Burnout: Goosey Larsen, #1

By James Vachowski

Goosey Larsen isn't your average detective, and it's doubtful that he'll ever reach that level of performance. His annual personnel review described him as someone who "lacks motivation" and "needs to improve his interpersonal skills." Goosey can usually be found coming in late or sneaking out early, but when dead bodies start turning up in downtown Charleston, Goosey is forced to do the one thing he hates most: policework.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Vachowski
• Release date: Dec 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781393116790

Book preview

BURNOUT

by James Vachowski

Table of Contents

MONDAY

1.

2.

3.

TUESDAY

4.

5.

6.

7.

WEDNESDAY

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

THURSDAY

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

FRIDAY

19.

20.

21.

Doctor Demming has the Cruxion. I can feel it. The substance is stronger within this place, his evil lair. With each passing minute, I feel my strength fading more and more. I’m much weaker now than before it all started. Before it all started…it seems like so long ago. Hiding is cowardly and unbecoming of a hero, but I have no choice. My strength is leaving me. It is a slow process, a gradual weakening where I feel my body decay. No, a fair fight with Doctor Demming is out of the question.

Tremors pass through my body as I crouch in my perch high above the Natatorture Chamber. I cling tight to the railing to compensate for my poor balance as the saliva sticks in my throat. Unable to swallow, I allow it to drool past my lips. It runs down my chin and onto the catwalk. Even if I were to shout for help now, only a whisper would come out.

I can do nothing but watch as Doctor Demming enters the Chamber at a brisk march, pushing my friend roughly ahead of him. I knew he would choose this place, here where we first began to discover our superpowers. Leonard stumbles and shuffles, head down, knowing what is to come. Stoic to the end, he refuses to beg for his life. His face is still as a mask, save the slightest quiver from his jaw. Doctor Demming halts him in front of the open pool of misty blue water.

The doctor’s soft voice carries in this deserted space. I’m sorry to do this, Leonard, but I have no choice. Please know that this is all for the greater good.

I know what is about to happen, but I can do nothing else share his fate. I’m so sorry, Leonard. You deserve better than this--- we all do. But it seems that time is drawing to a close for the Super Squad, and we shall be no more.

Thank you, Leonard, for everything. You’ve done more good than you could ever know. The doctor’s face reveals some…what? Regret? Perhaps the monster is not completely without emotion. He steps forward with an awkward reach, as if to hug his victim, but his arms hang in midair. With quick, fluid motions, displaying both a strength and a grace that I envy, he shoves Leonard backward, turns on his heel, and speeds out of the chamber.

Leonard stumbles. He seems to hang over the edge of the pool for half a moment, as if suspended by an invisible string. With his body bent backwards and his shoulders stooped, Leonard’s perilous pose is almost comical. He cannot even flail his arms for balance, as his reflexes have deteriorated worse than mine without the Cruxion. I am unable to look away as he falls, pitifully, backwards into the water. My friend used to be so fluid and agile in the pool; now his strength is gone and he is lost. Worse, in my weakened state there is no way for me to save him.

Goodbye, Leonard. Rest now, you’ve earned it. I know that I will join him soon, as my powers have nearly left me as well. The days of the Super Squad are clearly numbered, but I know one thing: Doctor Demming will not succeed. He must not succeed.

MONDAY

1.

Waking up these days usually involves either a hangover or a cold sweat. Me, I prefer the hangover. Drinking before bedtime helps keep the nightmares away, and lately I’d been having the same terrible dream. It always involved myself at sixty years old, still slaving away at the Charleston Police Department. Of course, drinking is technically forbidden while serving as the on call detective. Covering the duty week isn’t a big deal, but that damned pager of mine had gone off at about six thirty. And again at six forty-five. And once more at seven, when the sound finally became intrusive enough for me to roll out of bed and grab it up off the nightstand. Respond to the MUSC gym for an 07, crime scene already 97, the message read. Great, I thought. I’d caught a death case, first thing on a Monday morning, and to make matters worse I’d have to deal with those weenie technicians.

