, sticky night. The crickets chirped innocently outside in the lush garden surrounding the Conwell mansion. Henrietta Drudge gingerly slid open the French door, her aged hand streaking the glass. Mr. Conwell expected his breakfast rolls hot and fresh in the morning. She glanced over at the clock; it was 3:20 on the dot. With dough on her mind, Henrietta dashed into the kitchen and flicked the light switch. Lying on the floor in a pool of blood was Morris Conwell. He was lying face down; a butcher knife was lying by his left foot. She screamed and ran from the room and called the police.
Morris Conwell, owner and CEO of Sponges and Such, was a wealthy man. An entrepreneur, a self-made man, yet a scrooge, a swindler, and a cheat. The kind of man who would cut up his neighbor's Nerf balls when they accidentally soared over his 11 foot fence. No one openly disliked Morris Conwell, however; it was something that people didn't talk about. having Morris Conwell on your bad side was something no one wanted. A man with such power, resources and an erratic temper was not to be tampered with.
