The Exploding Detective Read online

  The Exploding Detective

  Frank Burly 3

  John Swartzwelder

  CHAPTER ONE

  I suppose the first thing I should do is apologize for the billions of dead. And that I do. Humbly. And sincerely. When a man has done something wrong, I feel, it’s that man’s duty to own up to it. And I do. I’d apologize more fully, but I’m falling off a cliff right now.

  They say a human body can’t fall at more than 120 miles per hour, but that’s because they’ve never met me. Of course, I had a jet pack on my back. And rockets.

  This was my first test run with some new equipment I’d just bought, and so far it wasn’t working out as well as the advertisements had promised. Instead of streaking through the sky like a bolt of lightning, I was whistling down the side of a cliff like a sack of cement.

  The ground was coming up at me pretty fast, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that the ground was more afraid of me than I was of it. I read that in an article somewhere. But I was still worried. There were boulders down there too. And boulders aren’t afraid of anything. (Same article.) The good news was that this all might be just a dream. The bad news was that of course it wasn’t.

  It pays to stay calm in these kinds of situations. Ask any test pilot. You’re supposed to just relax, take it easy, calmly access your situation, then come up with the right answer. Right now. Really fast. It’s that easy. I calmly ran down a mental checklist of all the things I needed to do in the next eight seconds. The first thing on the list was to try to cut down my speed somehow, because my nose was starting to burn like a blow torch as I approached Mach 1. I figured the quickest way to slow down would be to take off my jet pack and throw it away. So I started undoing the straps.

  I managed to get the first strap loose – and I know what you’re thinking: he’s half way there – but the loose strap caused the jet pack to slide over to one side and begin propelling me in a different direction, away from the ground, which I was just about to hit, and towards a riverbank full of alligators and African natives with spears. The fact that the spears were made of rubber, and the alligators were members of the Screen Actors Guild and were at that moment arguing with the director over the sound an alligator makes, didn’t make them any less frightening. Avoiding the alligators now moved to the top of my list of things to do.

  The jet pack had slid down to the small of my back by now and there was no way I could reach back there and switch off the engine. I tried anyway, twisting myself around just enough to destabilize the whole machine. I spun around in a circle, then shot straight up into the sky. Then I roared back down at the alligators again, causing several of them to faint, and one of them to walk off the picture.

  For the next twenty minutes my flight path gyrated wildly, from the ground to the clouds then back towards the ground again. One minute I would be banging on the passenger window of an airliner motioning for some old lady to let me in, the next I would be half flying, half running, over the rapids of the Central City River, dragging fishing poles and determined fishermen behind me. I guess I must have been quite a sight. Everywhere I flew I kept hearing: “Now I’ve seen everything!” and then a gunshot.

  Finally I managed to reach the throttle control on the jet pack and shut the engine down. I was only a few feet off the ground at this point, so I dug my heels into the dirt to try to slow myself down, somehow managing to dislodge a huge rock, which began rolling after me.

  I started to run, with the rock right behind me and gaining fast. At the last moment, I managed to avoid it by diving into a pit. A pit full of rocks! I screamed and screamed and screamed.

  While all this was going on, an unusual crime was taking place in Central City’s industrial district.

  Strange looking people with blank expressions on their faces were breaking into warehouses and chemical plants, ignoring the money and other valuables they found and, instead, hauling out dyes, pigments, polyvinylchloride, Styrofoam, chemical abrasives, and corrugated cardboard. They didn’t seem to mind that a large crowd of people had gathered to watch them, or that half the Central City police force was shooting at them. They just kept stealing.

  The policemen’s bullets didn’t seem to have any effect on the robbers at all. They just bounced off them. A few onlookers borrowed the policemen’s guns to take a crack at it themselves, but they couldn’t do any better. There seemed to be no stopping these strange thieves.

  Occasionally they would stop on their own accord, adopt a listening attitude, then change direction and begin loading other items onto their trucks. The police stood by picking their noses helplessly, while the crowd pressed closer, picking their noses with interest.

  Just when the strange criminals were loading up the last of the trucks, I crashed into the middle of the street from twenty thousand feet. I had finished my disastrous test flight and was on my disastrous way home. The startled criminals scattered, leaving their booty behind, and the police took off after them, baying like bloodhounds.

  I was pretty badly smashed up, and my clothes were covered with all kinds of debris from my flight: bits of broken tree branches, fishing poles, “No Trespassing” signs, a couple of monkeys from the zoo, and some library books. I looked like an old dumpster someone had set on fire.

  The crowd’s resentment of my intrusion changed quickly to interest when they realized how horrific my crash was, and how badly I was hurt. I wasn’t as interesting as the crime they had been witnessing, but I was something. Everyone crowded around. Some even resumed picking their noses.

  “Don’t move him,” cautioned one member of the crowd.

  “I thought you were supposed to move them,” said another.

  “Well, don’t move him too far, that’s my point.”

  When I had regained consciousness, and they had finally stopped moving me - I was 150 yards away by then - they asked who I was and what my dramatic entrance was all about. That was my cue. I started fishing charred business cards out of my smoldering pockets and handing them around.

