by Corey Brown
“Of course,” Harris says. He pulls a file from his desk drawer. “I have them right here.”
They were interrupted by the sound of Cody’s cell phone.
“This is Briggs,” Cody says.
“Cody, it’s yours.” It was Captain Laroche. “Get down to the morgue. Slater and Hansen are already on the way. Meet them, maybe you’ll get something useful.”
“Thanks, Captain. I appreciate it.”
“You owe me, big time.”
Cody stands up, clipping his phone back onto his belt. “I have to go,” he says, taking the list of names from Harris. “I have to meet a couple of detectives for Nick’s autopsy. Thanks, you’ve been a great help. I’d like to talk some more, if you don’t mind.”
Harris strips a Post It note from a nearby pad and scribbles on it. “Here is my cell number. Call me anytime.”
Cody glances at it, slips the yellow square of paper into his wallet, next to Hansen’s card. Then he takes one of his own business cards and hands it to Harris. “I’ll be in touch.”
Cody heads for the door but he stops short. Turning back, he says, “Doctor, how did these women react to their husband’s deaths?”
Harris is puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, did they seem upset?”
“Do you mean did they grieve properly?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Harris shrugs. “My observations would be nothing more than speculation. People handle loss in different ways. Besides, I didn’t have the opportunity to visit with any of my patients near the time of their husband’s deaths.”
“Fair enough. Make it personal not professional, off the record.”
“Off the record? Mrs. Bowman-Lee seemed distraught, but Mrs. Cochran was quite indifferent.”
Cody considers Harris’s statement. Now he wants professional discourse and he makes a face. “Explain that,” he says. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Uh-uh,” Harris says, shaking his head. “Off the record doesn’t mean opinionated detail. Sorry detective, you’re on your own now.”
Cody holds up the folder with the names of the dead husbands and nods. “Thanks, I’ll call you later.”
“Find them,” Harris says. “Find the men who killed Nick.”
“Count on it.”
Chapter 9
The trip to 2700 Tulane Avenue takes only minutes. The building houses the Coroner’s offices as well as the District Criminal Court. It is always busy, parking is nearly impossible. Fortunately, officials, cops included, have access to the parking lot at the rear of the building.
Working his way through crowded hallways to the Coroner’s offices, Cody pushes the door open and is surprised to find he is alone. This place is never empty. He rings the bell on the counter. After a moment, a woman in her late twenties or early thirties steps out of a nearby office and approaches the counter, straightening her skirt and blouse on the way.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
“Detective Briggs, where’s Fletcher?”
“Doctor Fletcher?”
“Yeah,” Cody says, putting away his shield. “He’s doing an autopsy on a cop. Which room?”
The office door opens again and a young man comes over to the woman. His shirt is buttoned wrong and one shoe is untied.
“Here,” he says, sheepishly, handing an ID badge to the woman. “You, um, left this.”
She glares at him and snatches the badge so quickly that it flies from his hand, landing at Cody’s feet. He looks down at the badge, looks at the woman. Cody looks at the young man then picks up the rectangular piece of plastic. He glances at the name below her photo: Katherine Deats. She is new, the picture still looks like her.
“How about it, Kathy?” Cody says, handing back the badge. “Where is Fletcher?”
Cutting her eyes to the young man, she says, “Let me check.”
Flipping through a logbook, she swallows, looks back at Cody. “I don’t see anything scheduled but I think he’s in room C. Two other cops are already in there.”
“Thanks,” Cody says. There is a trace of a smile on his mouth. He nods at Katherine’s lover. “Check your fly.”
Cody makes his way down a hallway, walking past examination rooms A and B. Despite his many viewings, the worn concrete floor and deteriorating ceramic wall tiles remind Cody of how much he dislikes this place. He stops short of room C and listens. A moment is all he needs.
“Morning gentlemen,” Cody says, pushing open the double doors.
Slater, Hansen and a third man, Doctor Fletcher, look over at Cody in surprise.
