Autocide

By Ken Carman

The auto industry as it could have been...
The year is 2020 and Detective Ben Rengale has a problem. OK, several problems. There's a murder at the second biggest automaker in the world and he's been sent there to investigate. Ben dislikes large corporations, and is very suspicious regarding how they survived the 50s and the 60s. Ben is a bit of a conspiracy fan, as well as very obnoxious, quite offensive and finds jokes during the most inappropriate times and situations.
More problems: Ben thinks someone may be following him, and to investigate this murder he has to go see someone he'd rather kill than see.
Actual historical characters and events blend in with models of cars that were, and could of been. Expect the unexpected as the author and the characters interact, ghosts appear and flashbacks in the form of interludes fill in the stories beneath the story.
A fun read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483501161

Book preview

Chapter 1- In the Company of Attitude

Looking at Ben you would think he was in his late 40s, not his 60s. Youth followed him around with a sharp, shrill, Chihuahua bark, nipping at his heels. Ben paid youth back by giving it a little bit of a kick with good craft beer or, as a last resort... rum. But youth would always return in the morning and yap... You’ll never look so old that they’ll insist you retire, Ben... no matter what you do to yourself.

Ben didn’t mind. He just annoyed the dog back. Stay in control.

You might say the last thing he wanted to do was retire. You would be wrong. Retiring was the next to last thing he wanted to do, being nice, the first.

Despite being short, sloppy and a slight beer gut hanging over his belt, Ben was in great shape for his age. Probably genetic. Ben paid little attention to diet or the need for exercise. Ben’s mother had been in great shape until the day she died. After that, well, she was in no shape at all.

Though his black hair had more than just a bit of gray to it, that gray was so light it almost seemed blond: making him look younger than he was.

Ben’s eyes: deep, dark; a bit of fire in two pools of blue, pools of blue that easily turned into a raging, sea. Since he pursued his assignments with a religious-like tenacity one might call it a holy sea.

Being a homicide detective who often focused on domestic cases was his life; there was little else. Ben’s demeanor matched his eyes, his attitude: caustic, abrasive, more than a bit arrogant. His quirky, often dated, sense of humor was very much the same. His unique, intuitive, ability to do personality profiles of suspects and victims in his head was well known, and respected, statewide, even though his personality quirks were not. He had a natural knack for what was referred to as victimology, and as much of a talent for paininthefrigginassology.

From an early age Ben learned, no matter how he behaved, there was something about him most folks didn’t like. So he learned how to use that to his advantage. But, unlike many other detectives, he had a different kind of hard edge to him: determined not to blame the people most convenient, or simply because they were unpopular... but also determined to find the guilty by whatever means.

Ben had no pets: they took his rants and staccato punch lines too personally.

Cats refused to cross his path. His first, pet: a turtle, had decided to stay in his shell rather than eat. The second pet, a talking bird, died trying to out-rant Ben. His third, and last attempt, to have a pet was a beagle who ran away. The beagle had been owned by a wife abuser-murderer Ben had caught who had taught the beagle to howl every time he wanted a drink. The dog loved to drink. So Ben named him Thirst On Howl the Third. Some say a hip hop artist named Victor DeJesus had heard about Ben’s choice of names and decided to use a variation on the name.

Rengale looked away from Chief Jensen in disgust, muttering words under his breath just loud enough the Chief could hear.

You know they already hate me, after that letter I wrote asking why their company was never investigated.

Luke Jensen knew all too well. He had actually broken more than a few strings he pulled on trying to keep that letter from going viral. The infamous detective hadn't even bothered using a different name, or signing it anonymous. FLOX sprayed it over the populace like an Ebola-based bio weapon anyway. That had earned Ben yet another reassignment to a hated duty. Making insinuations regarding, and pushing conspiracy theories about, a local, yet powerful corporation was nothing a detective should be doing. Despite that, and more, Jensen knew Ben still had to have a long leash. But if he wasn’t so damn good at his job Rengale would have been off the force long ago...

You give me the worst assignments.

Because you’re good, Ben, we...

No, so you can rub my nose in it, like you do to your un-housebroken Scottie, ‘Montgomery.’

