Third Rail by Rory Flynn Page B

airbags made out of fat.”
    â€œHe was drunk at the time of the accident, yes?”
    Andy leans forward. “Officially, I’m not supposed to say anything.” He flips back a few pages on his clipboard. “But, yeah, when he was admitted his blood alcohol was .23, like three times over the limit. That probably helped him, too.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œHe didn’t clench up on impact. He was all loosey-goosey.”
    â€œSo being totally drunk and morbidly obese helped save his life,” Harkness says.
    â€œWorked out that way for him, I guess.”
    â€œAny indication that he was trying to kill himself?”
    Andy tilts his head.
    â€œJust trying to assess his . . . state of mind.”
    â€œLet me take a look.” Andy glances back toward the doctors, then goes through the chart and reads. “Patient was confused, difficult to control, convinced that he had been in a plane crash.”
    â€œThat’s strange.”
    â€œNot as weird as some of the shit we see in here, Eddy. Preppie girls with infected cuts up and down their legs. Lawyers with eggplants stuck in their butts. Bankers overdosed on animal tranquilizers from their daughters’ horses. The other day some guy tried to poison his wife with antifreeze in her skinny-girl mojito. This town seems all normal but it’s not, Eddy.”
    ***
    â€œWho loves him some Bambi?” the Sweathog says, smiling.
    Harkness slips by Sergeant Dabilis but the sergeant follows him across the Pit.
    â€œCouldn’t even shoot a deer, could you?”
    Harkness says nothing, fills the coffeemaker with water. The other cops look up, sensing a new episode of Harvard Cop versus the Sweathog.
    â€œYou’re not supposed to shoot a deer,” Officer Watt says. “I looked it up. Harkness had it right. You wait for Animal Control. Too dangerous to fire off a shot with people around.”
    Harkness likes Watt, a slow-talking rookie, a little more now.
    â€œWell, I’d have shot the fucker,” the Sweathog says. “Public menace. You can use deadly force if it’s endangering people.”
    â€œThe deer was down with two broken legs,” Watt says.
    â€œStill ought to have shot the fucker, instead of letting some jack-off citizen do your dirty work with a fucking hammer.”
    Harkness says nothing.
    â€œIf you’re not going to use that gun, maybe we should just take it away from you,” Sergeant Dabilis says.
    Harkness freezes.
    â€œI don’t think those parking meters pose much of a threat.”
    Harkness grabs Sergeant Dabilis by the shoulders, lifts him off his feet, and slams him against a row of filing cabinets—all so fast neither of them has time to think. Harkness holds Dabilis pressed against the wall like an insect specimen, then forces himself to let the Sweathog slide down, his coffee spilling on the floor. Harkness walks away, arms vibrating, mind spinning.
    â€œHey, I’m reporting that!”
    The normal cops tell the Sweathog to cut it out, that he was asking for it. They like Harkness. And cops are superstitious. Someday they might make a tough call and end up on perpetual meter duty.
    The captain steps out of his office and frowns. “Get back to work, people. Dabilis, clean up that coffee and get back to your desk. Watt, I want you in your patrol car in ten seconds. Harkness, I need to see you in my office. Now.”
    Â 
    The captain leafs through papers on his desk with a brutal efficiency, not even looking up when Harkness walks in. He knows there’s only one explanation for the captain’s coldness; his gun turned up, its serial number traced. He’s played out the inevitable ending, where he sets his badge on the desk as the captain looks away in disappointment.
    â€œThe town manager’s been on the phone with me about a dozen times already,” the captain shouts, finally. When he’s pissed, the