Inspector Rex by Ray Rexer

Episode 0

This episode never aired. It appears to be a hastily-written proof-of-concept.

I sat back in my chair sighing with relief, paper work done, fresh coffee, and the end of my shift in sight. The really amazing thing was that up to now we've had a crime free day, not a single complaint has come so far. You know maybe there is something to this kinder and gentler nation we hear about. Despite this, as a person dedicated to upholding the law, I shall always be alert to stamp out the devious denizens of dubious dark ways of life. To them I say -Read my lips- I'M A COP.

A cop's intuition is a valuable tool in fighting crime. It is nothing more than the accumulation of information picked up over the years in dealing with the dregs of humanity. Right now it was telling me, that though it seemed crime had declared a holiday, not to expect it to last. As if on cue the phone jangled, and I knew I'd be out in the city jungle again. I did not relish the idea as there had been a freezing rain the last two hours. On the phone a man's voice 'My name is Penrod Station, mostly called Pen, and I want to report a robbery'. He started to tell more but I asked his address, and said I'd be right out. It is better to watch a witness' face while asking questions. A pointed question may result in a sharp answer a keen cop can cut out some clues.

The lousy weather had one good feature: it kept traffic to a minimum, so in a few minutes I was at the scene of the crime. Rather I was next door at the caller's house. It was a well kept middle-class neighborhood, though the ice storm had somewhat spoiled the view. It was the type the parasites prefer to prey on, well enough off to have valuables but not enough to afford special security. This is a cop's view, always on the alert for places that might attract the lowest level of losers lousing up the lives of legitimate and lawful citizens. Dealing with criminal minds has show me this, you see -I'M A COP.

A stocky young man came to the door in response to my ring. In a slightly nervous voice he blurted out 'the house next door has been robbed, I saw movement there and thinking kids were in there I went over to see'. He went on, 'I found the front door unlocked, I tore my handkerchief in half and wrapped the hinges to muffle any sound. Slowly pushing the door open I turned on the lights. Seeing no one I started for the next room when a noise made me turn'. Pen hesitated a moment then, 'I saw a large man, carrying a bundle, run out the door. I hurried out to the sidewalk but he was gone'.

Well, Pen, I told him, you have the right name, for it's the pen for you. Most crooks are stupid, but they don't fool me. I'M A COP.

Highlight for the solution:
[Pen is lying. The hinges on the house's outer door wouldn't be on the outside.]

Episode 1

October 30th - gate night, devil's night, the night before Halloween . . . it's called many things by many people. I call it trouble. I'm a cop.

I was working special duty that night, part of an elite group of hand picked officers called the "Triple P" squad - the Pumpkin Protection Patrol. Our job was to put an end to gate night vandalism.

I was working alone. The moon cut a crescent of light through a clear ebony sky and shown through the skeletal limbs of toilet papered trees. The acrid odor of leaf fires cut the air. Disemboweled porch pumpkins grinned with the waxy glow of candles. Somewhere a dog barked.

Suddenly a man darted out in front of me frantically waving his arms. "Stop! Help! Pumpkin police!" he yelled.

I knew I was needed. I stopped. I'm a cop.

"He did it!" the man cried. "He did it!"
"Who did?" I asked.
"Dodd did."
"Dodd?"
"Yes, Dave Dodd. Dang if Dave Dodd didn't do it!"

I finally got the story out of him. He said his name was Perkins, Peter Perkins, and that the boy next door, a frog eyed, greasy piece of work named David Dodd had just stomped his pumpkin into a mushy collection of orange goop. He said he didn't actually see the assault but he knew Dodd did it. "Dave Dodd's a dog gone demon," Mr. Perkins said.

I went next door and rang the bell. I heard the slightly muffled echo of shoes on a hardwood floor and in a few seconds I found myself talking to Dodd.

"Seems like someone did the monster mash on your neighbor's pumpkin," I told him.
"Old man Perkins' pumpkin?" he asked.
"That's right. Mr. Peter Perkins' porch pumpkin."
"I wouldn't know anything about that," Dodd said, smiling a yellow ghoulish smile, "I've been inside all night other than stepping out on the porch to pass out candy to the trick or treaters."

I looked up at Dodd. I looked down at Dodd. I knew Dodd was lying. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Dodd is lying. There wouldn't have been any trick-or-treaters on October 30th.]

Episode 2

Thanksgiving. A time for reflection. A time for family, friends and feasts. But also a time for turkeys. I know about turkeys. I'm a cop.

The call came in at Noon. Twelve O'clock. Twelve hundred hours. Midday. Lunchtime. Noon. The man was excited. He said someone had just stole six of his priceless prize turkeys.

