by Mark Hazard
“If I don’t get home in time for Stella’s Groove,” Chu said, “my wife is gonna kick a cavitation right up my heinie.”
TWELVE
“Holy jeez man…”
“I know,” Corus said.
Corus drove them back toward the precinct where Chu’s Kia was still parked. They rode in silence for fifteen minutes before Chu piped up.
“You were hoping for more weren’t you?”
“I was hoping for more clarity, yes.”
“So there’s no way of telling if the headshot was fired with a larger caliber than 5.56mm?”
“If there is, I don’t see it.”
“So, we’re left with the non-physical evidence. Miles Griffin’s past?”
“The bank, yes. I wish I’d paid more attention in Economics 101. Those guys will run circles ‘round me if I don’t keep them intimidated somehow.”
“Should we try to get a warrant? Get the state forensic accountants?”
“With what evidence? No, I think the soft touch is best for now. I need to keep a low profile around the department. Can’t go scaring up warrants for nothing.”
“Maybe you could use more Google?”
“I dunno, L-T.” Corus felt very limp, like a dishtowel that had been mauled by a dog.
That made him think of Jenny. Jenny had been Karen’s dog, and when she’d gone to prison over a year ago, Jenny had become Corus’ charge. She had always been “Karen’s dog” in his mind. Until she needed him, he’d never known how much he’d always needed her too.
Jenny…
“One day at a time, remember?” Chu must have seen whatever despair and fatigue had washed over his visage. “We’ll get there.”
“Alright, man,” Corus said. “One day at a time.”
Corus pulled into the precinct parking lot and let Chu off near the door, since he had to get something from his office before going home for the night. Ten minutes into his drive home, he received a text.
Chu: Get back here now
Two minutes later, as Corus raced through traffic back to the precinct, another text came.
Chu: But don’t drive too fast. It’s not a super duper emergency.
The text was followed by an emoji of an obese purple cat riding a Vespa.
Corus shook his head and mumbled something uncharitable.
He parked in his usual spot, forgetting it technically belonged to Pineda now, as he was the highest-ranking detective at the precinct. He yanked a front door open, took the steps up to the main floor two at a time and marched through the CID cubicles, not missing the opportunity to flip Inspector Charles the bird as he passed.
Corus knocked on Chu’s door as he opened it.
“What’s the big deal?” Corus asked.
Chu stood behind his desk holding a mug of tea. In reply, he looked to the man in the chair to Corus’ left.
Deputy Rosen sat with fingers interlaced on his lap. He peered up at Inspector Corus with round, brown eyes.
Corus looked back up to Chu, turned his palms up and raised his eyebrows.
Chu motioned toward the deputy with his coffee cup. “Deputy Rosen would like to ask you a favor.”
Well that didn’t take long.
Rosen was the deputy who had come into the break room, pistol drawn after Corus’ little accident with the vending machine. Rosen may not have ratted him out, but he still wanted to get something. Corus sighed and shook his head. He steeled himself and asked, “What will it be deputy?”
Deputy Rosen turned in his chair and said, “I want to join CID.”
Corus looked to Chu. “Did you tell him about the hiring freeze? The budget?”
“I told him.”
“So, what do you want me to do, Deputy? If you think I am the guy who can pull strings for you right now, then you haven’t been paying attention to office politics.”
“I know there is a hiring freeze, but I’ve put in the four years before you can apply to CID, and I think I am ready. When the freeze is lifted, or if someone leaves, I want to be ready.”
“How do I fit in?” Corus asked.
“Let me work with you.” Rosen’s tone was sincere and desirous without being pleading.
Corus shook his head and turned at Chu again, while motioning with one hand to Rosen. “Did you tell him I can’t use department resources?”
“I told him.”
“So?”
“Deputy Rosen here has two weeks vacation saved up.”
“Two weeks huh?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you want to work with me?”
“I want to learn as much as I can to improve my chances of making it in, sir.”
Corus’ gaze darted around the floor, as his mind sifted though the proposition. A smile worked its way up, like a flower growing from a crack in a cinder block.
“Rosen. That’s a Jewish name right?”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t see what that has to—”
Corus began to laugh. Low at first, and then more jovially. After a moment, Chu caught on and glowered. “Oh and I guess by that logic, I’m supposed to be good at Kung Fu!”
Corus stopped laughing with a final snort and looked at Rosen.
“Like manna from heaven.”
THIRTEEN
Rosen pulled up outside of Pacific Trust’s central branch in Bellevue. A proper rain soaked the windows. Seconds after he turned off the motor, and the defrost with it, they fogged over.
“I’m going to introduce you as Special Inspector Rosen,” Corus said.
“But I…that isn’t even a rank.”
“They don’t know that. Now, you dressed well, like I told you. Good. You need to project confidence. You need to walk in there like you are the T-Rex and they are that goat chained to the ground in Jurassic Park. Make the fucking earth tremble when you walk.”
“But sir, I don’t really know anything about banks.”
“Sure you do. Just like all black guys sing well and can dunk a basketball.”
Rosen took on a look of shock.
