Corus and the Case of the Chaos

by Mark Hazard

  Corus let that hang in the air until Brandon spoke.

  “I don’t remember what I said. It was a long time ago.”

  “Did you take a room service order around midnight?”

  “I don’t remember.” Brandon tilted his face down and away from their gaze.

  Rosen gave Corus a concerned glance. Corus tilted his head toward Brandon. It was time for Rosen to learn the ropes.

  Rosen sat back down in the chair next to the table. He leaned back and waited for Brandon to look up.

  “Brandon, why are you lying?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Brandon, you’re here for a reason.”

  Brandon shook his head and fidgeted.

  “Did you kill that family, Brandon?”

  Brandon’s head shot up. Tears glistened in his terror stricken eyes.

  “No!” His plea was full of hurt.

  “Did you know that if you know something and you don’t tell the police, that is aiding the murderer?”

  Rosen’s manner was calm and kind. Corus expected as much, but he was backing Brandon into a corner.

  “I didn’t…” Brandon trailed off. “I think I need a lawyer.” Brandon’s face broke out into a grimace of pain. He began sobbing so hard, Rosen had to grab him to keep him from falling onto the floor.

  “He’ll kill me. You gotta protect me. You gotta go get my mom right now, my little brother.”

  Brandon put his hands together in supplication. His face was a red mask of tears and snot. “Please. They’ll kill me, my whole family. Oh, no, they might have seen me come here.”

  Rosen gripped him by the shoulders. “Who, Brandon? Who?”

  “The man.”

  “What man?”

  “The man that killed those people.”

  And Brandon bawled and bawled.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Between heaving sobs, Brandon Fife gushed out the half-crazed delusions he’d been harboring for the better part of a year.

  Only half-crazed.

  A couple hours later, now, he seemed somewhat calmer. He sat with the forensic artist from HQ, describing the man from room 245. He hadn’t explicitly threatened Brandon or his family. After hearing what happened to the Griffins, Brandon had gathered together a set of circumstantial evidence, tried and convicted the man from 245 with a jury of his worst fears. To get him to sit down with the artist, they’d had to first promise to send a cruiser to pick up his mother from her work at a dental practice and his little brother from school and bring them to the precinct.

  Corus stood drinking coffee next to Rosen and gazing into detention room C.

  “You sure know how to break a man, Abe.”

  “I’m sorry sir. I had no idea.”

  “Well, you popped your cherry with a very willing suspect. Congrats.”

  “I’ve interrogated people in the field, sir.”

  “Right. I remember those. ‘And where did Mrs. Roger’s hide your garden hose after she stole the rake?’ What happens in these rooms is a little darker.”

  Around 10:30pm, the man from 245, he said, had ordered room service. When Brandon delivered it, he tipped him a crisp $100 bill. If the folks in room 232 ordered room service, he wanted to take it to them personally, a surprise from their uncle. When the Griffins did order food, Brandon did as he was asked. The man in 245 took the food and gave Brandon another $100 bill. Brandon had been so terrified that the man would come kill him if he helped the police, that he’d lied to the deputy that asked him if he’d processed an order for the Griffins. Brandon pleaded for their forgiveness for his omission. Apart from living in constant terror, the kid had been living with the guilt that he’d gotten a whole family killed.

  Chu walked up and peered through the slit window at Brandon. “So what did you learn after I left? Was he alone?”

  “Well, he only ordered a burger for himself the first time around,” Corus said.

  “And he never opened the door wide enough for the kid to see into the room.”

  “Anything else? Run his name yet?”

  “I ran it, but he used a fake. Paid with cash.”

  “Lobby cam!” Chu smiled wide. “It’s finally useful.”

  “We looked.” Corus said.

  “I checked the hotel manifest and it said room 245 checked in at 6:35pm.” Rosen said. “Ran the tape. The guy was wearing a cap pulled low, gloves too. Didn’t see much other than he looked Caucasian.”

