08 Forensic Fake Cop

Fake Cop returns in the shocking, explosive finale of the latest Fake Cop Trilogy. Will he find the Toucan Man? No idea. Will he continue getting used to his long-lost son? Maybe. Possibly. Temporarily. Will he be able to keep his son safe in an increasingly dangerous world? Of course he will. He keeps everybody safe around him. Well, kind of. And most importantly - will he finally get rid of that body in the trunk? Probably not. This is … Forensic Fake Cop.

Transcript

SPEAKER_04 0:28

Everybody, how you doing? It's Brad here. Thank you for joining me. Okay, what's up for episode sixty-four of the Sick Man Talking Show. Well, today, I present to you the explosive final installment of the latest fake cop trilogy. Part two was episode 63, The Fruit Loops Files, where the Fake Cop experiences being a father for the first time. Which was totally fucking weird. I mean, I'm just not used to forming bonds, you know. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty much incapable of it. It's this weird thing I've got with my brain. Causes a lot of other problems, too. I mean, big ones, you know. Anyway, will I continue getting used to Johnny Kelly Jr.? Will our new father-son's startup business succeed? I mean it should really. I've worked out a hell of a business plan, got some foreign investment lined up. Will I be able to keep my dumbass son safe in an increasingly dangerous world? Well, of course I fucking will. I keep everybody safe around me. Well, you know, kinda. Usually. Sorta. And most importantly, will I finally get rid of the body in the trunk? Because I really have been putting that off for far too long now. This is forensic fake cop. Mr. Wellsman, fuck it engage man.

SPEAKER_00 2:00

Sick man talking! We got a sick man talking here! Sick man talking.

SPEAKER_04 2:22

New market. 314 a.m. I was parked behind the Tim Hortons at Longford and Davis in my 2002 Pontiac Sunfire, thumbing through my phone, and waiting. The town buzzed, low and watchful. The town, not the city, the town. Somewhere down the block, a couple of loopers were looping out, and I told myself I was just doing what any decent fake op would do. Keep the peace, collect the favors, and make sure nobody got too comfortable. I just traded half a tank of gas and the mint condition, limited edition, 1989 swank, for four boxes of black market fruit loops. The good kind, the kind that makes your tongue go numb before even swallow. I stayed in the parking lot a minute before pulling back out, just to see if I could catch a tail. My supplier, some scumbag named Fast Bobby, calls the new stuff Primo. He says the sweetness is back. I tell him sweetness gets people killed. He laughs. So does room temperature water, he says. Fast Bobby fucking asshole. I hate that guy. That's New Market for ya. Everybody's got a theory on what kills you. And everyone's selling the cure out of their trunk. Because if there's one thing I've learned driving through the night, it's this. You can't outrun anything in New Market. Not the cops. Well, actually, you can outrun them. I've been doing it since 2006. Not your conscience. Well, I can, because well, I don't have a fucking conscience. But nothing else. Not even a 1.1 Uber rating. Especially a 1.1 Uber rating. I was supposed to head home early. Then this loop deal fell into place. I couldn't resist it. I looked around, didn't see any signs of a tail, and headed back to my apartment. And to Johnny Kelly Jr., who I was in the process of getting used to. He moved into my basement apartment after that Uber ride. I normally liked being alone, but as I said, I was kinda getting used to Johnny Kelly Jr. We had big plans. Father and son personal training meets personal transport. We're gonna drive you to your workout, scream at you while you sweat, and drive you home again in shame. We figured we'd mix it with the Uber gig. Clients hop in, we blast motivational tracks, talk macros and mindset, maybe throw in a few life lessons along the way. By the time we're done, they've had a full workout, a full ride, and a full-blown existential crisis for one flat rate. I've been thinking about it ever since I got back from California. I needed something new, something clean, something that looked good on paper. Personal training made sense. Structure, rules, repetition. People pay you to tell them what to do, and then they fucking thank you for it. I respect that. I figured the kid and I could make it a family thing. He likes talking. I like controlling the situation. He could handle the workout routine. Not the diet though. I can't have any clients seeing him eating those fucking fruit loops. And I'd handle the stopwatch. Maybe that's what fathers and sons are supposed to do. Take something meaningless and make it sound like teamwork. Drive the client to the gym. Tell them they're doing great. Then drive them home while they cry into their protein shake. Ride, rep, repeat. That was gonna be the slogan. When I pitched it to him, he looked confused. He usually does. He thought we would be driving people while they worked out. Yeah, I know. You know, like laps around the block, windows down, dumbbells in the back seat. I told him no, Johnny Kelly Jr., that's not how it works.