"Six?" I asked. "How is that possible?"
"It was raining," he said, "real hard. That made it easy."
"Oh? How so?"
"Well . . . birds in bad weather flock together," he replied.
I told him I'd be right there.

Holidays. Not everyone gets them off. Someone has to serve, someone has to protect. And that someone is me. I'm a cop.

I got to the caller's house and was met by a scrawny long-necked man who said his name was Bernie, Bernie Butterball.

"Tell me what happened, Mr. Butterball," I said. "Omit nothing."
"What's to tell," he exclaimed. "A man in a blue van drove right into my backyard, right up on my lawn where I keep my prize turkeys. He stole six of them. I ran outside and got his license number it was a Michigan plate, TRK 222. But my poor birds are gone . . . thank goodness they're insured."

I looked at Butterball's bare backyard where the turkeys had been. I saw nothing unusual. The ground was very wet and feather's stuck in soggy clumps to the smooth bare dirt. The air was fowl. And I smelled a rat. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Butterball is lying. There were no tire tracks from the van in the wet dirt.]

Episode 3

It was snowing. The first real snowfall of the year. Puffy white flakes pushed by a soft wind danced like tiny angels in the hazy glow of streetlights. The city lay sleeping under an unbroken blanket of new snow. All seemed quiet. All seemed at peace. But not everything is what it seems to be. Take me for example.

I'm a cop.

I was dispatched to the scene of a B. & E. a breaking and entering. A cowardly crime usually perpetrated by some lousy, lame brained, lazy, low life loser. A man reported that his 16 year old son had just scared off one such low life trying to break into their home. He and his wife, returning from a late night party, apparently had just missed the incident. He was mad.

"It happened right over there," the man said, pointing to a snow covered litter of broken glass scattered underneath a smashed window on the side of his charming little bungalow.

His name was Reg Thorpe. He was a citizen of these United States, an American, a man with certain inalienable rights. And it was my job to protect these rights.

I'm a cop.

"My wife and I were gone all evening," Mr. Thorp said, "at a party. Timmy, our son, was home alone. He's a good boy, our Timmy is . . . oh, maybe a bit on the wild side, but what teenager isn't?"

I thought a moment. I didn't know.

Mr. Thorpe continued. "Timmy heard glass breaking and saw a man at the window. It was dark so he didn't, get a good look at the man. But check out those tracks." He pointed to a clear, well defined set of footprints in the snow leading away from the house. That's where the man ran. Those footprints should lead you right to him."

Snow continued to fall, light and easy. I looked at the tracks. I knew where they'd lead. I didn't need to follow them. I knew what to do.

I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Timmy is lying. The broken glass from the window was on the outside, indicating it was broken from within.]

Episode 4

Nighttime in the city. A Silent Night. All was calm. All was bright. I cruised slowly west on Center Avenue past decorated store fronts. Several blocks ahead of me, standing tall and brightly lit, the City Christmas tree stood. In the air there was a feeling of Christmas.

It was snowing. Snow don't bother me. I'm a cop.

All of a sudden the big tree went dark. I saw movement up ahead. A shadowy figure was dashing through the snow. I figured something was wrong. I figured right. Someone had pulled the tree's plug and swiped its shiny sterling silver star. I was mad.

I headed south. My trained eyes spotted a nearby apartment with lights on. My guts told me to stop. I listened to my guts. Who wouldn't. I stopped the cruiser and got out.

It was snowing. Snow don't bother me. I'm a cop.

I banged on the apartment door using its rather spooky looking door knocker. A sour faced man appeared.

"Who disturbs an old man's sleep?" he asked gruffly.
"Inspector Rex, sir," I answered. "I'm looking for facts. You see ... some selfish, scheming, slippery, sneak stole the city's shiny, sterling silver star and then sped swiftly south."
"Bah!" cried the old man. "Humbug!"
"Hamburg?" I asked, hopefully. I was a bit hungry.
"Humbug!" he scowled. "I say whoever unplugged that tree and stole that star should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."

A bit severe, I thought, although it would put a stop to repeat offenders.

My guts spoke to me again and not because I was hungry. They told me there'd be no repeat offending tonight. I had my man.

It was snowing. Snow don't bother me. It's Christmas time in the city. And I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[The old man did it. Inspector Rex never mentioned that the tree had been unplugged.]

Merry Christmas

Odd/Even Ordinance

Thank you, Terry.

Each winter snow removal from city streets is hampered somewhat by parked cars. This city ordinance was enacted to help ease the problem in a fair and simple manner.

