Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1)

by James Vachowski

  I laughed for real that time, as I came to the decision that maybe Sergeant Fred Eagen was an all right guy after all.

  My laugh must have encouraged him, because he went on. “She did say that Leonard had been feeling depressed over the holidays, but I didn’t think anything of it. Hell, it seems like everyone around here gets the blues at Christmas.”

  I could relate since I hated Christmas too. Robberies and auto break-ins always skyrocketed during the month of December, but the absolute worst part was the fact that it got dark so damn early. See, every year from Thanksgiving till New Year’s the James Island County Park puts on this drive-through holiday lightshow. It’s intended to be great family fun and all, but it always backs up traffic for miles right around the time I got off work. Let me tell you what, it’s impossible to be full of Christmas cheer when you’re stuck on Riverland Drive behind a slow parade of minivans packed with snot-nosed kids. “Fred, I’ll bet your winters up there would make anyone depressed.”

  He laughed again, and I couldn’t help wondering why he was in such a good mood. Who knows, maybe it was because I had just cleared his biggest case of the year. “Haw, Mike” he said, “Sometime I’ll have to tell you about the winter of oh-four. Now that was a snowstorm!”

  Not if I can help it, I thought. “Listen Fred, I’ll get a hold of you if we turn up anything else, but as of right now the coroner ruled it an accidental drowning so I’ll be writing it off my books.”

  “Sounds good, Mike. Thanks for all your help.” As I lowered the handset into the telephone cradle, I could still hear him talking. “…and just let me know if you need anything from …..”

  Yeah, right. That guy had already screwed me over by taking a report on Encienario in the first place, so I sure as hell wasn’t going to tempt fate by asking him for anything else. A quick glance at the clock told me it was almost lunchtime, which explained why the office was looking deserted. Chadwick Lyons had already left and taken his baby photos with him, so only Clyde Edwards was left behind. That broken old fool was still rooted to his desk and blabbing away on the phone, no doubt talking to one of his seventeen illegitimate kids.

  Across the room, Debbie Carlson was working on breaking in her brand-new folding chair while doing her best not to look my way. Her round face was still all puffy and red, which told me it was as good a time as ever to head for the exit. Talking on the phone was always tiring for me, and I figured that an extended, executive-length lunch break was in order.

  6.

  Three hours, two newspapers and one Arby’s roast beef sandwich later, I finally managed to shuffle my way back into the station. I did my best to keep my head down, trying to blend in with the herd of all the other career cops who were migrating back in from their morning duties. See, you can always tell the cops who’re trying to make it all the way until retirement as opposed to the guys who’re looking for other work. The career guys are the ones who always seem to be looking down at the ground, shoulder slumped. Once a guy makes the decision to stick with the job until retirement, the Department’s got him by the balls and they know it. The command staff can get a cop to jump through endless hoops just by dangling that pension in front of them. Most of the smarter rookies jump ship to federal jobs once they get wise to the good-ol’ boy system that runs this dump.

  I was in a particularly foul mood as I headed upstairs to the office. Normally, I try to save my fieldwork for later in the day because it gives me a good excuse to duck out early, but any hopes for making a timely exit had been crushed when Big Jim called my cell phone and ordered me to his office.

  As I pulled out of the restaurant parking lot, I couldn’t help wondering just how Jim had gotten my cell number in the first place since I’d only given it to a select few people at the Department. Other than being kept in the loop when it comes to the rumor mill, I really don’t care to be bothered when I’m off duty, or even when I’m on duty for that matter. I swear, having to carry that damned pager was bad enough. But if Big Jim actually had used his detective skills to get a hold of my cell phone number, I’ll give him credit for not abusing the privilege and having it listed in the personnel directory. In my book, anyway, that’s a sure sign of a great boss.

  Still, before I went upstairs I made sure to duck into the squad room to snatch a copy of the orders of the day. The orders are really nothing important, just a printout of stolen cars and wanted suspects, but it always helps to have something in your hands when you’re going to see the boss. Walk fast and carry a piece of paper, that’s been the secret to my success.

