Drive Shaft Detectives

Father and son work together.

Title: “Carson and Son: Drive Shaft Detectives”

In 1976, Detective Dan Carson had two things: a badge with a dent in it from a bar fight in ’63, and a teenage son who could identify the make, model, and carburetor type of a car just by the sound it made passing three blocks away.

His son, Jamie Carson, was 18 years old, Autistic, and could disassemble a Pontiac engine faster than Dan could finish a cup of gas station coffee—which, to be fair, was so bad it once ate through the bottom of his thermos.

Dan had been on the trail of a car theft ring operating out of Springfield, Illinois, for six months. Stolen muscle cars were vanishing faster than his ex-wife’s patience during their marriage counseling phase.

“You think it’s chop shops?” asked Officer Jenkins one morning as Dan stared at a corkboard full of blurry photos, red string, and angry Post-Its.

“No,” Dan grunted. “Too clean. They’re not cutting them up. They’re disappearing like my cousin Rick’s loan payments.”

Jamie, sitting on the floor nearby with a stack of car magazines from 1973, didn’t look up.

“’Cause they’re cloning VINs,” he said.

Dan blinked. “What?”

Jamie still didn’t look up. “Cloning VINs. They steal one car, then find a wrecked version of the same model and swap the Vehicle Identification Number. Then it looks legit when they resell it.”

Jenkins leaned over. “VIN what-now?”

“Vehicle Identification Number,” Jamie said, enunciating every syllable like he was reading the dictionary aloud. “Every car has one. Unless you’re riding a lawnmower, in which case you should stop taking the highway.”

Dan stared at his son, then at the board, then back. “Kid… you might be onto something.”

Jamie pointed to a grainy photo. “That GTO in this picture? It’s got the wrong grille for a ’69. That’s a ’70 grille. You can tell because the bars are vertical, not diagonal. Someone swapped it.”

Dan squinted. “You could tell that from this blurry mess?”

Jamie nodded. “And the tire size. Also the hubcaps are from a Buick. It’s like they dressed a poodle up as a Doberman and hoped no one would notice.”

Dan turned slowly to Jenkins. “Get me every VIN from the last five stolen cars. We’re going full Carson & Carson on this one.”

⸻

They went to a local car lot called “Honest Rick’s Really Real Rides,” which, in Dan’s opinion, had more quotation marks than integrity.

Jamie wandered the lot while Dan grilled Rick.

“Ever seen this GTO?” Dan asked, holding up a photo.

Rick scratched his sideburns. “That a Pontiac? Dunno, man. They all look the same. Four wheels and disappointment.”

Meanwhile, Jamie crouched by a cherry-red Dodge Charger, muttering.

Dan noticed and walked over. “Whatcha got?”

Jamie pointed. “This Charger’s VIN says it’s from ’74. But look at the taillights. That’s a ’72 pattern. And this paint job? Factory didn’t offer ‘Blood Orange Inferno.’ That’s custom. I saw it in a Hot Rod magazine last year.”

Rick wandered over, sweating. “Uh, maybe someone just, uh, fixed it up real good?”

Jamie didn’t even look up. “Also, the frame number doesn’t match the dashboard VIN. This car’s hot.”

Dan turned to Rick. “You want to explain why you’re selling a stolen car dressed in drag?”

Rick tried to run. He got four steps before slipping on a stray lug nut and yelling, “This is why I hate torque wrenches!”

Dan cuffed him. “You have the right to remain silent. But I doubt you will.”

⸻

With Rick squealing like a fan belt in winter, Dan and Jamie traced the operation to an old roller rink on the edge of town, now used for “Parts Storage,” which was gangster code for “We definitely break laws here.”

Jamie refused to wait in the car. “Dad, you can’t tell a ’72 El Camino from a ’75. I have to come.”

Dan sighed. “Fine. But if someone pulls a gun, you hit the deck.”

“I’m Autistic, not invincible,” Jamie said, pulling out a small flashlight. “Let’s go.”

Inside the rink, classic cars were lined up like a weird prom night. All pristine. All stolen.

“Look at that Trans Am,” Jamie whispered. “Wrong decals. That’s a clone.”

Dan found a clipboard. “They’re moving these across state lines tonight.”

A goon appeared from the back, holding a wrench the size of a trombone. “Hey! This ain’t a dealership!”

Dan whipped out his badge. “Springfield PD. Drop the pipe, disco man.”

Jamie pointed to the guy’s belt buckle. “You can’t afford that if you work at a roller rink.”

The goon lunged. Dan punched. Jamie ducked and hit the light switch, plunging the rink into disco darkness. A mirrored ball spun lazily above.

What followed was possibly the most ridiculous chase scene in Springfield history. Dan skated (badly). Jamie rolled underneath a Camaro like a raccoon in overalls. The bad guy slipped on spilled oil and crashed into a stack of tires. When the lights came on, Dan was sitting on the guy’s chest, out of breath, and Jamie had already alphabetized the VIN logs.

⸻

Back at the precinct, Chief Dalton clapped Dan on the shoulder.

“You cracked the case. You and your boy.”

Dan smiled. “It was all Jamie. Kid knows more about cars than I know about coffee.”

Jamie sipped a soda and said, “Your coffee tastes like despair.”

Dan laughed. “Fair. You ever think about doing this for real, kid?”

Jamie thought about it. “Only if I get to drive a Firebird. And name our operation.”

“Fine,” Dan said. “What do you want to call it?”

Jamie grinned.

“Operation: Chrome Justice.”

Dan nodded. “Catchy. Now let’s go get donuts.”

Jamie raised a finger. “Only if it’s from the place that uses real sugar and not whatever powdered sadness Jenkins brings.”

As they walked out of the precinct, Dan thought maybe—just maybe—the best partner he ever had wasn’t his old academy buddy or some hotshot rookie.

It was his son.

And as long as there were crooks stealing GTOs and selling Pintos with fake paint jobs, Carson & Son would be ready.

The End.