Simply put, the odd even parking ordinance allows for either an odd or an even number of cars, or, oddly enough, even the odd truck or two, to park in an even and orderly manner during all odd numbered days of the month, but only on the odd numbered side of the street. At the same time, the ordinance also, oddly enough, even allows for an odd or an even number of odd size, full size, or even the odd uneven size car or truck to park at odds with each other within the even boundaries of all city owned and operated streets, but only, of course, on the even side of all even numbered addresses, and only during those even numbered days of any and all months that fall within the time constraints of this fair and simple odd even parking ordinance.

Please contact Chief Vanalst if you have any questions.

Thank you.

Now back to you, Terry.

Episode 5

The alarm went off at eight in the morning on New Year's Day. "Jang! Jang! Jang!" The sound carried clearly through the cool crisp air. It broke the quiet of the deserted downtown. It crashed and rattled through the air like a 6 ton Peterbilt. It shook the windows on my cruiser. "Jang! Jang! Jang!" It didn't help my headache. But it called me to action.

I'm a cop.

I followed the noise, painfully. I found its source. A window. A broken window. A broken store window. A broken liquor store window. A broken liquor store window with an alarm. Things were starting to add up. It was a smash and grab job. Some weasel had smashed the window, grabbed what he could, and bolted away, like a cockroach in the sun.

I turned the scene over to other officers. I left to do what I do best. What's that? you ask. Catch crooks.

I'm a cop.

Two blocks away I spied a sleeping man on a park bench. I knew him. It was Lance Lang, AKA Liquor Lang, AKA Last Chance Lance. An old acquaintance best forgotten. A former local TV talk show host fallen on hard times.

"On your feet, Lance," I said. Waves of 80 proof cologne assaulted my nose.

He opened his eyes, sat up, and smiled. The bench beneath him was glazed with frost. It looked cold. I felt a bit sorry for him.

"Inrexer Specs," he said, "my old buddy, my best friend."

That was a lie. But then Lance Lang was a liar. He always had been. So it made sense. Sort of.

"Someone just broke into the liquor store, Lance," I said. "Know anything about it?"

"Been sleepin here fer hours, Rexy ole sport, ole pal. Right here. 'Fraid I can't help you."

Lang was lying again. I knew it. He knew it. And I thought it was just about time that someone put an end to ... the days of old Lang's lying. Who? you ask. How about me?

I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Lang is lying. The frost on the bench underneath him indicates he hasn't been there long.]

Episode 6

The police radio crackled to life under the patrol car's dash. It sputtered. It coughed. It hissed. It whined. It whined again. It reminded me somewhat of my co workers. I waited. I knew dispatch was about to broadcast a call. I was ready. No, I was more than ready. I was really, really ready. Police work. It's my life. I'm a cop.

The call finally came in over the radio. I was sent to meet a man whose car had been smashed by a hit and run driver. Some irresponsible, brainless wonder had dinged, damaged, devalued, dissected, dismembered, depreciated, destroyed, demolished, or at least deeply dented this man's personal automobile.

He lived in the 400 block of Adams Street. On the east side of the street. His car a fairly new Pontiac 6000 was legally parked on the street right in front of his house. It had been violently converted into a Pontiac 2300. Its front end was caved in like a V. The front bumper angled out like a broken bone. Oil dripped like blood from under the front of the car. It was terrible. I had to turn away. I had a car just like it at home. Some things you just never get used to. Police work. It's not all fun and games. I should know. I'm a cop.

The owner of that pitiful collection of twisted steel met me outside.

"I'm G. Gordon Goodwrencher," he announced. "G. Gordon Goodwrencher the Third and that's my car."

"I'm Inspector Rex," I said. "There's only one of me and that's too bad -- about your car, I mean."

"I saw the accident," Goodwrencher said. "A red 1958 Plymouth Fury came racing down Adams Street from McKinley, slammed into my car and kept on going."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Isn't that enough?" he replied.

I thought it was. I thought it was more than enough.

Mr. Goodwrencher looked at me. "Well," he said, "I want action. I'm a taxpayer; I pay your salary."

I thought about asking for a raise. I didn't. But I knew what I would do. I think you know, too. Police work, that's what. It's my life. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Goodwrencher might be lying. The 400 block of Adams Street in Bay City, Michigan is south of McKinley Street. Goodwrencher parked in front of his house on the east side of the street, which would mean the front end of his Pontiac was pointed north. Heading south from McKinley, the Plymouth would have had to swerve all the way to the opposite side of the street in order to hit the Pontiac. Not outside of the realm of possibility. The Inspector's probably right, though.]

