Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1)

by James Vachowski

  Slipper, one of his rookies whose name I immediately forgot, and that little rat Squealer were all huddled up along the side of the O+M, examining the store’s air conditioning unit. Me, I was still squinting from the early morning sunlight and didn’t see the dead body laying there in the overgrown grass until I had stepped on one of its arms. Well, what used to be an arm, anyway. The 07 was none other than Henry “Hooks” Thomas, also known as CPD’s Public Nuisance Number One. Henry had no arms from the elbows down, wearing a set of mechanical steel claw hooks for his hands. Depending on who you asked, Hooks had either gotten his arms blown off by a landmine in Vietnam, or had them amputated after being electrocuted while trying to steal copper wiring from a generator. Whatever had happened, it left the guy looking pretty damn freaky.

  I’ve got to hand it to Henry, though, he hadn’t ever let his handicap prevent him living his dream. It probably took a lot of skill to load a crack rock into a piece of broken-off car antenna without any hands, never mind having to flick a cigarette lighter without any fingers. Hooks was always docile enough when he was sober, but once he got a crackpipe in those steel claws he was a holy terror. On the weekends he’d chase the tourists around the City Market, always begging for spare change. Most people managed to get free by throwing money at him and scurrying off as he tried to scrape the coins up off the sidewalk. With his glory days behind him, Henry looked like the most peaceful crackhead I’d ever seen. He was sprawled out on the ground, almost as if he was just relaxing for a moment to catch some rays.

  Slipper saw me wiping my shoe in the grass, trying to wipe away the bum’s bodily fluids. He gave me a big grin even though I could tell by his bloodshot eyes that he was clearly exhausted. “I told you it was good!” He slapped me on the back and pointed his chin over in Squealer’s direction. “What took you so long? The fun ended five minutes ago when that snitch got here.” Slipper flashed me a Polaroid photo of him sitting down on the grass next to Hooks, who was propped up in a seated position. They had their arms and hooks around each other’s shoulders like old pals and Slipper was giving the camera a thumbs-up.

  Maybe Slipper had spoken a little too loudly, but Squealer either didn’t notice or pretended not to. He was probably used to people saying things behind his back and anyway, he seemed to be focused on dusting the air conditioning unit for fingerprints. Slipper just kept jawing away, doing his best to ignore Squealer’s annoying work ethic. “Looks like your cousin Henry here broke the air conditioning unit open trying to huff the Freon. One of those bummy shelter rats came crawling back here about an hour ago to drink a beer and found him just like this, the screwdriver still in his claws and everything. But now get this: the bum doesn’t call it in right away! He takes the time to down his Schlitz, in memory of poor Henry he says, and then he wanders over to the payphone to call 911.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like the original concerned citizen.”

  “Yeah, let me tell ya, Goosey, we rushed right over.” Slipper snorted and drew up a big wad of phlegm, which he let dangle from his lips for a moment before letting it drop. The spittle landed in a puddle right in the center of Hooks’ chest. “He fucked that air conditioner all up, so the O+M’s going to be hot as balls for the next few days. Damn Hooks, he’s as big of a pain in the ass dead as he was alive.”

  I took a few glances around the narrow space. The case seemed pretty straightforward, and Slipper had just given me everything I needed to know for the reports. When it comes to paperwork, both of us agree that less is more. Basically, this was just an ordinary case of your average double amputee crackhead trying to get high on Freon but overdosing and kicking the bucket as a result. Big deal. It was a two-paragraph report, maybe three if I got long-winded. The real crime was that the store’s air conditioning would be down and it was shaping up to be a pretty warm week already. Charleston was one of those places where the late spring months feel almost like summer, so hot and sweaty that no one in their right mind would want to be outside. I personally like to hide out in the Citadel Mall during the summer afternoons, at least I did until all the other detectives caught on and started going there too. I swear, sometimes it looks like another CPD substation with all the cops wandering around the food court, each one sucking up the central air conditioning and trying not to make eye contact with the others.