  The door to Big Jim’s office was open but I still knocked, more out of habit than any actual courtesy. “What’s the word, boss?” Looking inside, I was surprised to see that bastard Squealer sitting there. He had already claimed the chair on the left so I was stuck with the hot seat, directly in the line of fire of Jim’s good eye. I knew that the news couldn’t be good if Squealer was there, since Jim couldn’t stand that rat any more than I could. The few times I remember Squealer being allowed into Jim’s office, my boss had always been careful to turn up the volume on his radio just in case the little snitch was wearing a wire under his shirt. Jim had some kind of suspicion that Squealer was angling for a job with Internal Affairs, so he always chose his words carefully around him. I figured it was probably in my best interests to act civil, so I managed a nod in Squealer’s direction.

  Jim looked at the paperwork I was holding and bit his spotted lip, clearly holding back a laugh. He knew the drill, and he carried around a battered briefcase for the exact same reason. When he finally regained his composure he asked, “Did you get the Encienario case cleared out yet?” To be honest, I could barely make out his question over the country tune that was blaring out of the radio. Squealer was cleaning his fingernails and mouthing the words to the song, some twangy number about the singer’s dog dying.

  “I was on the phone all morning, Jim!” I shouted back. “I would’ve had the report knocked out already, but the coroner’s office found some kind of chemical when they did his bloodwork! My guess is he was in some kind of therapy at one of the downtown hospitals, so I’ve got to run over to MUSC and go through their patient records! Maybe they just misplaced his files or something!”

  Jim nodded. Mercifully, the song on the radio ended. A commercial for one of the car dealerships out on Savannah Highway came on next, which was even louder than the music. Jim shouted back over the advertisement, “Good. I need you to get that done today!”

  Rather than yell back at him, I just nodded. My excuses for ducking out of work early were always pretty good, but when you’re following a commander’s orders you’re practically golden.

  Big Jim saw me trying to hold back my grin. “Don’t look so happy, Goosey. I’ve got another present for you!”

  Great, I thought. As if I’m not already swamped with work. “What’s up, boss?”

  Squealer shifted in his seat and spoke up in his usual squeaky whisper. I’d succeeded in not making eye contact with that little turd so far, but now I had no choice but to turn my body around in the chair and face him. Jim and I both had to lean in closer to hear Squealer’s nonsense over the noise from the radio. It sounded like he said, “I lifted some latent fingerprints from the air conditioning unit at the O+M grocery store this morning.”

  The radio commercial come to an end, replaced by some other cracker wailing about how his wife ran off and left him and took his new truck with her.

  “Squeal--” I started to say, catching myself just as Big Jim flashed me a look of warning from his twitchy eye. “Mealor,” I sputtered, “Henry Thomas didn’t have any hands. You know that’s why we called him Hooks, don’t you?”

  Jim must have been worried about Squealer filing a complaint on me for insubordination, because he frowned and shook his head. My boss was still biting down on his lip and doing his best to keep from cracking up, though, so his glare didn’t really have the stern effect he’d intended.

  Jim comp
osed himself and said in the loud, clear voice of a command staff officer, “So that means that someone else must have been at the O+M store when Henry died. There’s someone out there who’s either a suspect or a witness to poor Mister Thomas’ untimely death.” He was leaning over his desk and it almost seemed like he was trying to speak directly into the buttons on Squealer’s shirt.

  I couldn’t hold back my groan. I swear, cops like Squealer really make me sick. His kind are the type who never want to do their own jobs, but never hesitate to go around making more work for everyone else. “A witness to some bum huffing Freon, huh? Big deal. Come on, Jim, what do you want me to do, go down to the homeless shelter to canvass for witnesses? Ask around to see if anyone saw a crackhead getting high last night?” I snorted at my own joke. “I’m sure that’s a real rare sight in the ’hood.”