Episode 7

Paperwork. It's feared. It's hated. It's loathed. It's often put off. It's often avoided. It's often screwed up. It causes headaches, heartaches, heartburn, and occasional painful itching. Some call it important. Some call it useful. I call it a pain. I'm a cop.

I was sitting at my desk writing a report. My chewed up Bic limped across the paper like a wounded moose. Words formed at an incredibly slow rate. I was bored ... and I itched. I needed to get out. I needed some cop type action. I needed a typewriter.

Suddenly a man came into my office shaking his BETA's at me.

"These are my life," he said, shoving two pre recorded movie cassettes under my nose. They were animal films, one was Bambie, the other was Cujo. A pair of classics.

I put my paperwork away. It could wait. I would do it later. Honest. It was time for some real police work. Time to turn into Inspector Rex. Who's that? you ask. I thought you knew. That's me. I'm a cop.

The man said he was the owner of the GROOVY MOVIE PICK A FLICK video rental and bait shop. His name was Cecil. Cecil B. Cinemax. He said he had been cheated by a customer. He was mad. He said the customer owed him $15 for movie rentals but would only pay him $12.

"I want my three dollars," Cecil said. "I want it, I want it, I want it."

"Put it on pause, pal," I said. "Let's rewind this reel and start over in SLO-MO." I love it when I talk Hollywood.

"Okay, okay," he said, slowing down somewhat. "Our store records show that this thief rented two movies on Thursday, December 31st and kept them until the following Monday, which was January 5th. That's five nights and at $1.50 per movie per night that's fifteen bucks. See what I mean? It all adds up.

But it didn't. Although it did add up to another case solved by yours truly. It was all over but the paperwork ... and I'd do that later. Honest. I wouldn't lie to you. I"m a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Cecil is mistaken. If Thursday was December 31st, the following Monday would be January 4th. This adds up to a rental length of four days and a fee of $12.]

Episode 8

Roses are red, violets are blue,
I serve and protect yes, that's what I do.
I'm a cop.

Valentine's Day. A day for sweethearts and sweet talk. A day to slow dance and romance. A day when kisses forever fly and true love will never die. A day when Cupid draws back his bow. A day when Cupid lets his arrow go. A day to splash on some of that love potion number nine.

But enough of this mushy stuff. Let's get real. Let's get down to business. Cop type business. Let's boogie on some bad guys. Let's cha cha on some chumps. Let's breakdance on the backbone of crime.

I received a report of a larceny. The theft of a priceless valentine. A vintage valentine. A vintage Rudy Valentino valentine. Very valuable, this vintage Valentino valentine. Very, very valuable. A one of a kind. Something like me. I'm a cop.

The victim's name was Valerie. Valerie Vallereye. But her friends just call her Venus. A former dancehall girl who claimed to be Rudolph Valentino's last date. She was 68.

"Tell me what happened Ms. Vallereye," I said.

"You can call me Venus, Rexy baby," she winked. I flushed.

"Someone stole my heart." she said, "That's what happened. I just got back from San Francisco and found it missing."

"Maybe you left it in San Francisco," I said. "I understand that's happened before."

"No, it's gone." she said. "I've looked everywhere. It was a Valentine's heart, quite valuable. It was given to me by Rudolph Valentino himself, on our last date. We were an item, you know."

I didn't. I said nothing. But a bit of a Valentine's Day poem ran through my mind:
Roses are red, violets are blue,
I've got all the facts, I know what to do.
I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Venus is mistaken. This episode aired in 1988, which would make Venus 6-years-old when Valentino died in 1926. Though it's possible Valentino gave a Valentine's Day heart to a child to brighten her day, it's more likely Venus made up or imagined the whole story.]

Episode 9

The phone rang just as I was leaving the office. It jangled. It jingled. It ring a ding dingled. I stopped.
This was a call for help. I knew it. I could tell by the ring. I felt adrenalin rush through my cop type veins. I took a deep breath. I was ready. I was primed. If crime is the disease then you're looking at the cure. I'm a cop.

I answered the phone. "Inspector Rex'', I said, "your crime is my crime. Speak."

"What can I do about a dog napping?" a man's voice asked.

"I suppose you could wake it up," I said, "but it's better to let sleeping dogs lie." That was a bit of humor.

"No, I mean someone stole my dog," he said. "my best dog. He was a pure bred, worth a bundle."

"What kind of dog?

"A Rottweiler. His name was Tim, Tim Rottweiler."

The caller's name was Arthur Teacher. He owned a nearby pet shop called TEACHER'S PETS. I met him there.

