Right about now you’re probably wondering just what the hell is going on here. Why I ordered you into my office, belting your name at the top of my lungs in front of this entire precinct. I won’t sugar coat it, Carson, you’re a thorn in my side. Reckless, constantly insubordinate, a renegade with a crippling alcohol dependency—I’m going down your file, Detective, and it’s clear to me that you don’t possess a single one of these character flaws. Not one. So hand over that gun and badge, mister, because you’re obviously not the rogue anti-hero this department hoped you’d be.

You knew this was bound to happen. Hell, we all did. As much as it pains me to leave you high and dry, I’m afraid you’ve given me no choice; there’s simply no place on my unit for a man like you, a man so prudent, even-keeled, and at peace with his past.

I brought you here believing you’d be a gun-toting smartass with ambiguous morals prompted by unresolved horrors. I was convinced we had a maverick in you, Carson, a tormented soul who’d constantly undermine my decisions and instead play by his own rules. Well, boy was I wrong, because you’re about as stable as a goddamn table and frankly I’ve had enough!

Let’s start with your fieldwork. You got any idea how much property damage you have cost this department? That’s right. Not a cent. How, Detective, is that possible, considering last week you got into a shootout in the Williams-Sonoma glassware aisle? The gunman used a crystal Steuben tray as a ballistic shield, yet you, Mr. Ask-Questions-Then-Shoot-To-Wound-But-Only-As-A-Last-Possible-Resort, somehow managed to subdue the prick without grazing so much as a single Schott Zwiesel stemware set! We can’t even get you to blow up a warehouse or total your squad car, and that thing’s essentially a Molotov Cocktail on wheels!

And your paperwork, Christ, don’t get me started. Contrary to what you might believe, Detective Carson, you’re not special. It shouldn’t be too much to ask for you to comply with the minimum level of office work this job requires. And yet you constantly, without fail, feel the need to go above and beyond your fellow officers by punctually chronicling your every case. Always leaving it neatly stapled on my desk. Just makes me sick. I swear you pay attention to detail more meticulously than a Russian ice dancing judge. And the thoroughness and complexities of your write-ups, my god, it’s like I’m reading a John le Carre novel!—I can’t keep up!

What’s that, you got something to say to me? Oh, you’re just nodding in agreement? How frickin’ dandy. Even now, as I inexplicably confiscate your gun and badge, you continue to maintain courteous eye contact with me, your rigidly bureaucratic superior.

You know what the sad thing is? You had such potential.

Everything about you seemed so renegade and enigmatic. The gruff voice. The vague, misanthropic remarks you made during that first ride along. Take even your name for instance: Butch Carson. That’s a name that screams, “Hey, dirtbag, I’m not above using disorderly means to achieve orderly ends.” Or, “I’m Butch Carson, and my thirst for liquor is seconded only by my unquenchable yearning for justice.”

Here we thought Jim Beam would be your only friend on the force. Turns out you don’t even drink. Ain’t that something? We happened upon the only cop on Earth who volunteers his weekends as a youth-leader clergyman for the Church of Latter-Day Saints. Go figure.

Look, I know I’m coming down hard on you, but I’m just sick and goddamn tired of constantly watching this department screw you over, only to see you respond by turning around and handing me damn fine procedural police work. For Christ’s sake, Carson, we wanted a cowboy—not some pencil-dick PhD!

Now hopefully this suspension will be the kick in the pants you need, inspiring you to come back and hit the streets like the brutal, shoot-first renegade we all hoped you’d be. Because let’s get one thing straight: If I wanted some pissant rule-abiding toe-liner, I would have hired one of the Hardy Boys.