You could almost hear the wince in Chief Luke Jensen’s sigh, and that wince had little to do with the presents Montgomery left at night in his living room, bathroom or once at the foot of his bed in both of his slippers. Rengale had brought up an unpleasant memory. Luke hated giving in to Ben, as he did so often. This one had left him lonely again, yet another love of my life walking out, this time because he kept pandering to that obnoxious, offensive, irritating, infuriating... MAN. Jensen had just relented and accepted Ben’s second suggestion for his new puppy’s name. Such suggestions often made Luke wish someone would beam him up whenever Rengale was in his office.

I’m glad I didn’t take your first suggestion, Ben.

Hey, I’m an old car buff.

Yeah, but...

And a fan of fast, sporty, cars...

Yeah, but...

And a fan of the old TV series...

"Yeah, but I knew my girlfriend would hate calling my Scottie, ‘BeamermeHup,’ even more."

"At least you used ‘Montgomery.’"

Eh, she left me anyway. Besides: anything for you Ben.

The Chief looked away when he said, Anything... He really meant anything to get Ben to stop pestering him, or at least stop making so many bad jokes. Ben leaned forward, aimed his arrow-words right at Jensen, and pulled back his verbal bow...

You know I do domestic violence related cases, not chase after criminals who commit crimes against corrupt corporations.

Besides, this isn’t ‘domestic.’ It's a ‘kiss the huge corrupt corporate ass’ case. You know I think that's the worst. You also know FLOX interviews me from time to time just to hear some of my juicier comments...

I know too well, Ben. I do clean up.

Yes, and you do it damn well. But NOW you're going to start assigning me this kind of crap, make me go where I’m hated? You really want me to start hanging around the station more? I can do that. Kind of move in. Make more suggestions like ‘BeamermeHupp.’ Turn more squirrels into martyrs. Bring in my pet roach collection and bags of ice. Leave my Cruiser here more often with the windows down so it ‘airs out...’

Ben’s lips slowly started to curl up into an evil smile, contorting his face. He pulled out a stogy and a lighter...

Jensen wasn’t quite sure what some of that was about, but he was damn sure he didn’t want to know. And he didn’t need the confrontation: getting between the detective and his stogy. Since anti-indoors smoking laws had been repealed, nationwide, in 2015, no one got between Detective Rengale and the worst smelling cigars: the only kind he smoked. Hell, before the laws were repealed it wasn’t wise to get between the two.

Ben... stop.

The Chief paused. He had obviously come to a difficult decision. Politically he really needed Ben to take the case, despite the fact the detective had a well known, unexplained, curious, dislike for large corporations: especially the corporate giant that had dominated the city for closing in on 200 years. But he had a feeling the request from that international corporate icon was pretty much impossible to refuse... if he wanted to keep his job.

You take this one and I won’t send you over to the school anymore...

Jensen had just had just offered up a personal bulls-eye to Ben. Ben hated being sent over to Coquillard Elementary during release time to be part traffic cop, part reuniter of lost parents, lost children. The occasional assignment was really more punishment than anything else. Punishment when the Chief found out Ben had done something really obnoxious.

The evil smile, never quite leaving his face, Ben slowly put away the cigar and the lighter, and then said...

Fine.

Having gotten something out of a bad situation by being a pain, Rengale stood up, whipped on his black trench coat with a flourish and held out his hand; clenching it as if he had the power to strangle Jensen from a distance. The Detective spun around and strode towards the door so fast his black trench coat flowed around him. It was as if he was marching in time to music coming from his own mind.

Just don't slam...

Rengale slammed the door. The paper thin CompuVid screen on his wall shook and tilted just a bit. Luke was surprised Ben hadn’t broken the door, or the CompuVid, more times than he had. He had had to install new hinges several times. Confronting Ben would only mean the hinges would have to be replaced sooner, or he would do something even more obnoxious.

Ben laughed loud enough that Jensen, and anyone near the office, could hear.

Officers cringed. Rookies quickly learned that when Ben laughed his foreboding, low, gravely, through the Darth Vader mask-like, laugh, it was never a good sign. That laugh usually meant he was up to something. Practically any detective or officer that incurred this much fear and avoidance usually would be gone; except Jensen knew Rengale’s attitude filled Ben with more energy than a 20 year old rookie. And it worked because he used his tude like a termite, softening up suspects: getting every ounce of pulpy-like good intel he needed to solve a case. Ben enjoyed chewing up the scenery of a case so much Ben imagined himself starring in a movie he called, Pulp Friction.