  “But this is a major lead.” Chu clapped Corus on the arm. “Congrats, man.”

  Corus gave a curt nod.

  “What is it now?” Chu’s voice fell with disappointment.

  Corus pointed into the room. “That kid, that poor ginger bastard has been carrying the weight of the world. You see him? He looks anorexic. He smokes like a chimney. He has probably been self medicating in other ways too.”

  “But he’ll get better now.”

  “Now? Now that he has talked to the police about an assassin? You think that is going to set him at ease?”

  “What about witness protection?”

  “Do you want to bring the feds in on this? With how little we have? Who do you think Barbieri fires first, you or me? No, this kid won’t be alright in the morning. The damage is done, partly because we took so damn long. You said maybe the perfect time to solve the crime was now. Looking at that kid, I think the best time was back in February.”

  Chu crossed his arms. “So who are we chasing?”

  “A white male, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Brown hair.”

  “So, that narrows it down to about 200,000 people in King County.”

  Corus huffed with frustration. “Yeah. Perfectly manageable.”

  When the artist was finished with Brandon, he left the room and held up his sketchpad for them to see. The nameless assassin had fairly short hair, shaved at the sides, a thin nose, dark eyebrows and a full mouth set in a line.

  “Hey, I’ve seen that guy,” Chu said. “He’s every white guy I’ve ever met.”

  “Hey, you want a second opinion?” The artist snapped. “If so, feel free to stick this one up your ass.” He brushed past them, supply case in hand.

  Chu waved. “Bye, Brian! See you next week.”

  “Next week?” Corus asked.

  Chu looked up at Corus. “We’re in the same Dungeons and Dragons group. Brian is a level five Paladin, lawful good.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “A paladin is like a divine knight. Lawful good is his alignment, which tells him how to play his character. It means he seeks order and civility, and good means, you know, good.”

  “Lawful good, huh?” Corus peered at the sketch. “What if seeking order means breaking the rules?”

  Chu scrunched his face at the thought. “Well, I guess that’d make you chaotic good. I wish you’d come play with us, just once.”

  “Chaotic good?” Corus snorted. “How does that make any sense? Do you really want to play a board game with a man who recently shot through a vending machine?”

  “That was an accident,” Chu said.

  Corus tilted his head and gave Chu a sidelong look.

  “Did you really do it on purpose? You’d never…”

  “I’d never what? Have a mental breakdown? Hit rock bottom?” Corus shook his head, letting his dark eyes grow wide to show some of the fear he’d been feeling all alone. “During my two-week suspension before the disciplinary hearing, I could barely eat. Couldn’t sleep. Haven’t been doing either very well anyways the last months. I was losing it on all sides, L-T.”

  Corus swallowed hard.

  For once, Chu really took in Corus’ words before cheerily dismissing his woes. When he did speak, his tone was somber. “Corus, you suffer in ways the rest of us might never understand. On top of that, you took one unfortunate hit after the other for months. The good thing is you’re past rock bottom, and it looks like criminal investigative therapy is working. You’re like a bear who�
�s just left hibernation, tired and grumpy and hungry as hell, but lets not pretend you haven’t always been that way to some degree. We just need to get you some salmon and some berries, and you’ll be right as rain.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Corus drove by himself to Cedar Creek. Rosen wanted to come, but he needed to be alone. So much had happened in so little time, he had a lot to process. Plus, he wasn’t sure if what was about to happen would reflect well on him.

  He showed his ID and badge to the guard at the gate, filled out a visitation form in the reception center and took a seat in the waiting area. After twenty minutes, a guard waved from an open door and Corus got up and followed. They walked through a maze of hallways until they came to a private room with a large table in the middle. A single, high window let light into the depressing space.

  A man in a beige jumpsuit sat at the table. A chain ran from his cuffs through a ring in the table’s surface. His haggard hair and unkempt, silvering beard made him look older than his forty years.