"I found the dog gone dog gone this morning," he said. "Dog gone dog was probably long gone by dawn."

I nodded.

"I wish they'd have taken one of my terriers instead. You know how much trouble Terrys can be."

I had to admit I did.

"But they took my most expensive dog. This was its identification tag. I guess it fell off the collar."

He handed it to me. I read it. "Rottweiler, female, ten weeks old," the tag said. "Please buy me. I need a good home. I'm a pup."

"I have a suspect," Mr. Teacher announced. "Todd Bowden. He's a former employee I had to let go when business got bad. I think Todd may know something about my missing dog. I think you should talk to him."

But I thought that would be barking up the wrong tree. So to speak. I didn't need a bloodhound to follow this trail. I was ready to ... take a bite out of crime. A dog may be man's best friend but I'm a crook's worst nightmare. That's right. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Teacher is lying. He called the dog a "him" and named it Tim, but the tag said that it was female.]

Odd/Even Fanmail

Episode 10

It was raining. Not hard, but steady. It had been raining all day. A drizzle. A depressing drizzle. I was a bit down, feeling a tad bit low. But then I heard thunder rumbled in the distance. And it sounded just like a jail cell slamming shut to me. That was enough to cheer me up. It doesn't take much. Really. I'm a cop.

I was sent to investigate an F.T.P.F.G. that's cop talk for a Failure To Pay For Gasoline. I left A.S.A.P. to cut down my E.T.A. and get there P.D.Q. I had to find out the M.O., get a positive I.D., put out an A.T.L., broadcast a B.O.L., and maybe head over to the A & W in my L.T.D. for a quick B.L.T. and a nice cold O.J. Real O.J., American juice, squeezed fresh from real American oranges high in vitamin C. A taste treat that's good for you. Orange Juice it's not just for breakfast anymore.

But I digress ... The failure to pay occurred at a local self serve station called GO PUMP IT YOURSELF. I pulled in next to the no lead pump. I could smell gas fumes in the air. It reminded me of the squad room on a Monday morning. I noted the price on the pump: 88.9 cents a gallon. A fair price for gas these days. Trust me. I know all about gas. I'm a cop.

I went into the station and met the owner, a sad sack of a guy named Bobby Driscoll.

"Turn that frown upside down, Inspector Rex has come to town," I said to him. I thought it would cheer him up. It didn't.

"It's hard to be happy when you're losing gas," he said.

I thought about it. I had to agree.

"And, I lost twenty dollars worth today," he continued. "Some clown in a beat up Cadillac convertible got twenty-two and a half gallons and left without paying for it. My day man, Norman Leonard, saw the whole thing."

"Did he get a look at the culprit?"

"You mean the scuzzy piece of worthless slime that swiped my no lead?"

"That's right. The culprit."

"Yeah, the car had its top down and Norm had a clear view of the driver. He said he could identify him."

Outside, pumps stood silhouetted in the night like soldiers on guard. 88.9 cent a gallon no lead fumes drifted lightly through the air. In my mind I heard a jail cell slam shut. I knew who was inside. And I had the key. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Norm is lying. He claimed the convertible had its top down, but it had been raining all day.]

Episode 11

Turfing. Driving a car over someone's lawn. Gleefully gouging up great green gobs of grass. Torturing turf with tires. It's an ugly crime. A destructive crime. It's a crime against nature. It's motorized mayhem. It's mean. It's malicious. And it makes me mad. I'm a cop.

I monitored a broadcast to BOL a red Camero suspected of turfing several westside lawns. I headed out for the hunt. I'd catch the little slime bucket. I'd yank off his lugnuts. I'd flattened his Firestones. I'd put his greasy Chevy wheels up on blocks.

Suddenly a car shot past me, heading east down Center Avenue. A dull red Camero spotted with dirt like a rotten garden tomato. I couldn't believe my luck. It looked like the suspect vehicle. I skillfully spun around to pursue and apprehend. Just like in the movies. And I knew I'd catch the car. How'd I know? I read it in the script.

I stopped the dirty demon at Center and Monroe. We pulled around the corner, out of the flow of traffic. Just like they teach in the Police Academy movies. I looked the car over, high and low. I thought it was the right one.

The driver, a rodent featured young man about twenty two, rolled down his window. "What I do? What'd I do?"
"We're looking for a car," I said.
"A car?"
"That's right, a car. You know, four wheels, runs on gas."
"Haven't seen it," he said, dully. A regular Einstein, I thought.
"This car was turfing," I said, "tearing up a bunch of lawns in a nice neighborhood around town."
"Lawns?"
"That's right, lawns. You know, green in color, made of grass."
"Oh," he said. "Lawns." A real wiz, I thought.
"Your car matches the description of the turf mobile." I looked at his grubby Camero. It matched all right.
"Wasn't my car." He shook his head solemnly. "I ain't no turfer, I didn't drive over no lawns. I ain't even been on that side. I've been driving over here for the past hour looking for a friend's house."