Reeling sideways into the bathroom, I grabbed onto the sink to steady myself. There was a half-downed can of Coors Light on the countertop, still cool to the touch, so I knocked it back while the shower warmed up. What the hell, I thought, taking my sweet time. The corpse wasn’t getting any deader so there was certainly no point in rushing my morning routine, and I slid under the warm water holding the bar of soap in one hand and the can of beer in the other. Fifteen minutes and one more pager outburst later, I grabbed a pair of wrinkled khakis off the floor and found a dress shirt without too many grease stains on it. The pants were way too tight, but I managed to squeeze them on and coax the zipper closed by lying on my bed with my legs in the air. When I checked the results in the mirror, I seemed somewhat professional except for the small pair of plums I appeared to be smuggling.

I found my badge hiding under an empty bag of potato chips, so I clipped it next to my rusty gun and stepped out the door to where my unmarked Ford Crown Victoria was waiting for me in the parking lot. The eight-year-old baby-blue beast was covered in a thick layer of green springtime pollen and I suddenly wished that I’d taken the time to wash it before leaving work Friday, or on any other day before that. Come to think of it, I probably hadn’t washed it in a few months, but at least the dirt made it look a little less like a police car. I swear, you can be driving an unmarked car wearing plainclothes and people can still flag you as a cop from a mile away. The problem with being a public servant is that the public has absolutely no reservations about bothering you with the most trivial complaints.

After turning out of my apartment complex and pointing the car toward the downtown peninsula, I eased over into the right lane and snatched up the hand mike. 812, Control I growled, trying to sound overworked. I’m 08, en route MUSC. One of the worst parts of being on call was having to take death reports, especially for geriatrics who were inconsiderate enough to kick the bucket in the middle of the night without giving proper notice. The Medical University of South Carolina was a teaching hospital, the biggest in the state, and it was always good for a steady stream of whacked-out Emergency Room patients. Between binge-drinking college students, hypochondriac bums, fruitcakes overdosing on cocaine and the usual suicide attempts, MUSC made sure our officers burned up reams of paper with a steady stream of incident reports.

One summer a couple of years back, it seemed like there was a gang shooting almost every other day down in the East Side. It got so bad that the victim’s homeboys would drive them to the Emergency Room and toss the dudes out as if the place was some kind of a drive-thru garbage dump.

I grumbled as I considered the possibility of having to work a violent murder case instead of my usual missing persons files, which were always pretty straightforward. Even still, as I drove up the James Island Connector with the sun rising over the water, it took a lot of effort to maintain a foul mood. When I made the left turn off Calhoun Street onto Courtenay, I knew immediately that this case must have been something more than the usual hospice patient dying of natural causes. Two black and white patrol cars were parked up on the sidewalk, their amber signal lights flashing. Instead of being parked right up in front of the Geriatrics building like I would have expected, they were further down the street at the hospital’s huge new gym.

I parked right behind them in the closest space I could find and threw the blue bubble light up on the dashboard. Besides the patrol cars, an ambulance was also pulled up on the median, and I saw that the coroner’s unmarked van had also beaten me to the scene. The meat wagon was discreetly parked at a metered spot about half a block down toward Bee Street. Two older ladies ambled along the sidewalk, hunching over their walkers as they went, and they shot me a matching pair of hateful looks as I shoved past. I shrugged it off, though. By that point in my career, I’d long since learned that nobody’s ever happy to see the cops. Seconds later, I happened to glance back as I walked up the steps and noticed that I’d accidentally parked in one of the hospital’s precious handicapped spots. Oh well, I thought as I decided against going back to move my ride. It’s not like anyone’s ever going to come and visit those old birds anyway.

I nodded at the red-eyed Team One rookie who was standing outside the gym before hustling inside myself, taking the steps two at a time. I’ve found that whenever you’re running late, it always helps at least to look like you hurried to get there. Down a short hallway, I passed a pair of rooms filled with weight sets and exercise bikes. A few lonely seniors were already puffing away on the machines, working too hard to get absolutely nowhere. Me, I’ve just never gotten around to embracing the whole concept of exercise.

At the end of the hall was a double door, with another rookie from the midnight shift standing post out front. I mumbled a good morning at the kid as I pushed the doors open and walked into the pool room. Inside, I was greeted by the sight of a naked guy floating face down in the pool. His pale white ass broke the surface of the still water, creating gentle ripples around the full moon.

The midnight shift sergeant spotted me walking over. About frickin’ time you got here, Goosey. Jesus, it’d be nice if I could go home on time at least once this week! How’s about you sign off on Mark Spitz over here so we can pack it up already?

Chuck Johnson was generally a pretty good guy, but six straight weeks of midnight shifts were clearly taking their toll. Working past five p.m. tends to put me in a bad mood, which is why I always make a habit of ducking the night shifts. The same rule applies for weekends, since nothing good can ever happen at work on a Saturday night.

