Junkyard Guarded By Defunct Detective Agency, Spinning Dog

Great detectives are self-made men. To be a great detective, you must be disciplined, resourceful, incorruptible, and wise. A great detective always shows common sense. He does not allow himself to be ensnared in politics or the murky inner workings of the business world. Detectives are not for-hire thugs or agents of intimidation. Simply put: a great detective solves crimes.

For most of his life, William J. Burns was The World's Greatest Detective. This was a matter of national consensus. By the age of 23, Burns was already known for his crime-solving acumen. He cracked the famous caper of the Tally Sheet Forgers in Columbus, Ohio, landing him on the front page of every paper in the country. Burns was accepted into the Secret Service, and immediately set about busting counterfeiters and con men from Cleveland to St. Louis. During his first 8 years in the Service, Burns reportedly let no case go unsolved.

More crimes, cases, and headlines followed. Burns solved murders. He prevented kidnappings, broke up safe-popping rings, found missing persons. After his many years of crime-fighting in the public eye, Burns was able to parlay his success into the private sector, founding the William J. Burns Detective Agency. He opened offices in 35 cities and employed an army of detectives all over the world. He could solve any crime put before him.

Then-not-yet-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sailed to North America in 1914. En route to Canada, under arrangement with East Coast newspapers, Doyle stopped in New York to meet with Burns. Together they visited Sing Sing prison, posed for photographs, and then took the train to the Coney Island Police station. It was there, hot dog in hand, that Doyle declared Burns to be the greatest detective alive. "The American Sherlock Holmes," Doyle said.

Burns, when interviewed by reporters, was always careful to show humility. "There is no particular art or science in detective work; it is merely the employment of common sense. When crimes become mysteries, it is because the man who makes investigations lacks resourcefulness. It is astounding how simple it is to clear up what, to the lay mind, appears a great mystery."

In reality, Burns had a massive ego. He was, after all, The World's Greatest Detective, a title he aspired to live up to. While heading his own agency, he personally cleaned up San Francisco's notorious political machine, taking down Boss Abe Ruef and his marionette, Mayor Schmitz, the ringleaders in a massive land-grants-for-favors corruption scheme. With the help of his sons, he captured the McNamera Brothers, the pro-union conspirators who bombed the L.A. Times in 1910. He was a hero. He became wealthy, the favorite of businessmen and municipalities to solve high-profile crimes. He penned his own detective stories, which were printed into wide circulation. Based on all his successes, he was named to head the Secret Service, and later, the Bureau of Investigation, which would become the FBI.

But as he grew older, Burns became paranoid. He was wary of the rich because he knew them to be corrupt. Even more wary of the poor, because they were so easily corrupted. He hated unions. He suspected Jews of vast conspiracies against him. He penned lengthy articles warning the public of the danger of blackmailers. He refused to talk to strangers. He stopped giving interviews.

His temper grew short. Burns was quick to anger if he felt he had been insulted. While testifying before Congress, Burns flew into a rage during cross examination when an attorney repeatedly referred to him as "the great detective Burns". A shouting match ensued that led to his ejection from the chamber.

His decline was long and public, but when the end came, it was mercifully quick. While Director of the BOI, Burns was at the center of a messy public scandal involving retaliatory investigations, political favors, the illegal sale of public lands, jury tampering, and the thuggish intimidation of newspaper editors who opposed him. In 1924, Burns was forced from the BOI in disgrace, relinquishing his command to J. Edgar Hoover.

He slid into obscrurity. The William J. Burns Detective Agency was absorbed by another agency, and then another. It no longer exists. But here and there, traces remain, clues to a forgotten man's past glory. On the north side of the city, amongst the weed-filled lots and boarded-up rowhouses, is a junkyard, still in operation, guarded only by a defunct detective agency. Behind the fence and the razor wire, the dog in the lot spins and spins, chasing its tail. No one knows why. It is a mystery.