The door was ajar so they didn’t use force to enter the house. However, the stealth of their entry was compromised when one of them tripped on the deep pile, orange, shag carpet and pitched headlong into a beanbag chair. They fanned out through the house. A purple lava lamp cast an eerie glow on the living room ceiling, which was flocked with popcorn-textured paint. Slivers of light from a disco ball danced across iridescent baby blue and pink wallpaper.

 An eight-track tape deck blasted through giant speakers. Insipid guitar riffs from a late 70’s, skinny tie New Wave band seared his brain. “Turn that shit off!” said the Inspector, “It’s making me nauseous. Get some lights on in here, I can’t see a thing.” Someone flipped a switch and black light created a blinding sheen of fluorescent colors on soft porn music posters, featuring all-girl bands from the 80’s. “My God, there’s no end to it. I took this guy for a disco freak. This just keeps getting worse!”

“He’s not in the house…looks like he skipped out in his father’s Oldsmobile right before we got here.” They looked through the bedroom, searching for items listed on the warrant. A plastic ukulele hung on the wall. A mood ring, pocket protector and heart-shaped, rose-colored glasses lay on the nightstand. There was a Polaroid photo of the suspect striking an iconic John Travolta Saturday Nite Fever pose. He sported a perm, mutton chop sideburns and glasses with thick, black rectangular frames; and wore a skintight polyester, floral body shirt that ended several inches above his flabby waist and exposed navel. A wide tie printed with images of smiley face musical notes adorned his hairy chest. Diplomas from Clown College and the Mime Academy hung on the wall. “The diploma from Clown College explains the shoes and wig collection. This mime thing is a shock to me though. He really didn’t have a reputation as a quiet guy. I’ll bet he drove people nuts with that “trapped in a box” routine.”

Whistling an old Bee Gee’s tune, the Inspector opened the closet door, revealing the contents. They stumbled back with a collective gasp. “This guy’s a real perv. This kind of sicko deviance just makes me want to puke! Look at all this stuff. He’s got a regular arsenal here!”

The closet overflowed with a cornucopia of tragic fashion choices, cheesy fabrics and garish accessories. It burst forth a dizzying array of body shirts, long pointy collars, Nehru jackets, bell bottoms, clashing patterns, sansabelt golf slacks, bolo ties, white belts, beige shoes, velcro fasteners, florid blazers and a vulgar bathrobe from a seedy casino in Atlantic City. There were scarves in loud paisley prints, polka dot ties and a powder blue tuxedo. The crown jewel of the collection was a lime green mohair leisure suit with white piping. It was a gruesome monument to poor taste and depravity.

His dresser drawers were crammed with white tube socks, striped hankies, floral print boxer shorts and sleeveless, “wife-beater” tee shirts. There was a small collection of plastic mesh-backed, one-size-fits-all baseball style caps hanging on hooks. It was a motley assortment from truck stops, NASCAR races and strip clubs.

“Mind if I smoke?” asked the rookie officer. The Inspector was taken aback.  “Are you out of your mind? There’s enough cheap polyester in this place to blow us all sky high if there’s even a spark!”

A voice called from the other room. “We may have a haz mat situation in here – the fridge is filled with peach flavored wine coolers!” The Inspector replied dismissively. “Save it for the boys in Bunko down at HQ, we’re the Fashion Police. That other shit ain’t our game.” The rookie looked at the gruff and jaded Inspector with awe and respect. “That dude is one hard boiled dick!” he whispered to his partner. “He should be. He’s been at it since the Fashionistas overthrew the government in the last coup.” “OK boys,” said the Inspector, “we got work to do…start baggin’ and taggin’ and get these vinyl records down to the lab. He won’t get far in his father’s Oldsmobile.”

Mr. Paul