“I’m saying they will assume. You need to use that assumption for your benefit. Your job is to go into investigations with as few assumptions of your own as possible, but playing on the assumptions of others can often get you the information you need. Call this lesson one.”
Mr. Badcocke met them in the spacious atrium that served as a lobby. Wordlessly, he led them through a wooden door into the bank office’s complex of pile carpet, cubicles and windowed office spaces. They passed the creditors, the branch auditors, and human resources. A few heads turned as they walked, spotting them perhaps for cops in their trench coats and suits, federal or state regulators, or perhaps just new faces in a sea of drudgery.
They stopped at a conference room, where a bespectacled man with light hair and an ill-fitting suit sat behind stacks of files and papers. Mr. Badcocke closed the door behind them and shook Corus’ hand.
“Inspector Corus. Good to see you again.”
Corus knew that was a lie.
“Mr. Badcocke, this is Special Inspector Rosen.” They shook hands. Corus watched Badcocke’s fretful eyes with more than a little satisfaction.
“Mr. Rosen. A pleasure.”
Rosen gave a silent nod.
“This is Andrew,” Badcocke said, extending a hand. “He is our head auditor.”
The man rose to shake their hands. “Hey guys. You can call me Andy.”
Andy was not attractive with his upturned nose and pig eyes, but his easy demeanor and his bright face combined to give him a pleasant, almost familiar aura.
They all sat.
“So you guys are looking into Miles’ murder?” Andy asked.
“That’s right,” Corus responded.
“I’m glad if I can help. I hope you find who did this.”
“Us too. Now what do you have for me?”
“Not much I’m afraid,” Andy said. “We explained to the guy who came here in the last go-round that Miles was pre
tty much the nicest guy. He crossed all his ‘T’s and dotted all his ‘I’s.”
“In my experience, guys that nice don’t get their whole families murdered,” Corus said.
“Well, as much as that may be the case,” Andy said, glancing over to Badcocke, “we can’t find any reason from our end why Miles’ work would have gotten him in trouble with bad people.”
Corus showed no frustration, continuing to look intently at Andy and Badcocke. He considered a veiled threat before Badcocke sputtered, “but…but we still want to be helpful. We just don’t think Miles was up to anything. If he was it was outside of company time. Perhaps he was a gambler.”
“What did Miles do here exactly?” Corus asked.
“Miles was our investment liaison,” Badcocke said. “His job was to move our funds into securities and to other banks that specialize in investment.”
“Was he an investment banker?”
“Of a sort. Though we maintain sixteen branches, we’re a relatively small banking institution. We make our profits in part from home, auto and personal loans. Our deposits usually outweigh what we can safely loan to our creditworthy customers, so we’ve found it useful to outsource some of our investment.”
Andy piped up. “Miles also wrote prospectuses for our wealthier customers who might like to buy stocks or bonds. In that sense we were beginning to build toward doing our own investment banking.”
Corus leaned over and whispered into Rosen’s ear. “What’s a prospectus exactly?”
Rosen brought up a hand and whispered back, “Like a sales pitch for an investment.”
Corus nodded. That was what he’d thought. He looked to Andy. “Tell me exactly what you do.”
“Me…” Andy sat straighter, “I help do branch audits, but I was assisting Miles in building our investment brokering capacity. There was going to be much more federal oversight, and that means more need for internal checks to prevent issues.”
“What kind of issues?”
“Oh the usual, the primary one being overextending our deposits. Depending on the climate, the Federal Reserve requires us to keep a certain percentage of our customer’s finances in a liquid state, cash that is.”
“What is that percentage now?”
Andy glanced to Badcocke and then back at Corus. “I believe the number is around 12%.”
Rosen leaned over and whispered. “Do you want me to ask them anything?”
Corus replied, “No. Doing fine. I want you to sit back up and give them a very stern look now.”
Rosen rested his elbows on the table and settled into a skeptical, somewhat frustrated gaze.
“So what has become of this internal investment program?” Corus asked.
“Mr. Garvey has taken charge of it now,” Badcocke said, “along with a couple of finance wonks we poached from Washington Mutual when it tanked in the recession.”
“Mr. Garvey?” Corus asked, his face twisted by confusion.
“That’s me,” Andy said, waving a hand. “Andy Garvey. Like Mr. Badcocke said, I’ve moved into a supervisory role in our little developing investment structure. Miles would have done a better job, frankly, but we are making it work.”
“Andrew is being modest of course,” Badcocke said. “He is doing a fine job for us.”
“If we wanted to take a look at the records of Miles’ transactions, how could—”
“Right here, Inspector.” Badcocke reached across and patted the table next to the stack of documents in front of Andy. “If you can find anything here that we haven’t, I’d like to offer you a very high-paying job!”
Corus nodded to Rosen who took the cue and retrieved the huge stack of papers.
“One last question, gentlemen.” Corus ran a hand over his mouth. “Can you describe Mr. Griffin’s demeanor in the days before the incident?”
“Miles always tended toward worry,” Badcocke said. “Almost to the point of being neurotic. It’s not uncommon in our profession, and is rather valued actually.”