SPEAKER_05 6:37

He said, Yeah, pops, but it sure could be. Can't be fucking asshole.

SPEAKER_04 6:42

Then I explained it again. He nodded slowly, like he understood. Then he asked if we should install seatbelts on the treadmills. He started sketching ideas. Little dumbbells glued to the dashboard, yoga mats hanging out the windows, protein shakes and cup holders. He said we should call it mobile muscle. I told him to shut the fuck up, but he kept going. Said it would be great for people who were on the go. That's when I realized he didn't understand a single thing I'd said. But he was proud, and I didn't have the heart, or at least the uh the wiring, to take that from him. He didn't get it, but he believed in it. And sometimes it's good enough. Sometimes it's even better. I opened the door to my basement apartment, and the first thing I saw was him, Johnny Kelly Jr., lying there on the floor, like some twisted action figure that someone had forgotten to pack away. I stared at him, my gut, already knowing before my brain could catch up. Johnny Kelly Jr., my dumbass 20-year-old son, the kid I'd met two days ago, my partner in crime for a father-son startup called Mobile Muscle, was dead. Like the universe had decided to fast forward to the worst part of fatherhood. I guess the universe doesn't like small businesses. I the four boxes of black market fruit loops I bought from Fast Bobby still tucked under my arm. I put them down gently on the counter. Very valuable product. I'd hate to damage it. It would totally depreciate the street value. Then my eyes focus more on Johnny Kelly Jr., taking in the whole scene. Fruit Loops. The loops. God damn it, Johnny Kelly Jr. Why? I mean, uh, well I know why. Because I gave them to him directly, right here in my basement apartment, my black market stash. He must have found it. I was more worried about him finding my hockey bag full of VHS porn. Tragically, he would have ignored that anyway. The gravity of the loops was just too strong. The stuff I trafficked to keep the cash flowing outside the Uber gig. The very stuff he was shoving in his mouth, and God knows where else, when it finally killed him. That's what he got into. That's what I let him get into. The loops kept him happy. Docile. Distracted. His fucking torque wrench of a mother, Angel Dubois. Nightmare that she is, would have never let him touch this stuff, but me. I handed it over like it was candy, like it was cereal, like it was nothing. Rainbow-colored little death pellets. My money, my rules, my kid. And now he's lying there. My son, my business partner, my customer, face down in the product that made me rich. And him dead. The loops were fucking everywhere, man. The floor, the walls, Johnny. Not just on him, but fucking in him. And his ears, nose, mouth, throat. They were up as they were up as a. Well, that's the coroner's problem. I'll let the coroner handle the back nine. But yeah, he was definitely booty bumping Fruit Loops. Simply eating them. Not enough. Once the hooks are in, loopers improvise, they find new ways to chase that rainbow dragon. So there he was, my son. Dead. Two keys of Fruit Loops shoved up his ass. A rainbow-colored death. I couldn't tell if he had choked on him, or if the ass overdose had done it, or if the combination of both had finally pulled the trigger. It didn't matter. I was gonna find out. Not the ass part, mind you, but uh, you know. First step, recitation. Maybe I should try that CPR