A humorous take on the many detectives in crime fiction who are able to glance at a crime scene and brilliantly deduce everything that happened. I wrote this for an anthology, but they rejected it. Too Monty Python-ish, they said.

Special Investigations Inspector J. Gerald Oxnard arrives on the scene moments after the crime has been committed. The usual entourage of detectives from the SI Division of New Bastwick’s Police Department accompanies him.

I’m the newly appointed member of this crack investigating team, a reward for my exemplary grades at the Police Academy. It’s just my luck that my first case is a murder.

The portly Inspector kneels beside the cooling body of a man in his late twenties. After several minutes of intense scrutiny, he nods and clears his throat, prompting one of the nearby detectives to help him to his feet.

“He was killed by a lion,” Inspector Oxnard says. “I’m thoroughly convinced.”

The room absorbs the declaration, mulling and silent.

“But…Inspector,” I say, “How did a lion get up to Room 715 of the Vandenburg Hotel without anyone seeing it?”

Inspector Oxnard puts a thin and elegantly manicured hand up to his mustache and rolls the waxy end.

“A disguise,” he says.

“A disguise?” I ask.

“Of course. Perhaps a long overcoat and some dark glasses. Haven’t you ever seen a lion walk on his hind legs at the circus?”

Several of the detectives standing around sound their approval. One writes it down in his note pad.

“But what about the knife?” I ask.

“The knife?” Inspector Oxnard shoots back, eyes sharp and accusing.

“In the deceased’s back.” I say.

There’s a moment of chin-scratching silence.

“Don’t lions have an opposable thumb?” Detective Jenkins asks.

“No, you’re thinking of monkeys,” Detective Coursey says.

“But isn’t a lion kind of like a big orange monkey with sharp teeth?” Detective Rumstead asks.

There are several nods of agreement. Inspector Oxnard runs a hand through his gray hair, which is slicked back with mint-smelling gel, and wipes his palm on Detective Coursey’s blazer.

“It had to be a lion with a knife,” the Inspector says, “wearing an overcoat and dark glasses. Put out an All Points Bulletin, and check to see if a circus is in town.”

“But Inspector,” I say, “there’s no sign of forced entry. How did the lion get into the room?”

“Simple. He had a key.”

“Why would he have a key?” I ask.

The silence that follows is steeped in apprehension. After a full minute, Inspector Oxnard makes a self-satisfied yelping sound and thrusts his finger skyward in apparent revelation, poking Detective Graves in the eye.

“The deceased was having an affair with the lion! Thus, the lion had a duplicate key!”

Excited applause sweeps through the group. Inspector Oxnard draws on his pipe, but it does little good because the bowl is upside down, the tobacco speckling his shoes.

“Did the lion prefer the company of men?” Detective Struber says.

“Perhaps,” Inspector Oxnard says. “Or perhaps it was…a lioness!”

Several ‘ahs’ are heard. Someone pipes in, “Of course! The lioness is the one that does the hunting!”

“But what about motive?” I ask, my Police Academy training coming out. “What was the motive?”

“Hunger,” the Inspector says. He nods smartly to himself.

“But the body is intact.”

“Excuse me?”

“None of it has been eaten!” I say.

“That makes no difference. Maybe the lioness was scared away before she could finish, or perhaps she simply lost her appetite.”

“I sometimes have terrible gas, and can’t eat at all,” Detective Gilbert says.

Nods of acquiescence all around, and several discussions of gas pains ensue.

“But where are the paw prints?” someone shrieks. “Where is the fur? Where is the spoor? Where is the damn reason that this was done by a lion and not a human being?”

Everyone stares at me, and I realize I’ve been the one shrieking.

Inspector Oxnard frowns and gives me a patronizing pat on the head.

“I know you’re only a novice, so I can understand why you cannot grasp all of the subtle intricacies of a murder investigation. But in time, Detective Cornhead, you’ll begin to catch on.”

“My name is Richards, Inspector. Detective Richards.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Inspector Oxnard slaps my shoulder. “We were all young once.”

Detective Oldendorff runs through the door and trips over the body. He picks himself up, urgency overriding embarrassment.

“There’s been another robbery!” he says. “The First New Bastwick Bank!”

Inspector Oxnard thrusts out his lower lip and nods.

“It sounds like that blind panda has struck again. Come, gentlemen!”

Inspector Oxnard gracefully exits the room, his entourage filing behind him like ducklings. I stare at the body for a moment, and then follow.

This police work is a lot harder than I thought.