Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1)

by James Vachowski

  I nodded again. Big Jim had put me in my place, but that was just his own way of reminding me that the simplest answer is usually the right one. “Okay, boss, I got it. But you know, I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than that.”

  Jim rubbed his forehead again, then rested his flabby arms on the desk. “You know what, Goosey? I’ll bet you’re right. There probably is more to the story, but what can we do? There’s no way in hell we’re getting a peek at the records from any research studies because of doctor-patient confidentiality. Even if Doctor Demming had agreed to cooperate with us, he’d be tying his own noose for violating his patients’ privacy. Now, we might be able to subpoena a list of just the patients’ names without any of their actual medical information, but not without some kind of evidence that a crime has occurred. Even with all this paperwork, we’ve got nothing. True, Demming is a loudmouth asshole, but you just can’t arrest white people for that. The only thing you really have” he said, holding up the files on McGurn and Encienario, “is two separate, unrelated cases, closed and tied up with neat little bows. And look, if it does turns out that there’s some kind of negligence going on in one of MUSC’s drug research programs, at least these guys’ families will have nice fat settlements to look forward to. But let me remind you, all of these lawsuits for liability issues are handled by the civil courts, and that’s none of our damn business.”

  As usual, Big Jim was right. I’d done my job, and these cases weren’t my problem anymore. It wouldn’t do one bit of good to keep pressing the issue when I didn’t have any evidence that a crime had occurred. All that could happen is Doctor Demming might get even more pissed off, and it would only take minutes for him to wreck my promising career by raising a stink to Chief Greene. The Chief’s solution to nearly every employee discipline case was to simply kick the offending officer down to foot patrol, and there was no way in hell was I going to walk the beat. When you’re out on foot, there’s just nowhere to hide.

  I said good night to Jim and walked out of his office before I could be tempted to argue the point any further. It wasn’t quite seven o’ clock, but that was a whole lot later than I usually stayed. In the back parking lot, a couple of the evening shift patrol rookies were leaning against a cruiser and having a little bull session. Once most of the dayshift commanders left, things got a little more relaxed around the department and the beat cops felt safe hanging out.

  The kids had an unmarked Crown Vic, so they must have been one of our jumpout teams. These were groups of officers who rolled around downtown on the lookout for anyone suspicious, which by definition means anyone who was young, male, and black. I didn’t know any of these rookies by name, but no one could possibly hope to keep track of them all, now with their identical slicked hairstyles and designer sunglasses. One of them must have told a joke just as I walked out the back door because they all started laughing at the same time. The biggest one tossed his head all the way back and brayed like a donkey, so I instantly nicknamed him Jackass. They reminded me a little of the Three Musketeers, the way they stood there together, so I started thinking up matching names for the other two.

  Another one, this kid who looked like he might have taken up weightlifting to compensate for only being five-foot-two, stood up ramrod straight as I walked towards my car. He seemed to be the ringleader, which probably meant that he’d been on the job about a month longer than the other two. “Hey Larsen!” he called. “Ever seen this stuff before?”

  The kid held up a clear plastic evidence bag. As I bent over to take a better look, I noticed that his knuckles were all scraped up. The kids had seized about a dozen small baggies of powder cocaine, all knotted up individually. The one spit on the asphalt as he said, “Got in some good street justice, too. That’s what’s real police work is all about, man.”

  He came across as a real wiseass, which made for a perfect nickname. Jackass let out another donkey laugh and the third rookie started chuckling a second too late, clearly trying to pretend that he understood the joke. Number three became Dumbass.

  Rookies, I thought as I shook my head. I swear, every last one of them signs on with the Department thinking they’re going to set the world on fire and single-handedly wipe out crime. These kids today don’t know a single damn thing but still, you’ve got to respect that enthusiasm. I mean technically, the crusty dinosaurs stomping around the station are still in charge and calling the shots, but it’s the young patrol officers who really kept hope alive for the department. Those kids were a literal infusion of fresh blood, and it was just what the old place needed. I thought back for a moment, and it didn’t seem like that long ago when I first came on the job myself. I gave Wiseass a friendly little pat on the shoulder and smiled at the other two.

  “Fellas, let me share a little lesson that my training officer told me, years ago back when I first started here.”

  Jackass cut me off. “Who was that? Wyatt Earp?”

  The other two let loose a round of laughter that I hoped was all in good fun, but I let the comment pass. “Once there were these two bulls on vacation at the beach, a young bull and an old bull. And so these two bulls were looking down at the sand, gazing at a bunch of pretty little cows down by the water, and the young bull says to the old bull, ‘Hey pops, let’s run down there real fast and screw one of those good looking heifers.’ And the old bull, he says to the young bull, ‘Well, young buck, how about we take our time, walk down there real slow-like, and screw ’em all?’”

  I started to let out a chuckle but stopped short when I saw the blank stare on Dumbass’ face. Apparently, the moral of that classic story had failed to clear the generation gap and an awkward silence followed before the three kids finally started walking towards the station. Wiseass sneered back at me. “Man, Larsen, you’re over the hill for sure. You sound like a commercial for Viagra or something.”