  “Hello Detective.”

  “Hello Mr. Turganov. You grew out your hair?”

  “It has been a long time.”

  “I can see.”

  “What brings you to our little slice of penal heaven?”

  “I need a name,” Corus said.

  “When was the last time a Russian ever gave a name to you or anyone else?”

  “You Russians know how to keep your mouths shut, that’s for sure.”

  “Silence is free,” Turganov said.

  “Too true.” Corus opened the folder he was holding and turned it so Turganov could see the forensic artist’s rendition of the man from room 245, but if he recognized the visage, his eyes betrayed nothing.

  “Is good drawing, but lacks composition.”

  “Fancy talk for a man in a jumpsuit.”

  “I’ve been taking a class.”

  “Who is he?”

  “This cartoon man? He is cartoon. Only cartoon I know is Futurama. Is good cartoon. Very humorous. The robot is drinking much.”

  “I’m looking for this man. His capture would mean a lot to my superiors.”

  “I’m sure sex with Rene Zellweger mean a lot to them too, but I don’t know her either.”

  “Rene Zellweger? Jesus, you have been in here a while.”

  “Whose fault is that? The man who put me here should ask himself this before he comes to ask me favors.”

  “I didn’t put you here. Your actions put you here. You can’t blame the lightning when you go and hug a flagpole in a thunderstorm. Think of me as just an objective mechanism of nature.”

  “I think of you like bowel movement instead. Ok? Is mechanism of nature too.”

  Corus laughed. “As you wish. But I need this man’s name, Artem. He killed good people.”

  “Why you assume I know him?”

  “He’s a young, Caucasian male willing to assassinate a family, probably for the father’s connection to organized crime. Call me crazy, but in the Seattle metro area, Russian seems like a decent bet.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Come on, Artem. Saying it doesn’t make it true.”

  “I got parole in six weeks. What you gonna give me? I don’t need you.”

  “I dunno. Having your arresting officer speak well of you at your hearing could put a lock on your parole.”

  “My lawyer say it’s already locked.”

  Corus nodded. “Well, what would you like to bet I can unlock it?”

  “You can’t say shit to them.” Artem Turganov looked almost hurt. “I been model prisoner.”

  “I won’t have to.”

  Corus stood up and stepped around the table. He looked Artem Turganov in the eye.

  “This is gonna hurt.”

  The Russian eased his head back and to the side, wary of something in Corus’s glare. Corus bent at the waist and whipped his own head into the table. After a moment of recovery, he gripped the edge of the table and did it again.

  Corus staggered to one knee. He put a hand on the cement block wall and hauled himself up, shook his head and put a hand to his eye. Corus found his seat and sat down heavily. When he brought his hand from his eye, it shone with blood, which continued to drip from his nose and jaw onto his white shirt.

  “Now give me a name or I call the guard, and you spend the next ten years in here.”

  Artem Turganov looked at Corus’ bloody face with a horror that turned to a sort of awe.

  “Kirilov. His name is Andre Kirilov.”

  Corus took in a big breath and removed a small first aid kit wrapped in a rag. He bandaged the cuts above his right eye, cleaned himself up, and buttoned his overcoat over the bloody shirt. When the guard came to unlock the door for him, Corus gave Turganov a two fingered salute and left.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Corus entered the Satellite Diner and sat down opposite Adam.

  “Jesus, what happened to you?” It was evening now, and more patrons than Corus had yet seen occupied the diner’s tables and booths.

  Corus touched at the stitches over his eye. “I tripped.”

  “Your shirt is all bloody.”

  “I didn’t have time to change after the stitches. I just wanted to get here.”

  “Well, I arrived here in time to catch Badcocke still logged in on his computer. Now we have full access, like we’re networked.” Adam Roth tapped his black laptop.

  “So what are we looking for specifically?”

  “Anything odd. This Garvey fellow seems to be involved to some extent. He worked with Griffin on building up their investment scheme, so I’m looking there.”

