Barracuda Read Free

cares in the world.
    What
is it that made grown men regress when they played songs from the
early days of rock and roll? he wondered as he cranked the
volume on a Del Vikings tape. The uplifting song “Whispering Bells”
blared as he raced out of the driveway en route to his appointment
with Dr. Bellamy, the Bronx police surgeon, and Dr. Gladys
Goldberg, the police-appointed psychiatrist.
    He had been out sick ever since the shooting and
had monthly appointments to see both the department medical doctor
and the department shrink. This was standard operating procedure.
Bellamy monitored the healing progress of the leg injury, while
Goldberg monitored mental status after the shooting event.
    Most officers were placed on desk duty for
several months while the shrink screened them for any unusual
stress-related behavioral changes. The NYPD could not allow a bunch
of Quick-draw McGraws to roam the streets with guns and badges.
Some officers tried to milk extra time off for an injury, but
Bellamy kept them honest, returning them either to full or light
duty depending on the status of their injuries.
    Luckily for Micko, he lived close by and the
drive was short. It was a sunny morning, yet too cold to drive with
the T-tops off. The guttural growl of the Firebird’s eight-cylinder
engine mixing with the soothing tunes always relaxed the tense
detective.
    The medical department was on the second floor
of a North Bronx precinct. The building was typical of the Bronx
station houses, most of which were almost one hundred years old.
The city of New York slowly built newer buildings to replace the
older ones, but many remained open with landmark distinction.
    This particular building was a three-story red
brick monstrosity located in a heavily populated area. It looked
like a residence stuck in a bustling business area. There were no
parking spaces available, so Micko had to leave his Firebird in a
McDonald’s parking lot.
    The first floor of the building was a typical
Bronx precinct. A pair of green lights adorned the outer doors,
indicating that the doors were always open. Inside there was always
a plethora of activity—mothers screaming about missing children,
men complaining that their cars had been towed, crossing guards
awaiting their work assignments, cops coming and going with
prisoners who cursed them, and the never-ending chatter from police
radios. The interior of a Bronx station house was always like an
asylum.
    In the center of the huge room stood the ancient
sergeant’s desk. All people had to state their business to the desk
sergeant, who stood high above the complainants behind his holy
desk. If he found someone’s complaint to be trivial in nature, he
would look down upon that person with disdain and growl his
displeasure at having his valuable time wasted. If the good
sergeant took an interest in someone’s complaint, he would direct
him or her to someone who actually gave a shit. A desk sergeant was
like a god, so it was not a good idea to incur the surly man’s
wrath.
    Micko said hello to several police officers as
he entered the bustling building. He knew most of the Bronx cops,
but they all knew him. His shooting was part of a high
profile case, so it had received plenty of publicity.
    “Hey, Micko. How’s it going?”
    Micko turned to see his partner Gus Lopez
walking with a cup of coffee in one hand and a donut in the other.
They had met as rookies, and it was Gus who had given him his
nickname. Gus was a middle-aged man of average height and
proportional weight. Being of Puerto Rican descent, he spoke
Spanish very well, which was more than helpful since they were
working in the South Bronx. Gus had premature white hair and a
well-trimmed white beard, giving him an uncanny resemblance to the
country singer Kenny Rogers. Latin girls loved his mature “Q-tip”
look.
    “What are you doing here?” Micko asked.
    “The fiftieth precinct had a double homicide
last night, and they requested my help,” Gus