Yeah, sorry about that, Slipper. Traffic was a bitch.

He looked around real quick to make sure that his rookies hadn’t heard me call him by the nickname he hated so much. Slipper Johnson had been around the Department for maybe fifteen years, and he was the man in the know when it came to rumors and gossip. He always kept his ear to the ground for new dirt he could use to get ahead, and sometimes he’d slip a poison pen letter underneath the Chief’s door just to stir the pot. About five years earlier, two officers were on a joint patrol down in the East Side when they got into an argument over what radio station they should listen. Words turned to blows, boiling over into a knockdown, drag-out fistfight right there in the middle of Meeting Street. Thanks to Slipper dropping a dime in a nearby pay phone, Jive Five Action News got the last half of the brawl on film, complete with a close-up shot of their horrified prisoner locked in the back seat.

After that brush with fame, Slipper started carrying a pre-paid cell phone and a Polaroid camera in his cruiser. A lot of departments have problems with cops leaking information but at CPD, Slipper was a one-man flood.

I whipped out my notebook. So what happened? I’ve found that people are more likely to think you care about what they’re saying if you pretend to take notes.

Slipper was an old vet, though. Hell, that guy had probably invented the old notebook ruse, and he rewarded me with a sneer of disdain. First-shift janitor called EMS around 0600 or so, says he saw this dude face down in the pool. Those Rescue Rangers showed up with my guys right behind. According to them, the floater had no pulse and looked long gone, so we left him in place for you and your little brother to look at. He pointed across the open room.

I followed his finger and groaned. Squealer, otherwise known as Corporal Jason Mealor, was walking around the pool and taking notes at a frightening pace. I didn’t much care for the meticulous habits of crime scene technicians to begin with, but I definitely couldn’t stand that little rat bastard. In fact, the very sight of him made me nauseous. With Squealer, there wasn’t any one single thing that bothered me, but more like an endless number of tiny annoyances. Like for example, our crime scene techs get to wear these comfortable, baggy coveralls based on the idea that they’ll need to be bending and stretching all over the place in order to collect evidence. Now if I could dress that way then I’d never have to wash laundry again, maybe just spray some air freshener in the armpits every so often. But no, getting a hookup like that just isn’t good enough for Squealer. That guy actually has the nerve to get his coveralls dry cleaned each week, which serves no other purpose than to make everyone else around him look that much more slovenly.

Squealer was taking his sweet time about his work, even measuring the poolroom with a laser distance finder before he sketched out a queer little diagram. Slipper and I watched him do his thing for a few minutes, more out of amazement at his work ethic than out of any actual interest. Finally, Squealer finished up the diagram and took up a digital camera that seemed almost as big as he was. All we really needed for the case file was a few quick snapshots of the corpse bobbing around in the pool, but with all the effort Squealer was putting into framing the picture and checking his light meter, you’d have thought he was cranking out portraits for a Glamour Shots studio.

Slipper snorted in disgust, and I couldn’t help but agree. Both of us subscribe to the Keep it Simple philosophy, and Slipper more so than me. I’ve been known to trim corners on a case every now and again, but Slipper’s more likely just to hack the corners right off. I knew my friend wouldn’t pass up the chance to enjoy a little ribbing, so I nudged his elbow and called out, Didn’t you see enough ass at the gay bars this weekend, Squealer? Anyway, this dude doesn’t really look like your type!

The little rat flushed bright red. He didn’t have the guts to say anything back to me, even though he was technically the senior officer.

Squealer was one of the least popular cops around the Department, at least since a couple weeks after he got promoted up to corporal. His squad was working the evening shift down in the hood when a team of plainclothes officers from the narcotics unit got into a vehicle pursuit. Their suspect had tossed a .38 revolver and a couple bags of powder out the window before bailing from his car in the Bayside Manor apartments but since those narcotics guys never put much information over the radio, the patrol cops didn’t have a clue about what was going on in their backyard. Finally, some old lady spun everything up by calling 911 and screaming about a bunch of white guys with guns running through the apartments.