  Corus looked at the screen which contained an unintelligible mass of figures and abbreviations. “Fletcher should be here any minute.”

  “Who says we need that guy?” Adam asked. “He’s no different from these scumbags.”

  “If we’re researching scumbags, Adam. Why not have one on our side?”

  A midnight blue BMW M5 turned into the parking lot and parked with its halogen headlights shining directly in their faces. The blinding light remained for about a minute before the car switched off and Torrance Fletcher stepped out, eyes on his phone. He walked to the entrance and nearly ran over an elderly lady on her way out. He entered the diner and stood over their table, still staring at his phone.

  “Looks like these are the investment division files,” Adam said. “Badcocke signed off on multiple large wire transfers Miles made to fifteen different institutions. But it’s impossible to tell much about these banks. Here’s one I know though, Diversity Portfolio Management in Chicago. They are mostly personal mutual fund, retirement account guys.”

  “Is that fishy?” Corus asked.

  “No. It’s not unheard of. Pacific Trust would have been a big account for them, though. It sounds like it was early days for this Miles guy. Maybe a sort of initial baby step foray into investment banking.”

  “How much?”

  “Umm. Lets see…there was a transfer of $2,000,000.00 in August of 2011. Then a transfer back to PacTrust for $2,020,012.04 in February of 2012.”

  “So what does that mean. A successful investment?”

  “Right, some sort of six month certificate of deposit.”

  “Successful, ha!” Fletcher shook his head over his phone.

  “What?” Corus asked.

  “That’s one percent. I wouldn’t wipe my client’s asses with one percent on a six month CD.”

  “Be that as it may,” Adam said, “for conventional banking, this is a very desirable outcome.”

  “So is that it? Just a bunch of transfers like that?” Corus looked worried.

  “Yeah. He stopped with Diversity in summer of 2012. He had started moving more money to different groups. Here’s twenty mil to Calumet in San Diego, another thirty-four mil to Chase Manhattan.”

  Corus exhaled. “So they got bigger…”

  “Yes, by a lot. Many of the returns were less by percentage, but Miles was makin
g more total profit with less risk.” Adam pointed at the screen. “See, here were smaller amounts for higher returns. This one went to a private bank in Florida for only three million, but it came back a year later, after Miles had died, for a whopping return of eight percent. So he wasn’t completely risk-averse.”

  “Was that Lima and Associates?” Fletcher asked.

  “Yes,” Adam said somewhat startled. “How did you know?”

  “A hunch. I’ve worked with them. They’re shady, but not much more than normal. They’ve been a little hamstrung by the Feds cracking down on the Caymans.”

  Corus looked to Adam for explanation.

  “I’m not personally familiar with Lima, but I know a few banks down there acted as mainland intermediaries for people and corporations who wanted to move money offshore, specifically to the Cayman Islands. As he says, the US government has been working with the British to crack down on the Caymans.”

  “So, was Miles doing anything illegal?” asked Corus.

  “Hard to say. He might not have known where this stellar eight percent was coming from, but he ought to have suspected. It raises suspicion.”

  “Fletcher,” Corus said, “take a look at these names and tell us if you recognize any others.”

  “Here I’ll just read them off,” Adam offered. “Credit Suisse, BNP Parabas, and Barclays you know. How about Pratixis?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Damn.”

  “What?” Adam asked.

  “I can’t get this last piggy.”

  Corus pulled his arm down, and Fletcher showed him the screen.

  “Oh, you gotta hit that block of dynamite with the yellow bird from a high angle,” Corus said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Mackinder?” Adam asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Jeffords?”

  “Nah.”

  “Telmekt?”

  “Oh, them… no they’re straight.”

  “Oversight Management? CGO? Delfor?”

  “Oversight Management, did you say?”

  “Yeah.” Adam adjusted his glasses.

  “That’s a fake name if I ever heard one.”