routine on him. You never know. Yeah, he could do that fucking thing where he just pops back to life like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. I thought I'd give it a shot, even though I had zero first aid training whatsoever, or a giant needle filled with adrenaline. So I became a one-man medical improv show. I slept on a pair of ski gloves. Not that they mattered, they were more for the vibe, and leaned over him like a drunk magician. I pressed my palms to his chest once, twice, like I was checking a stubborn vending machine. Then, I started chanting workout slogans. Ride, rep, repeat, ride, rep, repeat. Maybe repetition was the key. Maybe the slogan could revive him. Didn't hurt to try. What could I lose but extremely precious time? When that didn't work, I rummaged. A whoopee cushion. Empty. God damn it. Airhorn. I thought it might be loud enough to wake him up. It didn't. I cracked him right in the face with a fucking frying pan full force. But again, nothing. Then I tried that fucking mouth-to-mouth thing, which was totally gross. I'd already tried it on Mendoza in the warehouse down by the docks. It didn't work then. All it did was gross me out. But still, you never know. Then I gave him a perfunctory mouth-to-mouth kiss like a bored uncle at a family reunion, then immediately regretted the intimacy and coughed twice to clear the awkwardness. That was three times, actually. Then I tried one more time. Nothing. God damn it, Johnny Kelly Jr. I blew into him the way a blow-on cheap birthday candles. Half-hearted, dramatic, like I expected confetti in a return to life. But no confetti. No uma therman. Just a slow drip of rainbow-colored saliva and one single fruit loop rolling free from his mouth like a tiny, mocking planet. Not done. No fucking way. Come on, Johnny. I slapped a yoga mat over him like I was trapping a raccoon. Then I waved a feather duster around his face, like some kind of ceremonial wake-up ritual, and again chanted, ride, rep, repeat, ride, rep, repeat, ride, rep, repeat. Again, nothing. It was over. I had lost my boy. And just when I was starting to get used to him, you know. I stood back, hands on hips. CPR, or something like it, I don't know what the fuck I did to him. Peptox, hair horns, whoopee cushions, yoga mats. Call it what you want. But I tried. That was more effort than most people put into anything. I did everything I could. Compressions, breaths, that fucking gross mouth-to-mouth thing, encouraging words. I even whistled Eye of the Tiger. God damn it, Johnny Kelly Jr. Now what? I'll fucking tell you what. I wasn't just a fake cop anymore. Now, I was a fake forensic cop. And I was on the job. Now, it's time to get to work and secure this crime scene. Something I've never done before but have watched on TV many, many, many times. Didn't look too complicated, actually. I think I could pull it off. Time of discovery, approximately. Now. Scene secured. Perimeter. Established. One point of entry. The hallway. Scene secured with scotch tape and a lazy boy. Chain of custody begins and ends with me. I am the chain. Subject located on the floor. Awkward angle. Partial twist. Looks really, really fucking painful. No sign of external trauma. Except a really dumb look on the face of the deceased. Marking the outline now. Standard police chart. Unavailable. Using a yellow highlighter. Low on ink. Visibility poor. Accuracy. Interpretive. Line complete. Body identified as Johnny Kelly Jr.