  There was no reason to stick around the station after that so I got in my cruiser and headed for home, where at least I had a television and a cold beer waiting for me. Fucking rookies, I thought. Nothing but arrogant pricks, every last one of them.

  FRIDAY

  Who can tell if there is life after this? I’m no philosopher, no religious man. In truth, I’m not much of anything anymore. My work will take the last of my strength, and I fall to my knees as I pray to whoever might hear me.

  The prophets have said what is done in the dark shall be brought to the light, and I can only hope this is true. There can be no Justice in the world if demons like Doctor Demming pursue their murderous schemes without penalty, but Justice can only be done by the strong and true of heart. Bold men must make sacrifices when they answer the call to serve. Men like Leonard and Shawn. Men like the Sentry. And now that I have chosen my fate, men like me.

  Doctor Demming’s lair is deathly quiet as I march through the front gate. There will be no skulking tonight, no padfooting to conceal my strategy. Tonight belongs to Justice, which can never be done in the shadows. The fiend’s secret headquarters wait at the end of the tunnel, straight ahead. As my legs tremble, I remind myself that all men know fear, but the bold press on despite it.

  I press on.

  A transparent glass window on Doctor Demming’s portal gives the impression that the work done within is above reproach, but the reinforced lock beneath is more telling. I pause to consider the obstacle for a moment, but this is only a delay. No lock, and certainly no pane of glass will stop me from what I must do.

  A small chair rests nearby, and inspiration moves me to seize it. The strength comes from unknown place, and it takes all my effort to hoist the chair above my head. I stumble forward toward Demming’s lair, but my arms fail and drop the chair feebly into the glass. A small, spider-web of a crack appears. It is the tiniest measure of progress, but it is enough to fill my heart with the beautiful gift of Hope. It is not the dramatic victory I’d envisioned, but it is a start.

  I pause to rest for a brief moment, which turns into several long minute
s. This one task is all that remains, I remind myself, and again I raise the chair up to drop it against the window. This time the glass shatters completely, falling down to the floor in broken shards. With a long, careful reach, I unlock the portal from within and step through. The beast’s lair appears empty, but still I am cautious since the quietest places are often the most dangerous.

  The beast has designed his office with a facade of respectability, but I know the Truth that lies within. I head directly for his storage cells and pull them open. His Truth is here, the evidence that will destroy him. Corrupt men run from Truth like a cockroach flees from the light, for it is the one thing that can destroy them. I scatter his papers across the floor, spreading the damning proof back down the tunnel. I can feel my life force fading from the effort but finally, all that the Sentry needs will be made plain. The task of stopping Doctor Demming must now fall to him.

  My work in the lair is almost done, as is my work on this Earth. The only chore that remains is to summon the Sentry to his duties. He will answer the call, brave soul that he is, and do what must be done. I am depending on him, as are all the rest. My time here might be through, but at least hope remains for them.

  A pause to admire my work one last time before I shuffle across the fortress to find a beacon. Throughout history, the call to duty has taken many forms. Presidents keep a red telephone beside their bed, superheroes scan the sky for beacons of light, but I am no President, no superhero.

  If ever I doubted my purpose, I am unsure no longer. I am a man, no more than that but certainly no less. It is only by the grace of the Gods that I have the strength to see this task through, and for that I must thank them. For my one last chore, I will signal the Sentry while honoring the Gods with a sacrificial fire.

  I fall to my knees inside a small cell, praying to the Gods from whom men have descended. Focus, I tell myself. The task tests my strength as I strain to overturn stacks of kindling on the floor. I resign myself to my fate, lying down beside the papers with my torch at the ready. My hand shakes, fumble at the last.

  I cry, but the act no longer shames me.

  I think of the Super Squad, my brothers Leonard and Shawn. I think of all the others, who envied us and wanted to be like us. If they knew the truth they would run, and forever content themselves with only the meager gifts that the Gods had seen fit to bestow on them.

  I am no hero, I am a man.

  I’m not brave, but I do what I must. I must save the others, or else they will end up like me.

  My mind has failed me, and now my body fails pitifully too. Concentrate, I tell myself, remember the training. Using both hands, I wrap them tight around the torch’s small cylinder. Both thumbs move up first, then down.

  And it works!

  A spark shoots up from the torch, followed by the smallest of flames. Gently, so gently, I touch it to the kindling and hold my breath.

  The fire spreads.

  What is done in the dark shall be brought to the light.

  Let there be light.

  19.

  The on-call roster for Central detectives is supposed to rotate every week, with the idea being that everyone gets a fair and equal share of the after-hours garbage. The duty week always begins on a Friday night, since most of the shootings and stabbings happen on the weekends, and this way the poor sap who gets stuck with those cases will have the entire next week to work them. Now Big Jim usually tries to spread the work around as fairly as he can, but it sure didn’t seem that way when my pager started blowing up again.