“Briggs?” Slater says. “What’re you doing here?”
Seeming to ignore Slater’s question, Cody looks at Doctor Fletcher and says, “Hey Fletch, how are you?”
Fletcher is a tall, thin man with a blocky face and thick, white hair. His shoulders are hunched, his back permanently stooped from years of leaning over the unfortunates, the shape of his spine a virtual headstone for the ones who require an autopsy before being put to rest.
Reading glasses perched halfway down his nose Fletcher looks at Cody and says, “How’ve I been? Well hell, I’ve been better. I don’t like this one. Goddamnit, Cody, I’m sorry about Nick.”
“Yeah, I know,” Cody says. “It’s rough.”
“Tell me something,” Hansen says. “Did you know that Ms. Turano wouldn’t be home when you sent us over there?
Cody ignores the question. “The case is mine, now. Sorry, but you guys are out.”
“Bullshit.” Slater says, his voice rising. “We can handle this, Briggs.”
“I’m sure you can. But you aren’t.”
Slater stares at Hansen and says, “Can you believe this asshole?”
“Cool it, man. It’s his partner. What’d you expect?”
Slater looks from Hansen to Cody, feels his anger rise, starts to boil.
“You better be right,” Slater says, looking at Cody. His eyes are sharp and angry; his tone is just above a growl.
“Call my captain, call yours.” Cody says. “This case is mine.”
Slater stares at Cody then presses between Hansen and Cody. He shoves past them and storms out of the room, cursing again as he leaves. Hansen watches the door close behind Slater and slips his cell phone out of his pocket, holds it up.
“I’ll just call my captain,” Hansen says. But before he can dial the number, Cody’s own cell rings.
“Briggs,” Cody says, annoyed by the interruption.
“Cody.” Jamie’s voice is tight, full of tension.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Julia’s apartment, someone’s been here. It’s all torn up.”
A knot grows in Cody’s stomach, but he tries to sound calm. “Jamie, listen to me, you and Julia have to get out of there right now.”
“But----”
“Get out,” Cody says, interrupting her. Cody is moving toward the door as he speaks. “Leave right now, Jamie. I’m on my way.”
Cody hears Jamie call to Julia. Then he hears the gunshot.
“Jamie?” Cody shouts. He is running toward the door but he stops short. There is a second gunshot, this time much closer. “Jamie!”
“What’s going on?” Hansen said. ‘Who’s Jamie?”
Cody looks at the phone, looks at Hansen. “Jesus, I think my wife’s been shot.”
Then they are both on the run, Hansen close on Cody’s heels.
“Where’re you going?” Slater says as the pair run passed.
“Come on, we gotta help Briggs.”
“Fuck him.”
“His wife’s in trouble,” Hansen calls back. “Come on.”
The doors at 2700 Tulane burst open as Cody charges into the parking lot. Hansen and Slater are only steps behind. Cody is trying to dial 911 as he runs.
“New Orleans Police,” Cody hears the dispatcher say.
“This is Detective Briggs. I need a unit at Dauphine and Orleans. Shots fi
red. Detectives Slater, Hansen and I are en route.”
“We’re already responding, detective.”
Heart pounding, adrenaline burns in Cody’s veins as he sprints toward his car. Throwing the emergency light onto the dash, he hits siren and jams the car into gear.
Cody’s body strains against the seatbelt as the car lurches onto North Rampart.
“I knew I should have gone with her,” Cody says to himself. “Goddamnit, what was I thinking?”
An odd feeling sweeps through his body, as if the pavement moving beneath the tires of his car is more like a river flowing beneath a boat; the car is moving forward but it feels more like the road is moving beneath the tires, spinning them in place. It feels like he will never reach Julia’s apartment.
Just below the surface of clear thought, Cody wonders about this idea. Why would he feel like the road is moving, spinning the wheels of his car? Without knowing it, Cody concludes the world is on the move around him, moving below him, making him react, making him spin out of control.