  Squealer turned bright red and wriggled in his chair. He was stammering by that point, struggling to get the words out. “B…b…but Mike.”

  Geez, I thought. Here’s this guy almost forty years old, and his voice still breaks like he’s going through puberty. “What, Squealer?” I said, in as pissed-off of a tone as I could manage. It didn’t require much of an effort to muster up a controlled rage.

  He slumped down in his chair, barely managing to make himself heard over the howling country music. “The thing is…when I ran the prints, I got a hit back almost immediately.”

  I just stared at that little turd, mentally willing him to slide off the chair and down onto the carpet. It didn’t work.

  Squealer went right on along with flapping his gums. “The prints came from a missing person out of CPD. One of your cases.”

  My skin tingled. I always react the same way under pressure, sort of like a sixth sense that kicks in whenever there’s a chance I’m about to be thrown under the bus. I only had a handful of open files on actual missing persons at the time, and none of them were alleged to be junkies or huffers. “One of mine?”

  Squealer sat up a little straighter. He handed me the printout from our identification office and asked, “The extension at your desk is -7420, right? That was listed as the contact number for the investigating officer, should the man ever be located.”

  I glanced down at the printout, skimming the particulars. James Smithson was listed in the database as a forty-two-year-old white male who’d been missing from his home on James Island since January. The name didn’t ring a bell but honestly, there was no telling what sort of garbage files might have been buried down in my filing cabinet.

  I looked over at Jim, who had a grin of smug amusement creeping slowly across his face.

  “Boss, I didn’t enter this guy into NCIC. Look here, this report was taken back in January. I was still working property crimes then.”

  Jim gave me his toothy yellow grin and leaned all the way back in his chair. He howled over the music, “Just consider it a going-away present to you from your buddy Benson.”

  I let out a sigh at the mere mention of Gary Frickin’ Benson. That fat, lazy bastard had retired just a few months earlier after almost thirty years with the Department. Benson had managed to slide quietly by as a sergeant for years, but he finally met his downfall the last time a lieutenant spot opened up. When that dummy got up the ambition to throw in an application, the promotion board reviewed his personnel file and saw he hadn’t included a copy of his alleged master’s degree. When the personnel folks asked for his transcript so they could update their records, Gary suddenly turned in his retirement package and got the hell out of town. Internal Affairs did a little investigation afterwards and found that Benson had never actually been to college, but had been claiming to have a master’s degree for over fifteen years on the job. As it turned out, that uneducated dummy had managed to pad his salary with at least $50,000 in unearned pay over the course of his career.

  When that all came out, the Chief was so embarrassed about having somebody get away with stealing from the department that he swept the whole thing under the carpet and left Benson’s pension untouched. Instead of the pair of steel bracelets that he deserved, old Gary got a gold watch for his retirement, although he still hasn’t come back to pick it up. The whole mess had worked out pretty well for me, since that’s when I slid over from working property crimes to cover the missing persons gig. The shorter, quieter days were a lovely benefit to the move, but the best part was that I simply didn’t have to make arrests any more. The only effort I ever put into working any of Benson’s old cases was to shovel them into a file cabinet on my first day, bidding them a hearty good riddance.

  “Benson,” I said. “Well that explains a lot. You know, I’ve barely had the time to skim through all those dog cases that bastard dumped on me.” I paused for a moment, hoping for sympathy that didn’t seem to be forthcoming. “So one of our missing persons is alive and in the peninsula – or at least he was last night – and he’s been hanging around the homeless shelter with a bunch of druggie bums?”

  Jim smiled at me. I could tell he was enjoying the opportunity to see his golden boy in action. “Looks that way. Smithson might have ditched his family to go off on a drug binge, probably. Go through the case file and talk to his family again, or something. Do…you know, whatever it is you do for those people.”