  The cards proclaimed that I was “THE FLYING DETECTIVE.” They were actually just my regular cards that say “DETECTIVE.” I had written “THE FLYING” in with a pencil. No point in throwing away all those old cards I had.

  I was starting to interest the crowd very much. Not only was I severely hurt, and might die, but I appeared to be some kind of super hero. There had never been any super heroes in our town before. They didn’t know why. There just hadn’t. They plied me with questions. What powers did I have? Super heroes, as they understood it, had special powers. What did I have going for me?

  I informed them that I was not a super hero. But I was the next best thing. I was a licensed private detective - with a difference. The difference being that I was jet-propelled. That meant I could solve their cases for them at supersonic speed, so there would be less waiting. And at a bargain price, so they’d have some money left.

  “Aren’t you that Frank Burly who works over on Third Avenue?” someone asked me. “That guy nobody likes?”

  “Well, yes and no,” I told him. I was Frank Burly, of course, but I was under the impression that a lot of people liked me. That I was quite popular. So the answer had to be “yes and no” there.

  The crowd was beginning to lose interest in me now. They had thought I might be some kind of superhuman being. Apparently I wasn’t. I was just an ordinary human, the same as you and me. They had seen people like you and me before. Lots of times. A few people started to drift away and look for a different crowd to be in, one that had found something more interesting.

  One guy was still a little interested in me. He examined my card again, then raised his hand. “I don’t like my neighbor. Can you get rid of him fo
r me?”

  A guy on the other side of the crowd looked at him in horror. “Hey, I’m your neighbor.”

  The first guy glanced at his neighbor, then looked back at me. “I was thinking maybe you could vaporize him with your eyeballs or something.”

  “Say, look, Fred…” began the neighbor.

  I told the man that The Flying Detective would be glad to look into his problem for him, though his vaporizing idea was out. I had no super powers. I thought I had just made that clear. But something could probably be done. Just call the number on the card and we could set up an appointment.

  Then I prepared to make my dramatic exit, blasting off into the unknown, from whence I came. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get my jet pack going. One of the crash landings I had made on the way to this crash landing must have dinged up something important. I kicked it, to see if that would do anything. It did. It started a fuel leak in the engine and a small fire on one of my legs. I kicked it again. More leaks. More leg fires.

  I got out my tool kit and started fiddling with the engine. Some of the more handy guys in the crowd tried to give me pointers, but I told them to just let me do it. I can do it. Just melt back into the crowd and leave this to me.

  After a half hour had gone by with no more talking, just hammering, cursing, and wrenching, the crowd began to disperse. An hour later so did I. I never could get the damn thing going, so I had to walk home. It wasn’t a very good advertisement for how fast I was.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Everyone without talent has to have a gimmick. It had taken me a long time to learn that. I had spent my entire career watching detectives around me becoming rich and famous and internationally respected, while I had trouble making my rent each month. And all because the other detectives had talent and I had none. It didn’t seem fair to me.

  Maybe, I thought, this was something the government should fix, the way they fix everything else. I sent a letter to them suggesting this, and they said they’d get right on it. And while they were working on it, they suggested, I could pass the time by voting for them. But the months went by and the problem wasn’t fixed. Then, not long before the epic first flight you have just read about, I stumbled on the answer to my problem. I found the perfect gimmick. A gimmick that would propel me to the top of my profession at 800 miles per hour. A jet pack.

  I found it in the back of a copy of 2nd Rate Detective Stories magazine, which I was reading in the hopes of picking up some 2nd rate professional tips. It was an old Himmelbitter (“Heaven Biter”) Mark 2 that had been built during the fading moments of World War II - built with a very specific purpose in mind.

  In early 1945, the advertisement breathlessly revealed, the Nazis were starting to have premonitions of their own deaths as the Allied army got closer, so they began making preparations to go to Heaven and take it over. They planned to take out St. Peter with long range atomic cannons, blast open The Pearly Gates with gelignite, then swarm through the clouds with jet packs, running down the angels and forcing them to work for their new German-speaking “Creators.” The ad didn’t say whether their plan worked out or not, but I’m guessing it didn’t. My prayers aren’t answered very often, but when they are it isn’t in German.

  The Heaven Biter that was for sale had been completely rebuilt, the ad said, and was guaranteed to “Fly Faster Than The Angels,” a claim which took on an ominous tone when you knew the whole story. Still, you like to have guarantees for things like this.

  When the jet pack arrived I was amazed at how heavy it was for how small it was. They really knew how to build ‘em in those days. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe that’s why it was heavier. Maybe if they’d known how to build it, it wouldn’t have been so heavy.

  For additional thrust during takeoff, I added a couple of small rockets I found in a women’s fashion magazine. That was bad ad placement, it seemed to me. Still, they got their sale. So I guess they knew what they were doing. I guess that’s why they’re in the advertising business and I’m not.

