Chapter 10

Ex-detective Donald Drake and current detective Arnold Chenture entered the station to join the bedlam of voices that filled it. I will therefore merely report a sample of the sounds to be observed by the proverbial "fly on the wall":

"Alright then, I think you've seen enough. I need you to tell the chief you support my theory. That way I can get the funding I need. I was thinking of setting up cameras in a few choice locations. Kirby and Muldoon's squad car in particular. The vigilantes seem to have a liking for those two." This was Chenture. He and Drake were standing at the front desk, while Sean watched them from behind it.

"I never told you that I was convinced, and I'm still not convinced," insisted a weary Drake.

Chenture sighed theatrically. "Very well, we'll go over it all again." He grabbed the pile of cases from Drake, fished one out, and opened it. "The 'Lucy In the Sky' case: precious jewels snatched from a courier helicopter in mid-air, and then later found, by Kirby and Muldoon, in an alley next to an abandoned factory. Or this case..."

"Nevertheless, I demand that you hand over our chair immediately!" This was Mrs. Clutchcoin. She and her husband were confronting Drake's niece at the evidence counter at the back of the station.

"You just need to fill out these forms," answered the dispatch officer. This was clearly not the first time she had uttered this sentence in the conversation.

"There's no time for that," proclaimed Mr. Clutchcoin. "Just look at..."

"...'The Last Train to Cashville' case, where..."

"Sorry to interrupt, but where do you get these case names from?"

"...that dangerous felon right over there!" proclaimed Mr. Clutchcoin. "He could be an insane pyromaniac for all we know!"

"Be sure you get my good side this time." This was the quiet voice of Pr. Nimnul, sitting in a chair with his wrists handcuffed.

"...The 'Weather or Not' case, starring the professor over there and a machine to manipulate weather. It ended when he managed to turn his weather machine on himself and thereby transformed himself into an ice cube."

"Sounds open and shut to me. Nimnul's not exactly known for his mental competence."

"But he was competent enough to put a failsafe on that device of his. It was physically impossible for him to freeze himself. So who do you suppose froze him?"

"But there were witnesses in that bank, Chenture, lots of witnesses, and none of them saw anyone operating that device but Nimnul. So the question you should be asking yourself is not 'who', but 'when'?"

"It's not time for that yet, Nimnul. You should know the routine by now." This was Sgt. Spinnelli, who was stuck filling out the forms booking the prisoner. That should have been the job of Muldoon or Kirby. "How'd you build that gadget of yours, anyway?"

"Please don't call my mechanical monstrosities 'gadgets'--they're 'nimnuls'. The idea of this device came to me on a dark and stormy night..."

"Um-hum," murmured Spinelli, writing down his captive's words. At the same time, he was trying his best not to plant his elbow in the slice of muenster cheesecake that was on his desk.

"Your defeat of Pr. Nimnul was brilliant work, boys! Absolutely brilliant! However did you think of such a ploy?" The chief, standing outside the door of his office, was pumping the hands of the two beat cops so fast they looked like twin blurs. He kept looking around for someone to arrive.

"It wasn't my idea," admitted Kirby.

"...and the 'Dirty Rotten Diapers' case was?"

Now it was Drake's turn to sigh. He looked down to see which case this was. "Dumb crooks. You wrote down their explanation of how they were caught, and I quote..."

"It all happened so fast," added Muldoon. "You might as well give credit to the dog than to us."

"Yes," agreed the chief. "Where is Plato?"

"Oh, man! I call in sick and everything happens at once! No, better not shake my hand, Sean, you might catch something." This was the police reporter, who had just walked in through the front door of the station. The photographer beside him was taking pictures at a dizzying rate with a very bright flash. He seemed to be as interested in photographing the paneling as the suspect and the one photo everyone wanted him to take, of the chief congratulating the men of the hour. Mr. Clutchcoin instinctively shielded his wife from the photographic onslaught.

"Hey, aren't you Detective Drake?"

flash flash flash flash

The poor man put his fedora over his face to give his eyes a chance to heal. "I don't really have a part in this case," he declared from behind his fabric shield. "If you'd like, we can talk later."

"Sure thing." He turned to the chief. "Wasn't there a dog involved in this? We'd like his picture. Or maybe you have something on file?"

"A dog?" asked Mrs. Clutchcoin, peeking out from around her much smaller husband. "Did they say there was a dog in this station? We don't get along, animals and I."

The precinct doors burst open as a dozen S.W.A.T. officers poured in. Their sergeant stepped forward. "Sorry we missed all the fun, but they won't let us roll over midday traffic anymore." He glared at Spinelli, the man responsible for that particular rule.

Spinelli jumped up from his chair and crossed the room to confront his accuser. "You guys better get out of here right now," he warned. "Something always gets shot whenever you visit."

"Aw, we'll leave," promised the sergeant, "just as soon as we see the dog."

"Dog, dog, dog!" complained the chief. "Why do you all want to see a dog? No offence, Drake."

"None taken."

"The heroes of the hour are clearly Officers..., Officers..."

"Muldoon and Kirby," the latter officer supplied laconically.

"Officers Muldoon and Kirby."

"Anybody want to take a picture of me?" asked Nimnul. "This is my good side."

At that moment there was a sound like a toy machine gun going off. Spinelli turned and dashed back to his desk. "My cheesecake!" he cried.

Sure enough, the traps around his desk had all gone off. Twenty-seven slices of cheese and one big wedge of muenster cheesecake were gone, replaced by a rather hefty brown mouse.

Nimnul leapt into his chair. "Vermin!" He looked to the S.W.A.T. team, then pointed at the mouse. "Fire!" he commanded.

The S.W.A.T. team, which was not known for its reticence to use firepower to solve any problem, nevertheless remained as they were. "Trick us once, shame on you. Trick us twice, shame on us." Taunted the sergeant.

Spinelli dived for the mouse. It eluded his grasp and landed on the floor. "Get that mouse!" he ordered.

The S.W.A.T. team raised their weapons.

"Without shooting it!" Spinelli ordered.

The mouse ran past Mrs. Clutchcoin, who fainted and fell on her husband. It then turned and headed right for Drake. Before he had a chance to react, the mouse had raced between his legs. Drake tried to follow it with his eyes, spinning around and losing his balance. Luckily, his niece had raced around the desk and to his side in time to catch him. There was a rapid stomping of boots as the mouse made its way past the S.W.A.T. team.

"He's trapped now," declared Spinelli. "Just so long as nobody opens that door."

At that moment the door was nudged open by a dog's snout. The mouse dashed out just as Plato walked in.

Everyone groaned in unison.