All the evidence was there, the blood stains, a gun, and three dead bodies.
On closer inspection the detective found a knife in the hands of a victim, one of the three dead bodies, and while doing another sweep of the room he found some fur on the ground.
"So the murderer hates animals,"
"And where are my men?!"
He reached into his left pocket, this pocket was always hidden by his trench coat.
He expected to whip out his .44 revolver, but instead, nothing.
He took off the trench coat, and without the gun he was defenseless, but what he saw was a large gash on his side.
"must have been a tough night,"
All he could recall was that he and his friends went out and drank, he didn't think they drank that much.
Again he did a sweep of the room, the gun on the floor was a .44, coincidence, maybe.
He didn't see any clues of a struggle, the door had been open when he came in, must've been a quest, although he did uncover a broken bottle, whiskey, the same he had drank with his buddies at the bar.
Without warning his head ached, he fell to the floor, he saw a large, crude 'P' etched in the ground where the man with the knife had been, He remembered, that night when he was walking to his house with his buddies he had let them in, he pulled out his gun and shot them, but one of his friends had a knife, he had cut him in the side, so he shot him to, not in the head but in the chest, it would have taken minutes or even hours for him to die, the whiskey bottle had been hit on his head, the fur wasn't of an animal it was his, one of the three men ripped off some of his hair.
Now he knew why his men weren't here, he had killed them, in this house, that night.