unknown 15:30

Confirmed visually. Relationship.

SPEAKER_04 15:33

Paternal.

unknown 15:34

Relevance to case.

SPEAKER_04 15:36

Don't really fucking know. Really. Uh right hand clenched. Left hand extended. Possible reaching motion. Possible dramatics. I'll record both. At the side of the deceased. One spoon. Metal. Bent. Possible sign of a struggle.

unknown 15:55

Or maybe the deceased was using it to insert the foot loops rectily. Gross, but begging it. It's my job. Item one.

SPEAKER_04 16:04

There is cereal on the floor again. A multicolored. Same brand. Pattern suggests spillage. Not ritual. Collection in progress. Item two. Cell phone located near leg of the deceased. Screen cracked. Locked. Possible final message. I will not open it yet. Evidence first. Curiosity second.

unknown 16:27

Sentiment. Last. Initial check. Skin cool. Pupils fixed.

SPEAKER_04 16:34

No pulse. No movement. Time of death. No fucking idea. Probably while I was out buying more black market food loops. Feeling about it. Undetermined. Conducting residue tests near right shoe. Using rubbing alcohol in a paper towel. Swab applied. No reaction. Sample stored. Smells like cleaning product at the end of the day. Scene diagram. Entrance at North Wall. Body centered. Spoon. East. Phone. South. Serial. West. Improvised coordinates, but it helps with tone. Chain of custody. Intact. Evidence. Secured. All items. Labeled. He'd been doing better. Said he was cutting back. Said he was gonna taper down and start going to the Cheerios clinic. Recording notes. Objectivity compromised. Proceeding anyway.

unknown 17:34

Victim's phone buzzing. Ignored. His mother. Fuck. Angel Dubois. Doing a life stretch at the Kingston Prison for Women.

SPEAKER_04 17:44

The P4W. I'll deal with her later. Emotional interference minimized. Now, a lab analysis of the fruit loops. Secondary recording. Time. A few minutes later than before. Location. Kitchenette counter. Near evidence staging. Samples A through C laid out. Chain of custody continues with myself as custodian. I've got a uh a fragment under my light. Visual inspection first.

unknown 18:15

Coding intact.

SPEAKER_04 18:16

Uh color variants consistent with retail production. There's a routine for this. Visual, label, seal, log, then lab, then results. That's the playbook. At least according to the shit I watch on TV. I bring a fragment closer to my face. Not to taste in a lab sense. Because sometimes the body remembers what instruments don't. I pick up a fragment, a single loop of breakfast product. I hold it under the light. Turn it. Look for anomalies. Nothing obvious. I'll bring it closer anyway. Habit, not method. I smell it, then take a bite. There's a beat where the room narrows. The flavor lands and stays for half a breath. Fentanyl. God damn it. Just as I suspected. It's not subtle. It's clean. Immediate. I make a note. Sensory flag. Pleasurable response. Quite euphoric, actually. Then I spit. Not because I hate fentanyl, I don't. Fucking love it. But because I have to keep the paperwork professional. You ever do paperwork on fentanyl? I have. It's not pretty. Preliminary findings report. Subject. Johnny Kelly Jr. Cause of Death. Provisional Fentanyl Toxicity.

unknown 19:44

Source. Contaminated breakfast cereal. Kellogg's Fruit Loops.

SPEAKER_04 19:49

Family size. Fuck. The cereal line appears to be an off-market variant. Distribution through unregulated channels. Packaging identical to the mainstream product. Black market fruit loops. I should know I am the black market, but the fentanyl, that's not on me, no way. Suspect list established. Number one, the Kellogg's cereal cartel. Multinational, well dressed, pretending to be wholesome. I've dealt with them before. You think it's just sugar. And then you see the books. Whole operation runs on grain, guilt, and product placement. Suspect number two. Me. Chain of possession points directly back. I'm the one who brought home the black market stock. I moved product. I took payment. I didn't test inventory. That's negligence bordering on accessory. Maybe I don't know. But there's no way I'm officially documenting that. What do you think? I'm fucking stupid. Just fucking implicating myself. No way. Suspect number three. The twocan man. Every trail leads to him. Nobody's ever seen him straight on. Bright plumage. Perfect diction. Eyes like fruit-colored glass. The shipment smooth through discount warehouses and playgrounds. He leaves feathers on pallets as a signature. How the fucker's got a pair of balls, I'll give him that. Profile. Male, approximately ageless, possibly an alias, possibly a hallucination built to sell product. Operates under the slogan, follow your nose.

unknown 21:32

The nose, in this case, leads straight to homicide.

SPEAKER_04 21:37

I mark him as primary suspect, motive, control of territory, method, contamination through flavoring agents, victim, my son, collateral, me. This is what happens when commerce meets chemistry. Next steps, trace supply chain, and territory.

unknown 22:00

Gate distributors. Oh, that'll be fucking fun. Acquire another box for evidence. And breakfast.

SPEAKER_04 22:07

Locate the two can man. If he's real, I'll find him. If he's not, I'll still write the report. Either way, the case file stays open until someone confesses.

unknown 22:19

Anybody but me.

