THE CASE OF THE BLOODY DUMBBELL

    It was time for publicity photos. The highest-ranking bodybuilders 
stood side-by-side in the hotel lobby as the flash bars strobed. All 
four contenders wore tight, bulging T-shirts announcing the 
"Mr. Galaxy Classic" and tried to look at ease for the reporters and 
film crews. The one who bulged the most was also the most relaxed. 
Mad Muscle Cory was fifty pounds heavier than his closest rival, nearly
 splitting his shirt with the force of his muscles. Cory had placed 
first in the pre-judging and was the runaway favorite. 
    "Don't forget to bring your T-shirts tonight," the contest coordinator 
whispered to the group. "You'll be signing and auctioning them off 
for charity." 
    Mad Muscle Cory nodded and yawned. "I'm going to my room for a nap." Then 
the huge man stripped off his shirt and hit a few poses. The press 
went wild. 
    The three others looked on helplessly as Cory headed for the 
elevators. All three were thinking murderous thoughts but only one 
had a plan. He waited ten minutes, until the press had left. 
Then he wiped his sweaty palms on his sweat pants and headed for the 
elevator. 
     An hour later, a maid found the body. Mad Muscle Cory was laid out on his 
bed, wearing only a hotel bathrobe and about a gallon of blood. His 
head had been smashed in with a ten-pound dumbbell. 
The police ruled out robbery. The bodybuilder's wallet had been 
untouched. And all of his clothes seemed to be accounted for: 
polo shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, sweat pants, sweat shirts, tank tops, 
underwear-- and six pairs of posing trunks. 
     When the police knocked on Dubious Dero's door, they had to wait. "I 
was in the shower," he explained as he toweled off his short dark 
hair. "I came back here straight from the photo session. I want to 
look my best when I win." 
     They found the second finalist also in his room. Chris "The Animal" 
DoHer invited them in, then went back to washing out a sweater in 
the sink. "I should've known better than to wear it to dinner last 
night. It's the only decent thing I brought. When I win, I don't want 
to be photographed like some muscle bound slob. This cherry stain 
doesn't look like it's coming out." 
     The police didn't get to the smallest competitor, Golden Arms Rob, until 
just before the finals. He was already dressed to go in his 
"Mr. Galaxy" T-shirt. "All set," he told the contest coordinator and 
didn't even notice the detective. "It's time for someone to put Cory 
in his place," he growled as he straightened the loose-fitting shirt. 
"You seem upset. What's wrong?" 
     The detective introduced himself then, for the third time, explained 
about Mad Muscle's murder. "You don't have to worry, Mr. Golden Arms. 
Everything's under control. We know who killed him."