Tag Archives: Detective Becker

On the Hunt for Eastus Hutt

This is an odd Keelian sort of story. John Keel wrote The Mothman Prophecies, which is even weirder than the movie.


“Records indicate Eastus Hutt bought the place—a total of ten point eight acres—last October. Nobody at town hall heard of Swiller Road. I had to look it up at the Registry of Deeds. Turns out it’s an old fire road that leads out to the middle of nowhere.

“Turn here—”

The rutted access road was potholed at the beginning. Thirty feet in the hard-pack smoothed out.

The older of the two detectives, Becker, rode shotgun and read the map. He had a clean cut look that reminded Rodrigues of the nineteen-forties.

Rodrigues said, “Perp knows how to hide, eh?”

Becker looked over at Rodrigues and said, “Everyone’s got an address, Rodrigues. You get that angle and you’ll get your perp.”

“I’d just be happy to see that car again. You know it was a ’91 Town Car? Fine ride man. Had some trick rims or some shit. They looked like they weren’t moving. I want a closer look.”

“All I know, it was black and had no plates to run.”

The road crested a hill and there was a house fifty feet away. Rodrigues stopped the car to survey the scene. It was a single story home with a white picket fence. The fence had no posts or rails, just pickets sticking up.

Neither detective said anything so Rodrigues released the brakes and rolled in closer. Out in front of the house was a well-appointed living room with hardwood floors. Off to one side was a dining room and to the other side was the kitchen with all its appliances.

Becker said, “This doesn’t look right to me.”

Rodrigues looked at Becker, tossed the gearshift into park and said, “Yeah? No shit?”

Becker looked at Rodrigues then back at the house. “I don’t see the car.”

“You want point?”

“Yeah. I don’t think anything will happen, but I still want you drawn and ready. Got it?”

“Let’s do this.”

They got out together—synchronized cops, and walked to the door through the living room, skirting furniture. Becker made to ring the doorbell, but there was no button. They looked at each other again before Becker knocked on the door. After the third knock, he tried the knob and was surprised to find the door open. The knob was only a knob; it didn’t turn, there was no keyhole, and there was no latch.

Becker raised his weapon, nodded to Rodrigues and then entered, aiming as he scanned the inside. Rodrigues was right behind him, scanning and aiming as well. Both came out of their crouch, lowering their weapons.

They had stepped out into a dark, parched, and barren landscape. The few trees in sight were phantoms; leafless and stunted. There was a distant muted light in the sky as if from a fingernail moon on a foggy night. Something bug-like skittered across at a distance.

“Fuuuuck me,” Rodrigues said.

They both looked back through the door into a sunny day. The door began to close and Rodrigues stepped back into the doorway to keep that from happening.

Becker turned with his gun hanging by his side and made to walk back out, an exit which was relative. Rodrigues stepped aside to allow Becker egress into the living room and then followed to sit on the arm of a couch.

“What now boss?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, what the hell was that?”

“I didn’t see no Lincoln.”

“The inside is outside and the far-out is inside.”

“Say again?”

Becker looked at Rodrigues, just to see if he was fucking with him. Rodrigues looked sincere.

“All this inside stuff; the furniture, the flooring, the appliances. It all belongs inside, right?”

“With you so far.”

“We go inside and there’s…what?”

“A whole ‘nother outside. A dark and freaky place, man.”

“Does that make any sense to you?”

“I gave up trying to figure out why some people live the way they do. As long as my crib works for me…Know what I’m saying?”

Becker walked out of the living room and when he got to the picket fence he turned to face the house. Everything here was so blatantly wrong. But you couldn’t bust a guy for that if no rules had been broken. They didn’t deal with code violations.

They were only here because Eastus Hutt, a total stranger to everyone and a guy who wore sunglasses everywhere, had spent an undue amount of time in town just before the water tower collapse which crushed three houses and several occupants. Also…his car had no plates to run.

Something as big and hairy as a German Shepard darted out the front door of the house. It was heading toward Rodrigues on six legs with its mandibles spread wide.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Becker raised his gun to fire. Before he could get a round off, something exploded behind him.

The bug thing burst in an eruption of blueberry colored glop.

Becker turned and Eastus Hutt said, “Wolf Ant. Communicate telepathically.” He pointed to Rodrigues, who was still looking around trying to figure out what happened, and said, “You there, kindly close that door please.”

The gun Eastus Hutt was pointing had a bore bigger than anything Becker had ever seen before, easily an inch in diameter. It was a revolver of cartoon-like dimensions.

Becker faced Eastus Hutt, his gun still drawn. He was ready to make an arrest. Before he could say anything, Eastus Hutt spoke up.

Flashing a badge quickly, he said, “You two have stumbled upon a secret facility. It would be smart of both of you if you forgot everything you have seen here today. For the sake of national security, I ask you to return to your car and leave immediately.”

They did just that.