Now a bunch of armed brothers running through Bayside is an everyday thing, so no one would have broken their neck to get over there. But once the dispatcher reported that it was a gang of white guys terrorizing the ’hood, every cop in the downtown peninsula flooded that apartment complex. It’s not every day that a street cop gets a chance to slap the cuffs on a white guy, after all. The scene turned into a real mess, and it ended up with our patrol cops chasing the plainclothes narcotics guys through the maze of buildings. The actual suspect had jumped a fence and waded off into the marsh, but no one realized that until one of the narcs heard the suspect hoofing it through the pluff mud and tossed off a few shots in that general direction. Squealer was the only one who saw the cop take aim, but instead of doing the right thing and keeping his mouth shut, he went and snitched to the lieutenant on staff duty. That one little mistake cost the narc his job, and it cost Squealer any respect that he might have ever held with his troops. Once a cop gets a reputation for being a snitch, you can never really trust him again.

Let’s get him up and out of there, I said to Slipper.

His two rookies used a net to drag the stiff over to the side of the pool, where they lifted him up and onto a stretcher. The dead guy didn’t look too bad, at least not as corpses go. He was still wearing a hospital gown which mercifully covered up his front, even though it was sopping wet. There was no sign of any injuries, but it was obvious from the soggy tent being pitched that rigor mortis was starting to set in. Slipper pointed at the bulge beneath the gown. What a hard way to go.

The pool room didn’t look like much of a crime scene, so Slipper sent off one of his rookies to fetch the paramedics and the goon from the coroner’s office. The county’s actual coroner and his deputies would only interrupt their coffee breaks if there was some major crime that had gone down, so they usually just sent the newest person at the office out to pick up the body and a couple boxes of Krispy Kremes. Whatever their procedures were, it was none of my business so long as the paramedics stuck around to help carry the victim out. Touching corpses isn’t anywhere in a detective’s job description.

I gave the body a quick look up and down with Squealer hanging over my shoulder. The poor stiff was a white guy, probably in his late forties or early fifties, and he looked like he had been in pretty good shape. Definitely in better shape than me, but the funny thing was that I was the one still breathing. Look where all that exercise got you, pal, I thought.

More importantly, there were no cuts or bruises to indicate that any sort of assault had taken place. Since it looked more like an accidental death than an actual crime, I started mentally filling in the blocks in my report. I liked to keep my incident reports short and sweet, with no extra filler. In this case, it seemed like a patient had gotten up from his hospital room in the middle of the night and gone shuffling off in search of a second helping of Jello. The doomed soul must have gotten turned around in the maze of buildings and wandered over into the Wellness Center, where he slipped on the wet concrete and fell into the pool. It looked safe for me to chalk up one more case closed, and I’d probably even have all the reports done before lunchtime. True detective work isn’t nearly as glamorous as those cop shows make it appear on television. It’s really nothing more than using a little common sense, and looking for the easiest possible solution to a problem.

Squealer tugged a surgical latex glove onto his right hand. The guy had this annoying way of taking his time when he put on gloves, almost as if he had to ensure that the latex material fit perfectly around each one of his fingers. After that, he’d pull the palm of the glove back and release it across his wrist with a loud snap. I shot him a glare, but he didn’t seem to notice. Honestly, Squealer was probably used to people giving him dirty looks. He went to poke the body a few times in different places, watching to see how fast color returned to the skin. Looks like he’s been in the water for about four or five hours now.

No kidding, I thought. I could’ve found that out by asking the campus security guards what time they’d made their rounds the night before, and I wouldn’t have had to touch any dead bodies in the process.

I rolled my eyeballs at Slipper, who looked as bored as I felt. Squealer ignored us both and kept poking the body with his one gloved hand. Once he’d methodically worked his way down to the corpse’s butt cheeks, Squealer leaned in for a closer look.

See something you like? I asked.

Slipper doubled over with laughter, and Squealer’s face turned redder than the pools of dark blood which had begun settling on the corpse’s stomach. Slipper’s rookie came back in, leading the paramedics and the goon from the coroner’s office. He’s all yours, I told them.

Squealer hid his burning face behind that giant camera of his and snapped a few more photos as the medics wheeled the stiff out into the hallway. I couldn’t help noticing that the older folks working out in the gym were doing their best to avoid looking at all of us. Most people will usually want to rubberneck at a crime scene, to maybe catch a peek of the dead body, but I guess these geriatrics just figured that it wouldn’t be too much longer before they’d have a front row seat to the afterlife.

Managing an investigation isn’t brain surgery, no matter what kind of case it is. If the victim’s still alive when you get there, all you have to do is get him loaded into an ambulance