The Police Inspector Leonard Frankenstein Trilogy: Crimes Solved In 500 Words Or Less

February 11, 2011

By Bob Iozzia

Case 125 LATE FOR DINNER

The bulge in his pants betrayed his feigned ambivalence toward the erotic beauty of the steam rising from a bullet wound in a dead whore’s head. “Just another loser hooker,” he said to no one in particular. But what he was thinking was ‘I bet she was a good fuck…probably came just before she was shot. I bet she was a screamer and a scratcher. What incredible, hot irony—one minute: le petite mort; the next: the big sleep.’

The You Light Up My Life ringtone of his cell phone dragged him back to reality. “I’ve got to take this call…it’s Mommy,” he said to all at the crime scene. He ambled away from the crowd so that he could better hear his mother, a spry psychic who always called with the perpetrator’s identity. “Really? Once again, that’s good work, Honorary Police Inspector Mommy. I’ll be right home.”

He joined his underlings and announced, “A lesbian with no arms and legs disguised as a discarded pillow in that dumpster over there is our killer. Cuff her and bring her downtown, boys. I have to skedaddle home.”

“But, Boss you can’t leave now. Ain’t you gonna stick around for the glory?” one of his indistinguishable charges asked.

“No can do, boys,” Inspector Frankenstein said as he got into his car. “I’m late for dinner and Mommy made ham loaf. See you in the funny papers.”

No one ever knew what that meant, but it always signaled ‘case solved’ and really sounded cool.

Case 212 LATE FOR BREAKFAST

He didn’t mind being summoned to this crime scene at approximately 2:07 a.m. On the contrary, for years he had secretly wished for an excuse to revisit the Dingling Sisters’ Carnival & Third World Food Expo—the site of his first lesson in the nuances of prostitution.

“Just another case of a hooker running out of gas in the fast lane,” he said to no one in particular. But what he was thinking was ‘Even with the Dingling Sisters’ 600 pound globe sign crushing her body, I can tell she wasn’t your run-of-the-mill carny whore. No sir, this one was different—her face moles are neatly trimmed, with just a slight hint of stubble. What incredible, cruel irony—one minute: on top of the world; the next: underneath it.’

The You Light Up My Life ringtone of his cell phone dragged him back to reality. “I’ve got to take this call…it’s Mommy,” he said to all at the crime scene.

He ambled away from the crowd so that he could better hear his mother, a spry psychic who always called with the perpetrator’s identity. “Really? Once again, that’s good work, Honorary Police Inspector Mommy. I’ll be right home.”

He joined his underlings and announced, “A lactose-intolerant juggler with no arms and legs hiding in the vinca over there is our killer. Cuff him and bring him downtown, boys. I have to skedaddle home.”

“But, Boss you can’t leave now. Ain’t you gonna stick around for the glory?” one of his indistinguishable charges asked.

“No can do, boys,” Inspector Frankenstein said as he got into his car. “I’m late for breakfast and Mommy made hummingbird quiche. See you in the funny papers.”

No one ever knew what that meant, but it always signaled ‘case solved’ and really sounded cool.

Case 303 LATE FOR LUNCH

When he arrived at the crime scene, the parting words of his physician were still ringing in his ears. He hated these annual physicals, but the Department demanded them every six months. “Your six-pack abs have matured into a pony keg, Lenny. You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself.”

Normally, he would have pistol-whipped anyone who called him Lenny, but 93-year old Doc Killjoy was the exception, if for no other reasons than his age and the fact that his family was lousy with lawyers. But Ol’ Doc claimed a soft spot in the hard-boiled cop’s heart—Doc delivered him into this crazy world and has been his Mad Libs partner for all of this century and the latter part of the previous one.

The surprisingly sweet smell of a prostitute’s charred remains slapped him back to reality. “Just another case of a hooker who plays with fire dying by fire,” he said to no one in particular. But what he was thinking was ‘Even in this less than flattering condition, I can tell she was the cream of the creamers; the queen of the whores. What incredible, burning irony—one minute: the virtual toast of the town; the next: the literal.’

The You Light Up My Life ringtone of his cell phone dragged him back to reality.  “I’ve got to take this call…it’s Mommy,” he said to all at the crime scene.

He ambled away from the crowd so that he could better hear his mother, a spry psychic who always called with the perpetrator’s identity. “Really? Once again, that’s good work, Honorary Police Inspector Mommy. I’ll be right home.”

He joined his underlings and announced, “A New York City cab driver with no arms and legs hiding behind that dachshund over there is our killer. Cuff him and bring him downtown, boys. I have to skedaddle home.”

“But, Boss you can’t leave now. Ain’t you gonna stick around for the glory?” one of his indistinguishable charges asked.

“No can do, boys,” Inspector Frankenstein said as he got into his car. “I’m late for lunch and Mommy made tongue salad sandwiches. See you in the funny papers.”

No one ever knew what that meant, but it always signaled ‘case solved’ and really sounded cool.

Fin

Bob Iozzia knows that all good things must come to an end.  He just don’t know why.
E-mail him at bob.iozzia@comcast.net.

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