  I nodded and added yet another chore to my quickly growing list. Between the radio blaring country music and having even more work dumped on me, I was feeling the beginnings of a throbbing headache.

  Big Jim went on, “Or hey, maybe you could get a picture of him and put a flier out, go have Team One round him up for you. We can’t actually force him to go back to his family, not if he’s a grown man with no mental problems, but who knows, some patrol rookie might be able to pin a public drunk charge on him. At least that would change his status from “Missing” to “Located” and clear out another softball case.”

  You know, at that moment I discovered a new respect for my boss. Big Jim could be annoying as hell sometimes, but he had this way of cutting through red tape that I truly admired. “Sounds good, Jim. I’ll find his file and give it a glance before I head back over to MUSC.” I looked him straight in the good eye, doing my best to ignore Squealer’s proud smile.

  Big Jim shouted toward Squealer’s collar, “Thank you for bringing that to our attention, Officer Mealor. That will be all, young man.”

  Squealer shuffled out with his shoulders down, clearly disappointed that his moment in the sun had been so brief. I stood up to follow him but Jim cut the radio off before I could make it out the door. “Not so fast, Goosey” he said. “I’ve got one more case for you.”

  My stomach churned in protest. Clearly, it just wasn’t my day. “What is it, boss?”

  He smiled. “It seems CPD is being targeted by a crack ring of furniture thieves. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a missing desk chair now, would you?” He looked down at an incident report lying on his desk. “The victim described it as being black in color, with imitation leather upholstery and rolling wheels. Knowing the victim personally, I’m guessing that said chair also had a very well-worn seat and extremely tired springs.”

  I grinned with relief as I walked toward the door. “I’m pretty busy at the moment, boss, but why don’t you have the dispatchers get a hold of One Chunky Whore? After all, she’s the Property Crimes expert now.”

  7.

  Working in Central is a pretty soft gig in general, but that’s especially true when you’re working missing persons cases. Usually I only have to make a few phone calls, maybe pass out a couple fliers if I feel like it, and then I can sit back and leave the actual looking for people to the patrol cops. This business of being on night call was entirely for the birds. I made a mental note to burn some vacation days right around the next time my name would be coming back up on the roster for after-hours duty.

  I plopped down hard into Debbie Carlson’s chair, letting out a groan of despair. The steel filing cabinets that lined our office were depressing enough just to look at,
but searching through them was absolutely painful. The cabinets were painted the exact same shade of institutional gray as the walls and the ceiling, so they blended seamlessly into our decor. Thankfully, only one of the cabinets was my responsibility alone, with each folder inside representing a person who’d been reported missing to the Department.

  Most of the time, the missing person turns up either alive or dead within a few days, so the bulk of my workday is spent closing out reports that the patrol officers probably never should have written in the first place. Every once in a while, though, some poor soul will go legitimately missing and just drop off the map. The actual missing persons cases tend to add up over time, and the original files have to be saved on the small chance that some new information might surface. I tend to get down on my job sometimes, but I think I’d have a much more positive view of policework if CPD ever made the jump to computerized record-keeping. That way I could just flip the off switch after lunch every day, so I wouldn’t have to face a constant reminder of our investigative failures.

  Honestly, I simply hadn’t looked through the files much since taking over the missing persons slot four months earlier. When the transfer order was cut I had to pull double duty for a while, closing out all of my burglary cases while taking on the ones that Benson left open. In actuality, all I really did was dump all of my case files into another cabinet for Debbie Carlson to deal with, but even that took up a lot of time.

  I opened up the bottom drawer, helpfully labeled “S-Z”, and flipped through the mess of files inside. The cases were tossed around in no particular order, but all of them were remarkably thin, as if Detective Benson had put his usual amount of effort into taking case notes. I pulled out the file marked ‘Smithson, James’, and flipped through it. There was the original incident report from the Team three patrol officers, a completed missing persons form with additional information, plus maybe half a page of case notes scribbled on a yellow sheet of paper.