I looked at his car again. I wondered how it'd look without wheels, sitting up on blocks. I thought I'd know
soon enough. I'd be putting it there myself. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[The suspect is lying. Inspector Rex never mentioned where the turfing was, but the suspect claims to have not been on the side of town where it occurred.]

Episode 12

April 4th. A Monday. Mondays are depressing to some. Mondays get some people down. But not me. A day's just a day to this guy. A day's nothing but a space full of 24 hours. It's what you do with those 24 hours that counts. I spend them kicking the kiester of crime. I'm a cop.

A knock came at my office door. A heavy knock. The knock of a male caucasian, 33 or 34, six foot five, 230 pounds, red hair, moustache, wearing green clothes and a frown. How'd I know all that from just a knock? I'm a trained observer, remember, with years of cop type experience. I've been to cop type schools. I've read cop type books. I've seen cop type movies. And the office door was open.

The man knockin' said his name was Tommy. Tommy Blue. A former school bus driver from a little town in the thumb.

"I don't know if you can help me," he said.

Looking at him I had to wonder if anyone could.

"I'm here about some clothes." I perked up. "Oh, you must mean the Night Beat T shirts now on sale at the Bay City Crime Awareness unit. They're available in various sizes and only $6.00 apiece. They're tasteful, stylish, and fun to wear. A great gift idea."
He shook his head. "No, I mean I collect old clothes."

I looked at him. I could tell.

"I collect clothes once worn by the rich and famous," he said. "It's my hobby. This past Saturday, April 2nd, I gave a man a $50.00 down payment for a moo moo once owned by Totie Fields."
"That's a lotta moola for a moo moo," I said.
"Yeah, but it's a lot of moo moo," he replied.

He had a point.

He went on. "But the man cheated me. When I gave him the cash I agreed to meet him by 10:00 the next morning, Sunday the 3rd. He said if I was late the deal was off and he'd keep my deposit. I didn't sleep much Saturday night I was so anxious to get my hands on Totie's moo moo."

I didn't say anything. I think you know why.

"I got. there by 9:30 Sunday morning but the man was gone and so was my moo moo. I'm sure of the time. I bought a digital watch six months ago and it's so accurate I've never had to reset it. So I'm sure it was only 9:30 when I arrived. I think I've been cheated."

But he hadn't been. And I thought maybe now he'd be interested in one of those Night Beat T shirts. A true collector's item. You know, the shirt with the picture of that guy on them. That guy who turns and says, "I'm a cop."

Highlight for the solution:
[Tommy is mistaken. When this was broadcast in 1988, Daylight Savings Time began on the first Sunday in April. He actually arrived at 10:30, a half hour late.]

Episode 13

Springtime in Michigan. A freshness in the air. Birds singing brightly. Grass turning green. Snow flurries. Frost warnings. Thirty degree weather. Springtime in Michigan. It's unpredictable. Just like me. I'm a cop.

I headed to a reported vandalism on Center Avenue. Seems some vulgar, vindictive, vicious, vacant minded, varicose-brained, vehicle vandal had apparently spray painted a car.

The vandalized car was parked right in front of the County building on Center Avenue, facing west. It was an old, beat up Chevy wagon, light brown in color and speckled with rust. It's passenger side door dripped with fresh paint. Bright baby blue paint. A nice spring color. Light and airy.

The owner approached and told me that he had been in the County building when his car was vandalized. He was mad. He said he had planned to fix up the car and sell it as an antique auto. Now his plans were shattered. He wondered if his insurance would cover the damage.

I wondered more than that. But then again ... I'm a cop.

The owner pointed out a man who had apparently witnessed the vandalism. I spoke with this man. He was a dorky looking guy with glasses and big teeth. He told me his name was Arnie. Arnie Dangerfield.

"I was across the street, standing right over there."

Mr. Dangerfield pointed to the sidewalk directly across the street from the vandalized car.

"I saw a teenager crouch down next to this car."

Mr. Dangerfield pointed directly at the victim's rusty Chevy wagon.

"While he was crouched down next to the car, I saw him pull a can of spray paint out of his coat pocket and spray paint this door."

Mr. Dangerfield pointed directly at the Chevy's passenger side door. Mr. Dangerfield was pointing a lot.