  I’d left my notebook in my car so I had to jot a few case notes down on the back of my hand, but at least I didn’t have to write much seeing as how Slipper’s rookie would turn in a report with all the details. Slipper’s good mood must have been contagious, because I could feel my own disposition improving despite the ungodly hour. I gave Slipper an elbow and called over to Squealer. “Hey, Mealor!”

  Squealer looked back over his shoulder. “Yeah, Mike, what’s up?” He seemed curious but optimistic, almost as if he was grateful that someone was just taking the time to talk to him.

  “Keep up the good work on that crime scene.”

  He paused for a second, kind of like he didn’t know how to respond to a compliment. He opened his mouth with an awkward smile, as if he was about to reply, but I jumped in before he had the chance. “Why the hell are you dusting for prints? The fucker doesn’t have any hands! Do we have his clawprints on file from his last arrest or something?” Squealer’s face flushed bright red with embarrassment and he turned away. Both Slipper and his rookie cracked up, abandoning any appearance of professionalism. The three of us walked back over to my car as we left the little rat dusting up a storm.

  The rookie looked up at me like I had just become his new mentor. His eyes were full of admiration when he said, “Damn, Detective Larsen, that was cold!” The kid was actually a hair taller than me, but rookies always hold their heads at this awkward angle so it appears like they have no choice but to look up at you. I swear, these kids must get a serious crick in thehold back a smile. I looked over at the rookie, meeting ir necks from watching all those PowerPoint slideshows at the Criminal Justice Academy or something. Once they graduate from Field Training and their vertebrae can finally start the recovery process, the curvature of their spines is gradually forced out of alignment as the Department does its best to break their backs over the next twenty-five years.

  The rookie looked back up at me. “Detective Larsen, can I ask you a question?”

  I sighed and gave him a patient nod.

  The kid glanced at Slipper for a split second before he asked, “Why do they call you Goosey?”

  My own face flushed at what had to have been a setup. My eyes shot over to Slipper, who was trying his best to hold back a smile. I looked over at the rookie, meeting his gaze full on. “Well, young man, why don’t you ask your sergeant? And speaking of nicknames…”

  Before I could get another word out of my mouth, Slipper had shoved the rookie back toward his cruiser. “What is this, speed dating? How about you get started on your reports, kid! I’d like to get home on time at least once this week!” He turned back to me as the boot scurried off in a cloud of uniform starch and shoe polish. “Sorry about that, Goosey. Rookies sometimes forget that they should be seen and not heard.”

  Yeah, right, I thought as I ducked into my car. That loaded question had Slipper’s name written all over it. The story behind my unfortunate nickname was locked up tighter than a sealed case file, and if I had my way it always would be. It was still early by the time I pulled off, not quite seven o’clock, but going back home wouldn’t have done me any good. Once I’d gotten through morning traffic on the Connector and settled back into bed, it would be right around the time I’d have to get up and head back downtown anyway. Even with his last living act, Hooks had managed to screw me over one.

  I settled on a compromise, firing up the cruiser to head down Huger Street toward the Department. See, the best part of driving an unmarked car is that there’s no prisoner cage in the back so you can lean the driver’s seat all the way back when you have to. The position is a little uncomfortable at first, but I’ve never been one to
let small obstacles stand in the way of relaxation. Just moments later I was parked at the Department, kicked back into full recline and settling in for a nap. It had been a busy start to the morning, and there was no time to waste.

  5.

  Walking up to a sleeping cop’s patrol car and tapping on the driver’s side window is a pretty good way to get yourself shot, but simple common sense sure didn’t stop Big Jim from doing just that. I jolted awake, trying to gather my composure while I cleared out the cobwebs. My own special technique for cruiser sleeping involves tossing one leg up over the radio console, but it was an awkward position to recover from. Outside my door, Big Jim was giving me the evil eye as he pointed towards his wristwatch. A couple of rookies were loitering around with that worthless old skeleton Eustace Reed, all of them holding their sides and dying with laughter.