Jensen sent him on domestic-related cases because he knew Ben was so good at focusing on solving domestic cases. He also knew Rengale was usually suspicious of any arrest made that was too easy. Ben would find out what really happened.

Ben and Luke shared a dislike for officers and detectives who made the easy busts more because they were easy, than because they were guilty: the kind of arrests that allowed real perps to get away. Of course this was complicated by Ben's deep dislike for those who abused their power: especially those in authority, and especially those who used their corporations to cover their misdeeds: or hold on to employees who had become far more abusive at home, and at work, than Ben ever imagined himself to be.

Ben’s abilities were highly regarded by the Chief despite crooked teeth, beady eyes, thin lips, always slurping his coffee, passing gas, noisy chewing, blowing his nose without a tissue and often talking to himself with his loud, obnoxious, stage voice. Yes, Ben was an interesting, handsome and attractive man... if you liked hanging out with very offensive trolls.

The police station Ben Rengale walked through was large and relatively new, though there had been a station in this part of town for many, many years.

Some speculated the police station had been built even bigger to make the local corporate giant feel safer. The worst of times, what many were calling The Second Great Depression, that started almost two decades ago, had hardly touched the area right around the station. Some resented the huge expense it took, the taxes used, to revamp the station many times over the years, and all the money spent to keep it all well groomed, well kept, because other areas of the city suffered in comparison.

This was not a time when taxes were well spent... or even spent much at all. Cut far beyond the bone, infrastructure was falling apart... but not in this part of town.

Back in the late 50s and early 60s, even though the corporate giant that dominated downtown for 100 years was still on the ropes financially, the city as a whole was in better shape infrastructure-wise. But not Ben and his mother. Their family was filled with just the kind of domestic violence Ben now dealt with so often. His father often claimed the only reasons he hung around you assholes is my job and the tail I get at work.

Though she loved Ben, ending her marriage broke her heart. She died after dedicating the rest of her life to Ben, and just Ben: doing all she could to try to make sure Ben didn’t become like his father.

So Rengale understood more than anyone why relationships were a big risk. That was one of the reasons he never married. It’s also why he worked the domestic-related homicides with an amount of gusto that was unmatched by any detective in the state.

Headquarters was bustling today; other Detectives, patrolmen and patrolwomen, were so busy that they forgot to give him as wide a berth as they might have. But they did avoid looking at Ben. Better that than to be greeted with...

What the hell are YOU looking at?

One Detective who gave him the widest birth was Dan Vito: on Sunday a devote Catholic, during the work week: a detective who had more than just a reputation with the ladies. Thin, mustache, sandy brown hair, the devil in his eye, he was quite popular with women, not so popular with husbands or boyfriends, and far less with Ben. Rumors about Dan Vito's sexual antics reminded Ben a bit too much of stories he had heard about his father and how his employer seemed a bit too tolerant of his behavior.

One of the many reasons Rengale loathed Vito.

Dan had attempted to tease Ben once about his lack of faith and his lady-less life. That's when Dan learned to steer clear of Ben. One day, driving around in his Cruiser, Dan picked up a lady. When they attempted to climb into the back of his Cruiser they found two squirrels tied to two little crosses. The squirrels acted as if they were on crack, a condition that may have been related to some missing drugs from evidence. They started to chatter as if discussing grandiose plans, then screeching in unison. It was a horrific sound; multiple voices of Jesus in squirrel form reacting as if they had actually been nailed to a cross, rather than tied. After that Dan received a call from the Humane Society about his squirrel fetish, via an anonymous tip.

Note to readers: no actual squirrels were hurt during the writing of Autocide.

Needless to say his date didn't go well. And being a detective, a family man; but also on the prowl for tail with his Cruiser, both Ben and Dan understood that only the two of them and the former lady friend would ever know what had really happened.

Dan kept it to himself, for obvious reasons, and both Ben and Dan knew she’d never talk. She was just glad to get away from one very squirrely situation.