Glancing in the rearview mirror he catches sight of Slater and Hansen as they follow a few blocks behind. Over his police scanner, Cody hears a dispatcher acknowledge the first patrol car to arrive on the scene but it offers little relief. He tries to shut out the images of Jamie being gunned down in his mind.
Going against the posted direction, Cody skids onto Orleans Street, but has to slam on the brakes, to avoid running head on into a guy driving an old Pontiac Bonneville. The motorist gives him the finger and yells an obscenity as Cody pulls to the curb. He jams the shifter into park and takes off on foot. As they pull in behind Cody’s car, Slater and Hansen watch as Cody disappears in a crowd of onlookers.
“Detective Briggs.” Cody says, panting and holding his badge out for the first cop he sees. Then he starts toward the building entrance.
Catching him by the arm, the uniformed officer says, “Sorry Detective, I can’t let you in. The building isn’t secure yet.”
Cody wrenches free. “I don’t give a shit, my wife’s in there.” An instant later he is inside.
As Cody enters the building, Hansen and Slater arrive. “Who’s got the scene?” Slater says to the same policeman who had stopped Cody.
“Um, no one yet. Hell, we all just got here.”
“Okay.” Slater pulls his shield and identifies himself. “Let everyone know who we are, don’t wanna get popped by mistake.”
“Did you see Detective Briggs?” Hansen asks.
“In there.” The officer jabs his thumb toward the door.
“Let’s go,” Hansen says, moving toward the entrance.
Like everything else in the Quarter, the building is old. The outside is faced with brick, now painted turquoise and long since faded. wrought iron balconies wrap the front and overlook the street. Inside dark wainscot and heavy woodwork seem to diminish the already narrow hallways. A winding staircase crawls its way to the third floor.
The strange March heat wave is bad enough on the outside, but in the cramped, airless hallway, the temperature is unbearable. Sweat streams down Cody’s face and back. He stands on the third floor, his back to the wall, listening just outside Julia and Nick’s apartment. His chest heaves from the run and the rush. More distracting than the stifling heat is the open apartment door.
“Briggs, wait for us,” Slater hisses, looking up into the darkness of the floors above. “We’ll be right there.”
Ignoring them, Cody steps through into the apartment, catches sight of the phone lying on the floor. In his mind Cody can see Jamie standing there, calling him; he can hear the gunshot.
Now, Cody hears footsteps, the other two detectives are climbing the stairs, coming down the hall.
Holding the forty-caliber Smith and Wesson at arm’s length, Cody scans the room. His nerves are raw, eyes sharp. The apartment is small, consisting of only a few rooms. The living room is long and narrow with worn hardwood flooring. To the right a breakfast counter splits off the kitchen, where tall glass paned cabinets line the back wall.
Just beyond the kitchen area, also on the right, is a single bedroom. On the left are a large storage closet and the bathroom. On the far end of the main room is a door that opens onto the balcony, next to it is a large window that has been shattered, presumably, by the intruder.
Sweeping the entire dwelling takes only moments. In the bedroom, Cody finds Julia Turano’s lifeless body, shot at close range, execution-style, in the forehead.
“Oh shit.” Hansen says, coming up behind Cody. “Is that your wife?”
“No,” Cody says, turning his head slightly. “Jamie’s not here.”
“Thank God. Is it....?
Cody nods. “Julia Turano, Nick’s fiancée. They got her, too”
“Goddamnit.” Hansen says. He looks around, jams his pistol back into his shoulder holster. “Maybe your wife made it out okay.”
“Maybe.”
Cody pinches his upper lip, desperately trying to keep a torrent of emotions under control. Where is Jamie? How could he let this happen? He struggles to keep up appearances, tries to maintain the cop persona but Cody is quickly reaching the breaking point.
He turns and walks past Hansen. Slater is on his cell phone, telling those outside the gunman is gone and to start a street search.