  Like Eustace has any reason to be laughing, I thought. That old bastard had been working evenings a few years back when he fell asleep right in his cruiser, parked down next to the City Market buildings. Tourists were leaning over his car and posing next to him for photos. He probably wouldn’t have ever gotten caught, but for the store manager at Moose Mountain Coffee was closing up shop at the time and she saw Eustace slumped down over the steering wheel. The clueless lady thought a cop must have had a heart attack or gotten shot or something so she called 911 and started screaming about an unresponsive police officer. Eustace finally woke up to the sirens of three ambulances, six patrol cars and two fire trucks as they turned onto South Market and jammed up the entire block.

  The Chief read Eustace the riot act, but all things considered the dude still got off easy. His only punishment was reassignment to a foot patrol, forced to work without a cruiser. I heard that Chief Green was bragging about the transfer, saying, “I’d like to see that sonofabitch fall asleep when he’s standing up for the whole shift!” I’ll admit, sleeping on your feet was definitely a challenge, but there’s been at least a time or two when I’d almost managed it.

  I looked down at my watch, which read 9:15 already. Damn, I thought to myself. How can I get called in two hours early and still be late for work? I rubbed my eyes, got out of the car and mumbled, “Morning, boss.” The crowd of cops behind Jim fell back a respectable distance, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of an old-school ass chewing, but I couldn’t really get upset at their shameless display of voyeurism. Watching a dressing-down is always entertaining, just so long as it’s happening to someone else.

  Big Jim gave me that yellow smile of his and said, “’Morning yourself, Sunshine. I can see you’ve got a busy schedule today. When you find the time, I want to see you in my office. Let’s say in five minutes?”

  “Sounds great, boss,” I croaked, trying to clear the frog out of my throat. I bent back down inside my car and tried to look busy rummaging through the files laying across the backseat as Jim waddled off towards the door. Judging by the speed he was moving, there was no need for me to hurry. Just making it to the stairwell would probably take that guy at least another five minutes.

  I snuck another glance over at Eustace Reed, who had found a digital camera somewhere. The dude looked close to tears, heartbroken that he’d missed his chance to use it. Knowing Eustace, he’d probably missed his moment while trying to screw a flashbulb in.

  I shoved past him and grunted, “Leave the technology to the rookies, Eustace.” And as much as it exhausted me to do it, I walked all the way around the building just to make sure I wouldn’t catch up to Big Jim. Beating him to his office would just be one more reminder of how far out of shape he’d gotten, and I didn’t want to do anything that would cause him to slip into a bad mood before our meeting. I took the scenic route, which coincidentally happened to bring me past the break room. I grabbed a Coke and a Twinkie from the vending machines and just for good measure, flipped through a couple of cable channels on the television.

  Nearly fifteen minutes later, I finally slid into Jim’s office. He was still a little red in the face and breathing heavy from the exertion of climbing up a flight of stairs, but at least it didn’t look like he was still sore about catching me sleeping. I was feeling emboldened at that point, so I chose the chair on the right side of his desk, directly in front of his good eye.

  Jim grinned, and I knew I was in the clear. I guess being a lieutenant can be a stressful job sometimes, so commanders probably just like to blow off a little steam by chewing someone out. Word around the Department was that Big Jim used to be a real hell-raiser back in his younger days, always looking for any excuse to maul a wayward rookie. The way I heard it, Jim used to actually follow patrol cops around on their beats, checking to make sure that they’d locked their cruiser doors after they pulled up at a call for service. Once, when some poor rookie had left his cruiser open after jumping out on a foot chase, Big Jim pulled in behind him and emptied a whole can of pepper spray into the kid’s car. Yeah, that’s the kind of reminder you only have to get once.

  As I shifted around in my seat, Big Jim went right to work giving me a hard time. “If it isn’t CPD’s finest, my main man in Missing Persons, and right on time as usual.” I just shrugged my shoulders and grinned back at him. I certainly didn’t want to get on Jim’s bad side and risk getting hit with a blast of pepper spray the next time I opened my file cabinet.

  He went on to ask, “So how are we coming on the Great Crawlstroke Caper?”

  I flipped open the file folder and thumbed through a couple of pages as if I had actually done some work on the case. “Well, you already know that we ran his fingerprints and got a hit back on Mister Leonard Encienario, missing from Illinois since December last year. The report said he was in good health at the time, except for a minor case of depression right around Christmas. Dude went off the map until yesterday, where he surfaced…”

  I looked up at Big Jim to see if he had caught the pun, but he was still chewing on his pencil as if he’d skipped breakfast.