Later, Becker said, “It’s after noon and I can’t remember what we did this morning.”

Rodrigues cocked his head, eyes searching, and said, “Huh, me neither.”


If this sort of thing interests you, pick up anything written by John Keel. Most of it is out of print now, though you’ll likely find his stuff at the local library. The Mothman Prophecies are highly recommended by yours truly.

Other names to look for include Ivan T. Sanderson, and Charles Fort.


A Mahatma Fatwa

I have to start by giving credit for this idea to Icypop Sedgwick, who stated on Facebook that she, “would very much like to be able to teleport.”

I thought it would be a cool business venture and proceeded to imagine possible glitches. It turned into a story idea in a matter of minutes. Here’s the short (and only) version in which I resurrect Detective Becker. Remember him? From “Tricky Treats?” Back in October? Ah, well…


He was the first to respond.

Detective Becker stood beside his car. Jacket open and pushed back. Hands on hips. He surveyed the quiet neighborhood.

There was the sound of a line gently rapping a flagpole.

In the driveway was a pristine blue ‘69 Rambler American.

It didn’t add up for Becker. This was the site of an international and technological incident? He simply had to wait for Chen. Detective Chen was the head of the Technology Crimes Division. This was his case. Becker was just in for backup.

Chen arrived in a Toyota Venza. It had antennas of every ilk lining the top of it.



“What’s this about?” Becker asked.

“We’ve been looking for a stolen Transpon model 208; finally coordinated it to this location. Checked with Nstar and they corroborated the utility spikes inherent with the equipment.”

“What’s a Transpon…whatever you said?”

“A teleportation device.”

“Really.” It was a statement, not a question. Becker scanned the house again, turned back to Chen and said, “Pretty small is it?”

“The garage is new. Added four months ago. It was built to house it.”

“Huh, you really checked this out. So what do we do now?”

“The last power spike was this morning. It coincided with the disappearance of the spiritual leader, Mahatma Ji Prem Sirhaj. He was freed by a mob rushing the prison in which he was being detained.”

“You think he’s here?”

“Unlikely. But the equipment surely is.”

“So we’re here for the equipment?”

“I am, but we must wait for Ramirez.”

“From INS?”

“In case Sirhaj is still here.”


Becker swiveled to scan the neighborhood again. A dog trotted across the street, tail high in the air. Chen’s car made sounds of contraction as the engine cooled.

Chen fidgeted with his tie, ran his fingers through his hair. Finally he said, “I hope the software update was done on this model.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“The Transpon model 208 is an easy hack without the McAfee firewall updates. If someone wanted to, they could really mess things up in transit if the updates weren’t done.”

“Mess things up?”

Chen studied Becker for a moment and then nodded and said, “Yeah, mess things up. Not everyone thinks Sirhaj is a great spiritual leader. A fatwa has been issued for his death.”

A late model Ford pulled up. The door opened at the same time the engine stopped. “Gentlemen.” She nodded once and said, “What have we got?”

“The Transpon has to be in the garage,” Chen said. “If Sirhaj is here, he’s yours. If the property owner is here, Becker will take care of him. I’m here to secure the transporter.”

Ramirez exposed her badge and said, “Let’s do this.”

They marched toward the house. Becker rang the doorbell. Chen tried the garage door and it opened easily.

No one came to answer the doorbell so Becker, and then Ramirez, joined Chen as he entered the garage. Inside, the blue and silver box filled out the space like a full sized van. The equipment hummed softly.

Chen went around to the side, pulled the doors open. The light from inside illuminated his shocked expression.

“What is it?” Becker asked.

Ramirez didn’t hesitate. She entered the garage and stood next to Chen. When she looked down into the Transpon, she took a step back and gasped. “What the…”

A vaporous miasma wafted out of the Transpon.

Becker couldn’t contain himself. He scanned the quiet neighborhood once again and seeing no reason to secure the garage opening, stepped inside to see what the others were looking at.

A mewling sound came from the Transpon. When Becker looked down, he said, “Holy smokes. What is that?” He started breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of feces mixed with the coppery scent of blood.

“That’s probably Wilson, the property owner, and Sirhaj,” Chen said. “This is what I was talking about earlier. The updates weren’t done.”

All Becker could see was a puddle of lumpy skin with limbs jutting out at odd angles. Three eyes peered out in different directions. Closer, a tongue lolled from a riot of teeth. The thing tried in vain to articulate a plea.

Becker couldn’t stand anymore. He ran out of the garage and lost his lunch. Prickles of sweat chilled his scalp in the cool winter air. It was close to the end of the year and he had his resolution now. Hands on his knees, he looked out into the neighborhood and resolved to ask his boss, Rodney Cooper, to quit sending him on the gross-out calls.

He needed some recovery time after this one.

Maybe even a vacation.

So, that’s it. I’d like to wish everyone a wunnerful new year!

Take care and do your updates…