"I could see it was blue paint he was using. I knew something was wrong."

And so did I. Snowflakes fluttered down through the bright spring sunlight. Shoppers drifted by in shorts, winter coats, boots, and umbrellas. I looked at the car owner. I looked at his car. I looked at the bright blue paint that dripped and sparkled on the car door in the cold spring sunlight. I looked at Arnie Dangerfield. I looked no further. Suddenly the snow stopped, thunder rumbled, and it rained. Springtime in Michigan. I love it. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Dangerfield is lying. From his vantage point across the street, Dangerfield would've only been able to see the driver's side door. The passenger's side door was the one vandalized.]

Episode 14

Sunday. May 8th. Mother's Day. A day to stop. A day to think. A day to reflect. A day to say "Thanks Mom, thanks a lot." A special day for the millions of marvelous Michigan Moms. But just another day for the lousy crooks of the world. Just another day for them to use their crooked minds to do the crooked things crooked crooks do.

And I hate that. I'm a cop.

I went to the scene of a crime. A local bakery called MARY'S MUFFINS AND MORE reported a pie larceny. The owner was a nice bi-speckled lady named Mary. Mary Mayhem. She said folks just called her Mom.

I greeted her. "Tell me what happened, ma'am."
"No, never ma'am, Mom."
"Never mind Mom, ma'am?"
"Not never mind, never ma'am, I mean. Call me MOM!"
"I'd never call your Mom mean, ma'am."
"Never mind."

We were off to a slow start.

Finally, she told me that a neighborhood meanie by the name of Larry Hogan had walked into her bakery, smiled a wide, toothy grin, and swiped a double-sized blueberry pie. He told her he was going right home and eating the whole pie and there was nothing she could do about it.

He was wrong, of course. There was something she could do about it and that something was me. I'm a cop.

Mrs. Mayhem pointed out Hogan's house. It was right across from the bakery.

I went to the house. Standing just outside I could hear wet chomping sounds coming from inside. I knocked. A muffled voice said something muffled. Footsteps boomed. A human dinosaur answered the door. 350 pounds of waddling flesh crammed into a bulging t shirt and blue jeans splitting at the seams. Like 50 pounds of lard in a 10 pound bag.

"Are you Mr. Hogan," I asked.
"Yeah, but my friends call me Larry," he said.
I thought I'd be calling him Mr. Hogan.
"I'm Inspector Rex," I said. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about the theft of a blueberry pie from Mary Mayhem's bakery."
"Ain't no blueberry pie here. I guarantee it." He smiled knowingly. An irritating fleshy smirk. His jowls hung like wet dough.
"I have reason to believe you took the pie," I said.
"Not me," he said. "I'm allergic to blueberries. Anyway, you've got no evidence." His face broke into a wide, toothy grin. "None at all."

But I had evidence. And if I could find a jail cell large enough to house his annoying bulk, I'd wipe that toothy grin right off his face. And I'd do it for Mom. It's her day, after all. And I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Hogan is lying. He offers the defense that's he's allergic to blueberries, but Inspector Rex only says that he thinks Hogan took the pie. He said nothing about eating it. Still, why would anyone steal a pie who didn't intend to eat it?]

Episode 15

Crime. It's as pretty as a cockroach on a wedding cake. It's as furs as a needle in a diaper. No one likes it. No one wants it. No one needs it. And no one can stop it ... well, almost no one. There is me. I'm a cop.

I was sitting in my office dreaming up ways to stop crime. Ways to squeegee that slimy scum off the window of the world. Ways to grind its ugly face into the gravel of goodness. Just then Kip Collier came in and sat down. Officer Kip Collier. A friend and fellow policeman. He looked a bit sheepish.

"My cap's been copped," Collier cried.

"Your cap, Kip?"

"My cop cap."

"A cop cap caper, Kip?"

"That's right, a cop cap caper. I kept the cap in my cop car."

"Oh, a cop cap cop car caper, Kip. Any clues?"

"Could've been a kleptomaniac who copped my cop cap I kept in my cop car. A cruel, crafty cold and calculating chronic klepto."

"Anything else?"

"Well, the cap was clean. It was a costly cop cap so I carefully kept it clean."

"I see, so you think maybe some cruel, crafty cold and calculating chronic kleptomaniac clearly copped your carefully kept clean and costly cop cap from your cop car."

"Absolutely," Collier said. "What else could've happened to it?"

I thought maybe I knew. I hadn't been out of uniform that long. And like the Bob Dylan song says, the answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind. You just gotta be there to catch the answer before it blows away. And I'm always there. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[The Bob Dylan quote implies the the cap blew away. Perhaps Kip had one of those plastic protective covers over the cap and it caught the wind like a parachute? There really isn't enough info to know for sure.]