SPEAKER_04 22:22

End of field report. Preliminary. Seem to remain secured until I decide otherwise. God damn it, Johnny Kelly Jr. I was just starting to get used to you, you know? Now what the fuck am I gonna tell your mother? God damn it, holy shit, she's gonna kill me. Final field notes. Scene secured, sample sealed, chain of custody logged, sample A double bagged, initialed, time stamped, spoon, item one, phone, item two, highlighter, item three, failing. You can barely fucking see it. File closed for now. I wipe down the counter, I put the folder in the drawer, lights off, the room shrinks. I call Frankie and Lou. Told them to come pick him up. Frankie and Lou, the best paramedics in town. I trust them with this sort of job I have before. They'll handle the transfer cleanly. No questions that matter. One last practical note. I gotta find a new stash for them black market food loops. Yes, I still plan on selling them. Yes, there's a possibility some are tainted. But I spent a lot of money on that inventory. And I gave up a limited edition and mint condition. 1989 copy of Swank magazine. No fucking way I'm wasting that. That thing was valuable. Well, I need to see the return. That's not a justification. It's simply a ledger entry. A single lamp flickers. Frankie and Lou step down the narrow stairs, boots whispering on concrete. They move without fanfare. A blanket folded back, a hand smooth, a practiced, clinical calm. One unfolds a gurney, the other eases the body onto it with careful, efficient hands. They secure the straps, lift his one, and carry Johnny Kelly Jr. toward the door. I ask Frankie and Lou if I can have one last second alone with my boy before they zip him up. I bend over Johnny for a beat. I attempt to gently touch his forehead, and then I say, nah, fuck it, never mind. We just had 20 minutes alone. Whole fucking thing. Pretty awkward. That should do it. Take him away, boys. As they shoulder the gurney toward the door, the corner of the coffee table catches Johnny's head. There's a dull, ridiculous thump. The room goes silent. As Frankie and Lou look at me in terror, I wipe my hands on my tapered Adidas track pants and call after them. Yeah, it's okay, boys. He didn't feel a fucking thing, don't worry. And even if he had been alive, he still wouldn't have felt a fucking thing. The boy's skull is just too damn thick. They carry him out. The door closes. The apartment exhales. I think it was time for a night ride. The 2002 Pontiac Sunfire perches under a flickering streetlight. Like it's been assigned the world's least glamorous stakeouts. Faded scratches that look like battle scars. A bumper that leaves just slightly, as if it were shrugging. And in the trunk, beneath the spare tire and folded blankets, the body of Cornelius. Silent, still, a grim passenger on this night ride. I seriously gotta get rid of that guy multiple reasons. Well, at least he'll shut the fuck up this time. This night ride was for me and me alone. Just like my forensic notes on Johnny Kelly Jr., night rides sort things in a line you can measure. I drive slow enough to see faces at stoplights, and fast enough to feel the town's edge. The names come up like inventory. Mendoza, Mendoza Jr., Mendoza Jr. Jr. Spadino, College Boy, Ramirez, Johnny Kelly Jr. Each one is a line and a ledger I keep to myself. No soft language, no eulogies, just entries. I was getting used to Johnny. That's on the file. The others are there too. Accounted for. Fucking love that name. The 2can man sits at the top of that short list. Bright feathers. Distribution channels. If he's the hand that let a box become a death sentence, then he's the one whose trail I'll follow. I'll trace pallets, drivers, playground drops, I'll make the file into a map. Paperwork becomes pressure. Pressure becomes practice. Practice becomes consequence. I am not sentimental. I am attentive. I've been enforcing fake justice on a fake world that I helped create. I will treat this case like any other, with misplaced authority and delusional confidence. Turns out I've been right. Someone was sweetening the badge. And I was part of the supply chain. My son, the boy I got used to, was dead. Because I couldn't say no to a good deal. God damn it, Johnny Kelly Jr. You said you were gonna get off the Fruit Loops, wean yourself off, taper down, move on to something softer, like Cheerios. I uh I guess you had it coming. But did he have it coming? I mean, really, did he? I swear to god, it is hard for me