You were sitting on a park bench, when a man in a rumpled raincoat ambled over, carrying a battered notepad and a stub of a pencil. It was Lieutenant Frank Columbo.

He paused a few feet away from you, squinting at a piece of paper, and then glanced up. "Excuse me," he said, his voice carrying a friendly, almost apologetic tone. "I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions. You see, I'm trying to figure something out, and it seems like you might be able to help."