Episode 16

Money… Cash. Currency. Coins. Big bucks. Sawbucks. Greenbacks. C notes. Legal tender. Cabbage. Lettuce. Spinach. Bread. Dough. Loot. Scratch. Wampum. Moohla. Money. Call it what you want. Spend it as you please. You can save it, invest it, or waste it. Some cherish it forever; others call it the root of all evil. Me? Well, I don't care too much for money ... money can't buy you love. I know that. I'm a cop.

I went to a local grocery store where the manager was holding a woman suspected of passing a counterfeit twenty dollar bill. He told me that the woman had paid for some groceries with the phony bill and had left the store before the crime was discovered. But she came back a short time later apparently to try her luck again and the manager had spotted her in produce, walking past the fruits and vegetables. He told me he grabbed her right by the seedless grapes and hauled her into his office.

I went to the office and spoke with the suspect. She said her name was Penny. Penny Nicholes. She was a young woman wearing a wig, imitation leather pants, a fake fur, false eyelashes, and a phony smile.

"I've had a terrible day," she said. "First I was late for work and while running to catch the bus I tripped and fell in the gutter and landed on my purse and smashed a $90 bottle of perfume inside and scraped my knees and tore my nylons and scuffed my shoes and bit my lip and lost a contact and broke a nail and sprained my wrist and now ... and now ... and now I get accused of this!"

The manager of the market handed me the suspected twenty-dollar bill. I studied it closely, right down to the whiskers on George Washington's chin. Something smelled funny. My keen cop senses told me the bill was a genuine phony, all right. And I thought I knew where it came from.

"I think you are going away for awhile," I told Penny Nicholes.

"I've had a terrible day," she said.

A penny saved may be a penny earned but a Penny gone bad is a miserable thing to behold. And this Penny had spent her last dollar, so to speak. The only thing she'd be spending now is ... time. And she'd spend that under lock and key at the local Scumbag Hilton. A penny for my thoughts? How about this. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time. 'Cause I'll get ya. I will. I'm a cop.

Highlight for the solution:
[Penny is a bad counterfeiter. George Washington isn't on the $20 bill.]

Episode 17
The Final Episode

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind moaned and cried through the limbs of storm whipped trees, howling at times with sudden vicious gusts, seeming to scream at me a warning Beware! Beware! Go back! Go back! Shadows darted at my feet like ghostly rats in the soulless graveyard glare of the rain shrouded streetlights. Tree branches swayed and bent, beckoning to me like thick woody fingers, reaching out for me in the twilight, reaching out to grab me.

And ahead stood the house, evil, wet, and malignant, like a festering tumor on the neck of the world. I had to go inside that house. I had to face the greatest challenge of my great and challenging career. Terry Watson was missing and I had to find him. Whether I wanted to or not. It's my job, you know. I'm a cop.

What I found inside that house astounded me. My investigation determined that Terry had been lured into the house and kidnapped by aliens from outer space. The aliens apparently had been receiving Night Beat TV transmissions on their planet for several months and had misunderstood them to be a declaration of war. Watson, they felt, was the ringleader and was preparing to destroy their planet with rockets sometime in early July.

Jack Sebald had also disappeared. He apparently had stumbled onto the Watson kidnapping and had been vaporized. All that was left of him was a charred hand puppet, an empty lunchbox, and a mushy pile of orange goop. No more talkin' back to Jack. But not many people did, anyway.

I got out of that house fast. I had to talk to Tim Weiler fast. We had to get this alien invasion information out to the public fast. Tim had to do a special Crime Report.

But now Weiler's gone, too. And it was the Crime Report that killed him. That's right, this professional, articulate, and neatly dressed man was done in by the very thing he cared about most. It seems that while attempting to pronounce the Alien Invader's strange sounding names during his special Crime Report, Tim's tongue became tied in a knot and he choked to death on a vowel.

So now I'm all alone. Three fourths of the Night Beat crew have been eliminated. Terry, Jack, and Tim. There's only me, the Inspector. But those other guys were pushovers. Regulation whimps, whuses, and pantywaists. And I'm not. I'm a cop. You know that by now. And I'll get them, those dirty aliens. Even if I am all alone, even if wait a minute ... what was that? Maybe I'm not alone. Who's there? Answer me, you dirty aliens! You have to! I'm a cop! I'm a cop! I'm ahhhhhh...!

Highlight for the solution:
[Ray Rexer is an alien.]