Stepping into the hallway, Cody looks over the stair rail, down to the first floor. He glances left then right, hoping to see some sign of his wife. The darkness of the corridor makes everything seem minatory. He presses a palm into his eye, hoping to staunch the tears that are beginning to force their way out.
Swallowing hard, Cody covers his mouth with his hand. He tries to steel himself, fails, almost gives way to desperation. “Jamie?” Cody calls out, his voice sounding as panicked as he feels.
To his left, from the end of the darkened hallway, Cody hears a door creak open. Instinctively he snaps to attention, drawing his gun up and pointing it toward the sound.
“Cody?”
“Oh Jesus,” Cody slips the gun back into his holster and he starts toward the sound of Jamie’s voice. “Where are you?” He says. The door creaks again, at the end of the hallway Jamie emerges from the shadows.
“Cody----” Jamie’s voice breaks, choked off by the swell of emotion.
Then Cody has her, his arms wrapped tightly, crushing her body against his. Again, he fights to hold back a rush of emotion.
“Oh God, Jamie, I thought I’d lost you. I thought----”
“He....he tried to shoot me.” Jamie shudders violently as she draws in a breath. She looks into Cody’s eyes and says, “Is Julia all right?”
Cody sucks in a breath and before he speaks, Jamie knows. “No,” Cody whispers, shaking his head. “They got her. Julia’s dead.”
Slater is calling out instructions to the handful of cops now hiking up the stairs while Hansen slowly makes his way toward Cody and Jamie. He sees their anguished embrace and holds back, waits a moment.
Catching Cody’s eye, Hansen tentatively says, “I’m glad to see you’re all right, Mrs. Briggs.”
Still holding her, Cody turns slightly, so Jamie can see him. Wary, she looks at Hansen and sees he is not the shooter.
“Thank you,” Jamie says, swiping at the tears.
“Jamie,” Cody says, drying his own face. “This is Detective Hansen.”
“Call me Eric,” Hansen says, with a quick smile. “Pleased to meet you, Jamie.”
“He and his partner came along, really helped out.” Cody says. He looks closely at Hansen. “I appreciate how you guys backed me up.”
“Thank you so much,” Jamie says.
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Hansen looks back toward the apartment, kind of shrugs. “I wish it were the same for Ms. Turano.”
Jamie nods in agreement and presses her face, once more, into Cody’s chest.
“You all take your time,” Hansen says. “I’m going back to the apartment.”
Inside the apartment building, cops are sec
uring the scene, going door to door. Stopping for a moment to look at Julia’s body from a distance, Hansen catches up with Slater in the bedroom.
“The crime scene guys are on the way,” Slater says. “They ought to be here in fifteen minutes or so.”
“Anything grab your attention?” Hansen says.
“No, not really. It looks like the shooter came through that window.” Slater points to the broken glass just outside the bedroom door. “And was waiting inside the closet. I think he popped her when she opened the door.”
“Think he did it because he was caught?” Hansen says.
Slater shrugs. “Maybe, but I doubt it. This doesn’t seem like a robbery gone wrong. I think whoever did this killed Wheaton, too.”
“How can you say that? Some guy breaks in, gets caught, it doesn’t mean he was planning to kill her.”
Slater nods in agreement. “True. But it’s too coincidental, first Wheaton then his girlfriend. And he was obviously prepared to do it.”
Hansen looks around, making sure no one is nearby then he says, “You know, now that Briggs’s wife is involved we can probably get the Wheaton case again.”
Slater nods again. “Yeah, I know. But do we want it? I mean, these cases are hooked together. Getting one means getting two.”
“Well,” Hansen says. “I’m not sure we have a choice. Chances are Briggs will get yanked, anyway. He’s too close, now. I’m surprised he got the Wheaton gig in the first place. The way I see it, we’ve come this far, it doesn’t make sense for anyone else to get either case.”
“No argument from me. But like I said, do we really want them?”