A police officer slouched on the floor, almost as if asleep. His mouth didn't move but his voice rang out clear against the sound of thunder, "You're right, the murderer made his escape moving from window to window before anyone who heard the victims scream had a chance to get here. That's why there aren't any footprints outside the window."
"That's impossible!"
"There's five meters between the windows!"
The officer's voice answered the second sceptic, "It's less than two metres if you climb up to the roof. But you'd have to be very familiar with the mansion to know that, and there's only one person who could move around at night without seeming suspicious.
"Who did it!? Who killed my wife!?" Yelled an old man in a wheelchair.
"It was," the voice paused, as if wanting to sound dramatic, "you her husband!"
Sweat dripped down the man's face and he gave a nervous smile, "S-stop joking around, First of all my leg is still-"
"Stop acting, your leg healed three months ago"
A stout police inspector stepped forward. He was middle aged, probably in his forties, and always wore brown hat (as if it was glued to his head), over his stern face, "that's right. Give it up! Your doctor told us everything."
The old man, in a fit of panic, stood up and dashed out of the room. He wasn't fast enough. A football sped across the room and crashed into his head, knocking him over and allowing for the police to arrest him.
Electricity sparked from the shoes of the boy who kicked the football and he smiled, satisfied, before adjusting his voice changing bow tie. As he quietly left the mansion Edogawa Conan, child genius, saw a very confused police officer being congratulated by his colleges.