  “…here at MUSC. The autopsy was yesterday, no signs of any injuries common to an assault, so the cause of death went down as an accidental drowning. I’ll spend the rest of the day closing out the case.” My brief was short, to the point and closed in a day, just the way Big Jim liked all his cases. I looked up, waiting for his approval.

  Instead of heaping praise in my direction, Jim shifted his weight in his chair and cleared his throat. “I’ve got the weekly staff meeting with the Chief tomorrow and mysterious floaters never look good, especially when they’re turning up in hospital pools instead of in the Cooper River where they belong. Let’s say the Chief wants to know just how Encienario came to be in Charleston. What should I tell him?”

  I groaned. His question was a prime example of why I never wanted to be promoted any higher than Private First Class. Commanders always had to think in terms of the Department’s image, and of how their cases would look to the public. I’ll give Big Jim a shred of credit, though, on an average day he was a cut above most other supervisors. I swear, we’ve got some lieutenants and captains running around CPD who jump to schedule press conferences every time some rookie makes a collar on a nickel bag of weed. But Jim, he usually avoided cameras like the plague. He was much more concerned with staying out of the spotlight and making sure both his fat ass and his fat pension were covered.

  Just the same, I gave him my best look of exasperation. “Hell, boss, just tell him it’s tourist season. Tell him the guy was looking into going to medical school. I don’t really give a crap what you say, and neither should the Chief. The only people who should care one bit about this guy are those mall cop wannabes at the Champaign PD, seeing as how we just solved their one open case.”

  Jim snorted. “Awright, awright. Give them a call, why doncha, and clear it out together. Get with MUSC too, find out if he was actually a patient there and you know, do whatever it is you do with these garbage cases.”

  I sighed and jotted his order down in the file as I saw all my free time disappear in an instant. His dismissive tone had
made it sound like the meeting was finished, so I gathered my things and stood up.

  “Not so fast, Goosey” Jim interrupted, stopping me before I hit the door. “What was up with the Hook Man this morning? Didn’t you give him CPR?” He gave me that yellow grin again and I couldn’t hold back a shudder. I tried to imagine whose lips were more disgusting, Big Jim’s or Hooks’. To be sure, Hooks had some chapped and crusty gums, but there was no telling where Jim’s dentures might have been the night before.

  “Henry’s time had come, boss. The boys tried, but Sergeant Johnson and his squad just couldn’t save him.”

  Jim gave me another wide grin since he knew exactly how hard Slipper’s squad would’ve worked to resuscitate the Hook Man. He squinted as if he was thinking hard on a puzzle before his intellect quickly surrendered. When Jim scratched his head, a cloud of dandruff puffed outwards and hung in the air like a tiny snowstorm. “I thought Hooks was strictly a crackhead. When did he downgrade to huffing Freon?”

  Just like any other lieutenant, Jim spent more time behind his desk than behind the wheel of a patrol car, so I figured that it was my job to keep him informed. “The narcotics unit finally got off their asses and shut down that crack house on Walnut Street last month, boss. All the homeless shelter rats that used to get their rocks there have been out of luck lately, so maybe Henry just needed a new way to get high?”

  A look of comprehension came over Jim’s face, almost as if he had suddenly remembered all of the drug-related shootings he still had pending. “Okay, I’ll buy that. This one’s your case, Goosey. Write up a report clearing it, one page or less, and be sure to send a copy off to the Team Three investigator. They’ve had a handful of Freon thefts out on Johns Island in the past two months, so they’ll be able to clear a few cases by pinning the blame on Hooks.”

  I started to ask Jim how Hooks, a tall black guy with shiny metal arms, could have possibly gotten around the backwoods country of Johns Island without being noticed, but quickly decided against digging too deep. It was entirely possible that some Team One patrol rookie might have just gotten fed up with the Hook Man and dumped him off in the woods one night like an unwanted puppy. Whatever the reasoning behind his frame-up, I kept my trap shut and ducked out the door before Jim could stick me with any more assignments.