Andy bobbed his head. “That was Miles. Bit of a worry wart, but a kind man. Never really morose either though.”
“You saw no change in him in the days leading up to his murder?”
Both men shook their heads.
Corus thought for a moment. “Who was the officer you spoke to back in February, during the initial investigation?”
Badcocke looked to the suspended ceiling, seemingly searching his memory. “I’m afraid I don’t remember. He was a dim, caustic fellow. Hispanic, I believe.”
“Pineda?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“Thank you for your help gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”
FOURTEEN
Corus lay his face in the padded doughnut. Eugene lit some incense, not the sandalwood scent potheads used to keep their parents’ basements from reeking, but something oaky with notes of citrus and hibiscus. Eugene began his gentle humming and singing.
After a minute, he said, “Okay, here we go.”
Eugene started at Corus’ lower extremities. He felt hands more than the needles as Eugene worked his way up the calf.
“So you got a plan today? Or are we still breaking the ice?”
“I take it you have a preference.”
“I won’t lie,” Corus said, “if you could set me straight, that would make my life easier.”
“You wanna be all fixed.”
Corus paused, sensing a trap. “Well, sure. That’s why I’m here.”
“Tell me, then. What does fixed look like?”
“I’d like to be able to do my job. I want to be a good detective again.”
“Are you not being a good detective now?”
“Well, I suppose I’m trying.”
“Mmmhmm,” Eugene hummed. “And what does a bad detective look like?”
“Most of the sacks of shit I work with.”
“How’s that?”
“They’re lazy and petty. They continually put their personal needs before the people we serve.”
“So, these people you serve. You like them?”
“Maybe not mostly. It just worked out this way. The thing I do best, did best, was something deemed a service to society. I don’t take credit for that.”
“So, if you ain’t playing around, and you’re a good detective, what’s broken that needs fixed?”
Corus shifted his head in the doughnut. “I used to be better at my job. I saw things. I could see little bits of the picture and reach into the ether and be able to sketch the rest. I knew things about people instinctively. I saw an outcome, say a crime, and was able to work backward logically until I found the evidence I needed.”
“Okay.”
Silence descended again as Eugene continued to work his way up Corus’ leg.
“I’m gonna lift this towel up a bit to get at your glute.”
“Whatever, man. In for a penny…”
Eugene lifted the left side of Corus’ towel. “Oh my.”
Corus brought his head out of the doughnut to scowl. “If you’re gonna make remarks on my ass, Eugene, this isn’t gonna work.”
“No. No. This scar.” Eugene prodded at the ragged, shiny, purple mess that went from Corus’ upper thigh around to the side of his ass.
“Oh that,” Corus said dismissively. He put his head back down.
“You seem unconcerned about the ghastly six inch scar on your leg.”
“I don’t hurt.”
“Where did you get it?”
“A fencepost.”
“You make enemies with a lot of fence posts?”
“This particular fencepost was of the jagged, rusted, iron variety. I was running from one building to another, carrying a cumbersome amount of gear, and this ratty old wire fence was in our way.”
“Iraq?”
“Afghanistan. Back in the day.”
“Can’t believe how long we been over there.” Eugene whistled. “Yeah, western medicine tends to take scars as a done issue, healed.” Euge
ne made a dismissive clicking sound. “But no, no, they can cause all sorts of problems. Hold on a sec.” Eugene went back to the wooden benches and countertops to the right of the entrance and along the long wall where weak sunlight came through a window. Corus picked up his head an inch and saw Eugene selecting some new needles.
“Now this one you’re gonna feel. It’ll burn.”
For the first time with Eugene, Corus felt pain, not pressure, not a pinch, but deep throbbing pain, and it did burn.
“One a scale of one to ten, how was that?
“Well, I’d put it somewhere between doing my taxes and sitting through another disciplinary hearing.”
Eugene must have been placing more needles, because the burning throbbed, and moved.
“Now, can you stay relaxed with this level of pain? Just be with it?”
“Yeah.” Corus took a deep breath. His left leg felt paralyzed, but he could relax. “Yeah keep going.”
Eugene left the needles in his hip and continued to work his way up the back and down the arms.
“So have you ever helped anyone with my problem before?”
“Can’t say as I have, but most specific problems are merely reflections of central issues, most of which I’ve seen others work through, or a few I’ve dealt with myself.”
“What is my central issue, then?”
“I’m still not sure. I’d like you to tell me more about what you said the first time you were here. Tell me again about how you felt like your world got kicked out from under you.”
Corus swallowed. “I just can’t reconcile it. That chaos rules the world. That for all the order I’ve taken for granted, chaos is its end. There’s nothing, no true order left to stand on. So I spin.”
“Mmmhmm. I wondered what you meant by floating. Now I see. You can’t fall down because you can’t tell which way is down.”
“Yeah.” Wellbeing washed over his body. “That’s right.” Eugene had only put into different words what he had already said, but when someone could do that, you didn’t feel so alone.
“Some say the battle between order and chaos is the basis for our understanding of good and evil. Others say the battle is the prime mover of all things.”