Hi, Squirrel Boy! How’s Jesus hanging today? More than a little... ‘cross?’

As Ben made an obvious move to look down at Dan’s crotch he sang, just loud enough for Vito to hear, In Ah God-Oh-Danny-Duh-Vito BABY!

Vito hurried by so fast he hit the wall trying to avoid Ben.

On that wall was one of the many hand drawn wanted posters Ben had made, Wanted: dead or DEAD; Hunglikeamoose for posting to police web site notes about the best damn Detective in the Rust Belt. Ben was determined to find out who Hunglikeamoose was; an internet poster who had been sending love letters to Ben via the police web site. It was highly unlikely it was another officer. They KNEW how nasty Ben could be.

Winter was starting to express itself with wisps of white as the winds, tossing around lake effect snow, blew the door to the lot where Cruisers were parked. He pushed the handle. As the door opened he could see there was not quite enough snow to bring out the Oliver snow plows: a nickname derived from a local family that made their fortune with farm plows. Ben reached into his pocket, making sure he had his shaft with him. The shaft looked a bit like a mini billy club.

In a fit of anger over Ben’s sandpaper personality, a doctor told Ben how he had used something just like the shaft to torment, then kill, a patient who had been rude to him behind his back. Oh, and also for having an affair with the doc’s nurse-wife.

Might have a tad to do with the murder, ya think?

Ben had a snitch, who owed him a favor, make one for him. The snitch had also built his unlock device for his Cruiser into the shaft.

How thoughtful.

Of course Ben had put a small sticker with his hero, Darth, on it: Vader holding out a clenched fist as if strangling someone from a distance.

Rengale opened the driver’s door on the Cruiser; lifting his leg like he was about to do a karate kick. He dove foot first into the driver’s seat; mounting the car as if he was about to have sex with her: the only lover Ben had had in years. Ben loved his Cruiser, but the inboard MicroMac? Not so much. Dealing with computers was not his fav activity. But the true source of his ire was how Microsoft ended up buying Macintosh after the 2010 Big Mac attack that crashed the company. Some clown created a very nasty Mac specific virus that kept that little ball a-rollin, rollin, rollin as the computer started heating up until a rolling flame came out of the computer and burned the user: known as Great flaming balls a-fire virus. That’s when Bill Gates bought the company on the cheap and told the ailing owner to get a Job...s.

Jensen was tired of Ben’s endless anti-big-corporate rants that usually ended with some variation on, Mega Corporations: a refuge for scoundrels, con men conning down n’ outrels, societal rapists, kid abusing papists, thieves, murderous dweebs, ponzi schemes, rat bastards, Jimmy Jones-like pastors and... Methodists.

And if you understand that Ben, a bit strange for the times, was not only a lover of old movies, but also no fan of companies that gained influence through nefarious means, then you understand there’s a certain Meth-odd to his madness.

Damn computers, Ben said as he tapped the inboard and started to review the case. Usually an inboard MicroMac would also talk to a detective or officer, but Ben had had the voice module shut off except the emergency part: Navilifelite. That couldn’t be shut off. The voice module and Ben had gotten into one too many arguments. The MicroMac-based Navilifelite monster built into the Cruiser belched back information via the screen.

How rude, Ben said as he chuckled, then he read his specifics on his assignment. For a second Ben allowed himself a sigh, and then quoted a character from one of few movies his mother ever took him to called Roger Rabbit. He said, Oh, PLLLLEEAASSSE, I really don’t want to go THERE. Ah, screw it.

He started the Cruiser and pressed down on the pedal. New, quick grasp, centrifugal clutch tech made the Cruiser jump like a champion greyhound seeing a running rabbit made of pure sirloin. The quick hold throttle was a recent innovation Ben loved: made his Cruiser lighter and faster with none of the old hesitation.

No one would describe Rengale as a patient man, or a slow Sunday driver. He sped out of the fenced in lot in front of the station to the yells of the frequently dozing attendant, Slow down, dam... Bite me, sleepy head! he yelled back, interrupting the attendant who, once again, had unsuccessfully been looking for a way to fully express his anger because Ben's antics woke him up. He never succeeded.

