If you've found this page via Inspector Krieg, you're probably wondering what's going on! Click on the links above to read each installment of the murder mystery!


"WHAT is this about?" you ask. The 2003 season, an up and down affair, ended in a playoff game against Green Bay in which we were defeated. A Seahawk fan with a sense of humor wrote a murder mystery story of the 2003 season with Chuck Knox and Dave Krieg as key characters. It's all just for fun, so sit back, lighten up, and have a laugh with us!

Chapter 1: A cold body and a hot case

Seattle is a lonely town when there’s been a death in the family. The nights are darker, the rain is colder, and there’s that gritty feeling in the air like you get after you’ve sat through an Adam Sandler movie marathon.

You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing the news. The Seahawks’ 2003 Season had been found dead in Green Bay. Face-down and bleeding in the mud on Lambeau Field. The word on the street was that millions of people were watching at the time, but nobody saw a thing.

Smelled like a professional hit, if you ask me. And it’s my job to smell these kinds of things.

Call me Chuck. Ground Chuck. Everybody does, except my landlord. He calls me a blood-sucking rent-dodging waste of space. It’s a free country.

I’m a private eye. I specialise in murder, blackmail and Slim Fast franchise frauds — not necessarily in that order. And here I was, alone in a filthy office, keeping company with a shot of Banana-Choc Slim Fast, and only the darkness keeping the nights apart.

It was another quiet evening. The private eye business hadn’t been good to me for a while, what with that nasty business over the Pike’s Market flying salmon scam taking so long to blow over: and the long quiet spaces in my diary meant long quiet spaces in my bank balance. The cold was all around the office, as cheerless as Martha Stewart’s PR people, and my prospects were about as lousy as Martha’s last career move.

They say misery loves company, and the company arrived just after 9. He was a largish man, overweight and in need of some personal grooming ideas. He looked nervous, edgy, unsure where to look. I told him to look my way and start talking.

“My name is not important,” he said, “Perhaps this money will do the introductions for me.” He passed over an envelope stuffed with bills and labelled From the desk of Paul Allen, Seahawks billionaire. “I need someone who’s willing to ask the right questions while keeping his mouth shut. I’m told you are that man.”

He’d obviously done his homework. I hadn’t been in the football biz since the Brian Bosworth substitution caper of 1988, but that had been some of my best work: it had taken everyone else ages to work out that someone had planted a store dummy on the Seahawks. My man wanted someone who knew his way around the sad, seamy world of professional football and the desperados who worked in it.

There was dirty work around, and he wanted me to do the cleaning up.