  My first test of the jet pack didn’t work out very well, as you have just read, so I decided to do a little practicing before I launched myself into the public eye again. The public expects professionals to know how to use their equipment. You don’t expect dentists, for example, to be torn to shreds by their own drills or smothered by their own smocks, or baseball players to get caught in their own mitts. You expect them to know how to use their equipment properly. Same thing with flying detectives and their equipment.

  I went out to a vacant lot near my office and set up a plywood criminal to apprehend, then fired up my jet pack and started the countdown on my rockets. I understand why I blew up. I had a hundred gallons of jet fuel on my back. But why did the plywood criminal explode? And where did the vacant lot go?

  They say any crash you can walk away from is a good crash, though I’ve never heard anyone involved in the crash say that. It’s just the people across the street who say stuff like that. I’m not even sure why we’re listening to them. They can’t even see very well from over there. Anyway, I’m glad to say I walked away from that one.

  “Is there a fireman in the house?” I asked passersby. “Anyone know how to put me out?”

  A couple of young men walking by thought they knew what to do in a situation like this. They confidently set to work putting out the fire.

  It took them awhile to extinguish all the flames, because they had to make sure none of the sparks in my crotch flared up again. They must have stamped on that fire for twenty minutes. But they finally got it out to their satisfaction. As they were leaving, I remembered the two men. They were a couple of bullies from my high school who never had liked me. It was nice to see they didn’t hold any grudges.

  I made some adjustments to my equipment when I got home from the hospital. The instructions were in German, so I could only guess at what they said. In fact, I’m only guessing they were in German. Then I took another practice run.

  After I was released from the Emergency Burn Unit, and the doctors said I could go home if I didn’t move around too much or overly excite myself, I decided I was ready.

  I began making daily patrols over the city – partly to look for crimes that needed solving and potential clients who might need my help, but mostly to advertise my business. I figured once people saw me up there soaring through the clouds, they wouldn’t be satisfied with ordinary detectives anymore. They would want one that could fly.

  Unfortunately, my daily patrols weren’t so much patrols as they were a series of spectacular air tragedies, reminding some old timers of the Hindenburg, others of the Akron. I don’t think I’ve slid down the sides of so many buildings in my life. Or skidded along so many sidewalks on my belly. But with each flight I got a little better at adjusting my altitude, speed, and general direction. All of these factors are important when you are jet-propelled and covered in rockets.

  I was glad I had added the rockets. The rocket assisted takeoffs not only increased my speed, they made the whole thing more exciting. There was an explosion when I took off and another one when I arrived, so it was like I was a magician or something. It was such a dazzling effect people seldom noticed the blood running down my face.

  These initial flights didn’t get me any business, but they did attract attention. A local supermarket tabloid newspaper was the first to do a feature story about me. “He Flies!!!!” screamed their banner headline. The next day a slightly smaller headline said: “He Still Flies.” And a week later a story on page three was headlined: “Still flying. Day 6.” A couple of days later the story was back on the front page: “Another Flying Man!” showing that same picture of me. Finally they contacted me and asked if I could do anything else besides fly. Something new. Their readers already knew about my flying. They wanted something fresh from me. Swimming, maybe. I told them my job was battling the dark forces, not helping them fill up their newspaper. They said they didn’t get it.

  After that, I didn’t get any publicity at all, except when s
omething went wrong with one of my flights. “Flying Detective In Flagpole Drama,” “Flying Detective Fouls City’s Windshields,” and “Flying Detective Clinging To Life – Again,” are a few headlines that I remember. Oh well, as long as they spell your name right, as Hitler said.

  Despite all my promotional flights, I wasn’t getting any business. Nobody seemed to need or want a jet-propelled detective. I was starting to think that maybe I should have checked out the market for such a concept before I started investing my time and money so heavily in it. I was starting to think I might have picked the wrong gimmick. Maybe I should have gone with that other idea I had – those stilts. But it turns out I needn’t have worried. My gimmick was about to pay off big-time, in a way I hadn’t expected.

  Those strange criminals, whose robbery I had accidentally broken up on my first test flight, had returned for another try. But this time they weren’t unsupervised as they had been before. They had a leader now. He was a dead ringer for Napoleon Bonaparte. And he ran the operation like a pro. No wasted motions. No diversions. And, above all, no panicking when something unexpected, like me, happened.

  The police arrived on the scene quickly, but couldn’t do anything to stop the robbery. Under “Napoleon’s” direction, some of the robbers advanced to attack the police in the center, then wheeled and took out first one flank, then the other.

  “The Battle of Austerlitz, begorra!” said one historical minded cop, as he was being outflanked.

  With the police forces badly scattered, and now arguing among themselves over whether it was The Battle of Austerlitz or The Battle of the Three Emperors, the robbers quickly finished loading up their trucks and drove away. Total elapsed time for the whole operation - less than thirty minutes. And not one of the raiders had been killed or captured.

  The police were stunned. They knew they weren’t geniuses - geniuses didn’t apply for jobs at the police station, they walked right past it - but they weren’t used to being so easily outmaneuvered. Police psychiatrists had to work overtime for days straightening the policemen out.