to tell sometimes. He was really fucking stupid, that has been established. He had no idea what those loops were doing to him, but I did. Well, not the fentanyl part for Christ's sakes, but I saw what was happening to him. The same thing happening to everyone else in town. A town hooked on a cereal I unleashed. A Fruit Loops epidemic dating back to 1985, one that I started. I was 11. Glen Cedar Public School. I was in grade six. The grade eights had been suffocating us all year. Economic sanctions, psychological warfare, unilateral bullying, especially Keith. Keith was a one-man dictatorship, a tyrant in an Iron Maiden t-shirt. So we fought back. Insurgency campaigns, guerrilla tactics, hybrid, asymmetrical warfare. Call it whatever you want. But that shit works when you're in a pinch against a stronger enemy. We weaponized crab apples, froze them, put thorns in them, stockpiled them, launched them like we were defending Stalingrad. The problem was, crab apples just don't grow on trees. Well, I mean they do, but we stripped every tree in the area bare. Supply chain collapsed, black market prices soared, so I pivoted. I sold fruit loops onto the table to kids whose parents raised them on beige health cereal, you know, like fucking cornflakes, little mini boxes, the camping trip multi-packs with the three useless ones nobody wants. You know what I'm talking about. You know the ones Special K, Brand Flakes, and that sad little rice crispies that tasted exactly like Special K. Because they've got the same fucking ingredients, just different marketing strategies. So you are really getting hosed when you get a special K and a rice fucking crispies. It's the same goddamn cereal. A moved product. Use the profits to buy crap apples from other schools. Seriously, this is a true story, episode 32. Check it out. Meanwhile, a completely separate scam involving Coleco Visions was running in the background. Iran Contra looked like a fucking bake sale next to what I was doing. I'd like the crack epidemic exploding out of the secret wars in Latin America. The Fruit Loops epidemic exploded out of our war. My war. Total war. Existential war. You can call it blowback. You can call it collateral damage. You can call it fate or irony or some cosmic audit of my bullshit. But driving through this night, alone, well, except for the guy in the trunk, I really do gotta stop putting that off. I can't shake one thought. Maybe Johnny Kelly Jr. didn't have it coming. Maybe this time, I did. The road opened up in front of me. Black. Empty. Smoking under the wheels, like it was waiting for orders. I kept driving. I kept thinking, I kept choosing the thoughts that didn't tear me apart. Revenge. The word sits right at the top of the checklist. The one they whisper about, the one they rarely diagnose. Because people like me don't sit still long enough to get diagnosed. But I know myself. I know the pattern. Revenge is where I live. And I've got a new address. The Toucan Man. For all I know, he was my supplier back in '85. Maybe he never left the game. Maybe every loot that ever hit the streets, every kid who got hooked, every looper shambling down Main Street. Maybe all of it traces back to him. Maybe he's been there all along, hiding under that smiling bird mask, like some kind of serial warlord. So no, I didn't have this coming. Johnny Kelly Jr. didn't have this coming. Mendoza, Mendoza Jr., Mendoza Jr. Jr. Spadino, College Boy, and Ramirez. Now those guys, well they probably definitely had it coming. I think anyway, I'm not sure. I uh I waver on this stuff. But the two can man, because when Johnny died, something in me died too. Not the part that got used to him. That comes and goes. No, it was the part that came from me. The part that wasn't me. The part I can't replace. And when I find you, Tukan Man, you'll understand something, Johnny never had time to learn. You don't take from me. You don't touch what carries my blood. Not on this night. Not in this town. Not in this world. You don't cross my bloodline. You don't pick a fight with whatever the fuck I am. I'm a cop, a fake cop, and I'm on the edge. Johnny Kelly Jr. was my son, my boy, my blood, and I will have my vengeance in this life for the next.

SPEAKER_05 34:03

Ah jeez, Paps. No foolin'?

SPEAKER_04 34:05

No foolin', Johnny Kelly Jr. No fucking foolin'.

SPEAKER_03 34:22

Well, are you driving? Too clear your mind. Rebuking the street signs. Will you fly? Sometimes it's more than you can take the love.