  That damned thing had gone off for the first time around eight o’ clock, but I hadn’t bothered getting out of bed for at least another hour. Honestly, it took nearly that long just for the ceiling to stop spinning. I’d promised myself the night before that I’d only drink a six-pack, but that plan hit a snag when I saw that I only had three beers left in the refrigerator. Driving out to the Piggly Wiggly after I’d shotgunned three tallboy cans hadn’t seemed like such a hot idea, so I’d stayed home and switched to Jim Beam. Looking back twelve hours later, that had probably been a poor decision as well.

  After a while, most of the room began to settle down and once I realized that only the ceiling fan was still spinning, I made an honest effort to get up. My pager was still clipped to my belt, and that was still threaded through the loops in my pants from the night before. My head was reeling as I fished them up off the laundry pile, and just walking across the room in a straight line was a pretty tall order.

  Now that I wasn’t on call any more I actually considered the possibility of taking a short-notice sick day, but quickly decided against it. With Big Jim leaving early it was only going to be a half day anyway, so I figured I could suck it up for at least an hour or two. All I really had to do was show my face in the office once before disappearing into the bathroom, where I could sleep the morning away. You know, it’s a lousy shame that the only quiet place we have at the station is on the crapper.

  Leaning against the wall to steady myself, I managed to snatch up my pager on a downward sway. There were six unread messages, but all of them said the same thing when I hit the display button and the green backlight came on. “63 MUSC 911 for a 76 and 07, 86 from 801.”

  Damn it, I thought through a red haze. I definitely wouldn’t be able to skip out on this one, since that mathematical equation meant that I needed to respond to MUSC right away for a fire that resulted in a death. On top of all that, the message was coming directly from Jim. The dispatcher on duty was pretty sharp to slip in that part about Big Jim giving the order, since she probably knew I wouldn’t get out of bed for just anyone.

  Double damn. I tried to remember which detective was supposed to be on call, but I couldn’t pull up the schedule from memory. Besides, there was always the chance that Big Jim might take pity on me and assign the case to someone else, especially seeing as how I’d had to shovel through so much crap already that week. Honestly, though, you could never really predict what would happen since working for CPD was anything but logical.

  I stripped down, stood under the shower for a few seconds, and tried to dream up a way to get out of working any new cases. Big Jim Cobb had buried a few skeletons in his professional closet, and during my time in Central I’d managed to unearth a bone or two. Back when I first made the move over to Missing Persons, I spent an entire week just cleaning the crap out of Gary Benson’s old desk. Most of it was rubbish but there were a few crusty old Polaroids tucked down deep in one of the drawers, all trophy pictures of Benson posing with drunk girls outside the Market Street bars. Most of the girls were pretty pathetic-looking holster sniffers, but it was the last picture in the stack that caught my eye. It featured Benson standing next to Big Jim, back in my boss’ glory days as a Team Two patrol sergeant. The two of them were sandwiched between a pair of halfway decent looking college chicks who were flashing their cheery tits and smiling for the camera. When I threw the rest of the photos away, I made sure to tuck that one Polaroid aside for safekeeping. An ace in the hole like that carried no expiration date, and I was saving it for when I needed a couple of extra sick days or a stellar performance review.

  As soon as I’d splashed water over most of my body, I got out of the shower and dried off with a moldy towel that had been draped over the toilet. I even took the time to brush my teeth before throwing on a pair of jeans and a golf shirt. That wasn’t anywhere close to meeting our uniform standards, but I hoped that I might be able to justify it after being paged out. If all else failed, I could always claim that it was casual Friday.

  I made it out the door in pretty good time, at least by my standards, and loaded into my cruiser. The engine turned over on the third try so I had no choice but to point it toward Folly Road and head downtown. There wasn’t much traffic so I guess most of those slobs with their cushy nine-to-five jobs must have been taking the morning off. I grumbled to myself as I clicked the radio on and waited for a break since the chatter was unbelievable. You can always tell when somethi
ng big is going on because all the cops who you never see from day to day suddenly start piping up on the radio, and all at once too. It’s times like that when every captain, major, and traffic cop wants to be some kind of hero or at least sound like one. Whatever the big fuss was all about, I personally wasn’t very excited since it could only mean more work dumped on my desk. As I drove down off the Connector I cupped my hand over my mouth to take a whiff of my own breath. It wasn’t even close to being minty fresh, but it was passable.

  A couple of chunky motorcycle cops had both ends of Courtenay street blocked off, and the circus looked like it was centered in front of the Medical University’s administration building. Two fire trucks and an ambulance were posted up in the median, and a couple of our Team One cruisers were parked up on the sidewalk with their blue lights still flashing. Big Jim and Chief Greene were standing on the sidewalk next to their cruisers, and form a distance it looked like Jim was on the receiving end of a one-way conversation.

  I drove another half block up Calhoun Street, then pulled onto the curb and popped the trunk. I always kept a police windbreaker on hand in case of emergencies just like this, so I threw it on and buttoned it up to the neck even though the temperature was already in the seventies. There was no sense in getting mauled by Chief Greene for not wearing a tie, especially not so close to the weekend. Once suitably dressed, I walked back down the street and broke into a half jog at the corner. The Chief was still reading Jim the riot act, but I hoped I could avoid catching the same heat by looking busy. It’s usually okay to be a few minutes late as long as you look like you’re in a hurry.