The Cruiser roared out into the wisps of snow, cold and Christmas lights. Electric cars and hybrids passed by. He saw that formerly light blue, now dusty blue, sports car that would appear in his mirror, or pass by going the other way, every once in a while when he was out and about.

Just another regular who probably lives or works near here, Ben said once again. Since Ben lived and worked in the city limits he wasn’t surprised that he saw some of the same cars more than a few times though the car seemed a bit more frequent than others, as of late. Ben filed that observation in his head.

As usual, a few of the cars whose drivers recognized Ben’s Cruiser stayed back. Sometimes Ben would go slightly over the speed limit, waiting for drivers behind him to get comfortable, and then go slightly under the speed limit until one would try to pass. Then he’d turn on his dash police light; look at the driver and point. When they would pull over, he would just keep going, pull over down the road behind a sign, or a building, and then wait for them to pass by, and then start the game again. Kind of like a cat teasing a mouse. That’s why he called the game, "Tom and Jerry," after a very old cartoon.

Rengale loved old cartoons; old everything. That's why he often went to local Bonnie Doon for ice cream, for Boonie Burgers, Mint Chocolate Soda, memorabilia: pictures of old cars on the wall, collectibles. Bonnie’s reminded him of his mother, who took him to the 50s, 60s, now even the 80s, ice cream-burger spot every Saturday after his father left.

Ben had loved his mother with the love of a young child who only has one parent to love and, on the job, every abused spouse reminded him of his mother: who he wished he could have protected more... especially in the very, very early years.

As he got closer to the complex he could see the lights of rail cars.

Due to the defunding of government: the starving of government in its crib philosophy proposed in the previous century by Grover Norquist, plans to rejuvenate railroads had failed. Car makers had stepped in, making various models of rail cars, used most of the time by vendors and businesses to send out, and bring in parts, supplies. During the past 20 year deregulation craze all regs against using tracks were dropped, which had caused more than a few spectacular accidents. But since there weren’t enough funds to maintain them, most tracks were in such poor shape they were mostly just unusable, except those near really big corporations. No one ever claimed government is super efficient. Of course, considering all the bankruptcies and extremes companies would go to destroy competition, business has a similar problem. And this was a time when bankruptcies didn’t destroy the less efficient: more those hit with unfair business practices of mega corporations.

This was one of the few railroads that had been kept up, in part, by a partnership between the biggest business in town and their vendors. Often pointed to as an example of how corporatism was successful. Of course critics would just respond with, Yeah, but that’s pretty much the only damn one left. You’re claiming one exception rules.

He allowed his thoughts to stray a bit, knowing soon he’d be deep into the investigation. Christmas... alone, again. 10 years ago a 60 year old would be looking forward to 65 and retirement, now folks work into their late 70s. Me? I’ll never quit. I’ll probably die Christmas day in my Cruiser.

Ben couldn’t help but smile and say, YES!!!! What a way to go!

The lights of downtown seemed to warm him a bit. In the past few years new solar-based Christmas lights were introduced that gathered power during the day with new, tiny, powerful bio-batteries, one for each bulb, and lasted all night. They produced a soft glow all night long and looked lot like the big bulb Christmas lights from almost 60 years ago, warming Ben despite a deep sense of lonely he would never admit to himself.

Yes, innovation was still alive: but only because the local automotive monolith was an engine of creativity. If Mom and Pop had invented them, bio-bats would have been tossed in the business graveyard faster than a mob hit. Buried alive! Buried alive!

Since downtown was home to a local, yet international, automotive empire, there were acres and acres of buildings: so plenty of windows lit with Christmas cheer. Taking a cue from trees planted near the proving grounds many, many years ago, they had planted bushes that spelled out the corporate name; also decorated with Christmas lights. They were spectacular. Every year the all lights were fancier, attracting folks from all around the country. Even locals would drive around to see what changed this year. Usually there was a parade of cars that some officer would have to direct at night.

Ben knew this all too well. One Christmas time this was Chief Jensen’s punishment for his latest nasty prank.

Merry Christmas, 2020, Ben read as he passed the car maker’s complex. It should read: ‘8 years since the Mayans were proven to be idiots.’ Someone should have ‘clocked’ them for that 2012 BS. Only he didn't say BS.

As Ben approached the auto behemoth’s massive downtown