by Brian Parker
To my surprise, the small man told the giant, “No. I am not your servant. I can get you a tissue if you’d like, but I am not wiping your chin for you.”
“What about the weapon? Who else makes that type of weapon, or who else has it?” I repeated.
“I don’t know, man. Until you said something, I thought I was the only one with that sweet piece of tech.” The stub where his weapon had been mounted moved awkwardly. “You know, it looks like old-school diesel tech or something, but it’s wired to my nerves and I control it just like I would my old arm. I don’t know how Solomon does it, but that shit is good.”
Dead end on that part, but I was willing to bet that this Solomon fellow had some answers. I mentally rearranged my list of subjects that I needed to talk to, juggling between the Henderson case and the mass shooting. For all that he’d fucked up the investigation so far, I was at least mildly grateful that Sanders was around to do some of the legwork on the case. With Drake birddogging him, he shouldn’t be able to screw it up much more than he already had.
“How much does all that shit cost?” I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.
“Hundred and fifty gees for the dicer.”
“Dicer? Is that what they call it?”
“It’s what I call it,” Corrigan replied.
“Hmpf. Lotta cash. You buy it or did your employer?”
“My boss did.”
“Well, shit, Corrigan. You’re gonna make me ask every little follow-on question, aren’t you?”
“I have instructed my client that he is able to answer questions in conjunction with the plea bargain deal,” the lawyer interjected. “But he doesn’t have to volunteer anything to you. Read the paper you brought over from the DA.”
“Well, you’re a by-the-books little shit,” I smirked. “Okay, Corrigan, who do you work for?”
The big man glanced at Mr. Bonds, who nodded. “A Russian named Farouk. Works at—”
“The Easytown Dockyards,” I said. “I know the fucker. He’s already on my shit list. I’ve been meaning to get over there and see him, but that seems like it moved up to my number one priority.”
“Heh,” Corrigan grunted. “You’re so lost, man. Good luck finding him. If he knows you’re looking for him, he’s probably already gone. He’s a slippery sonofabitch.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a stubborn asshole and I won’t give up until I find him. What else can you tell me about Karimov?”
“You don’t need to answer that,” the pencil dick interjected. “Giving more than your employer’s name is not part of the plea bargain.”
“Seriously?” I groaned.
“My client told you who he worked for, as requested. It doesn’t say he has to endanger himself by giving up information about a potentially dangerous individual.”
“Bwahahahaha!” Corrigan roared, laughing so hard that the machines he was hooked up to began to sound alarms that brought nurses running. He continued to alternate between laughter and coughing fits as they recalibrated the machinery, ensuring their patient wasn’t going into some type of cardiac arrest.
When they finally left, the cyborg chuckled, saying, “I don’t have anything to fear from Farouk. I’d snap his neck like a twig.” There was something in his eyes that made me think he wasn’t telling the truth about being afraid of Karimov.
“So tell me what you know about your boss,” I prompted.
“Eh,” Corrigan replied. “Likes knives and knows how to use them to help enforce discipline with people.”
“Do you know what other illegal shit he’s into?”
“Again, my client is not required to answer your questions regarding his former employer.”
“Can it, Bonds. I want to hear what Mr. Corrigan has to say—not you,” I grumbled.
“Well, like the good man said, Detective, I don’t have to tell you anything about my boss to honor my end of the plea bargain. But I’ll let you in on a little secret: Karimov is the sole producer of synthaine. You know, that shit everyone drops in their eyes to get away from it all? I bet those Narc motherfuckers never thought about someone continuing to work a nine-to-five job as cover while they raked in millions.”
I felt like Corrigan had just handed me the Golden Goose, all tied up in a bow on a silver platter. The city’s Narcotics Division had tried for years to find the source of synthaine. We were fairly sure it came from somewhere in southern Louisiana, and they’d busted hundreds of dealers in the two years since the drug made its debut, but where it came from was still a mystery. Besides the drug’s cocaine base, the rest of the ingredients were household chemicals that could be bought at a convenience store. No one had been dumb enough to buy large quantities of the ingredients, so tracking down the components and working up wasn’t an option. Scientists had been unable to replicate the final product, so if we could get rid of the one person who knew how to make it…
Now here was this information. If what Corrigan said was true, and Karimov was the man responsible for the most deadly street drug in sixty years, he was either brilliant, reckless, or stupid. I was beginning to think it was the first. Working a regular job automatically disqualified him as a suspect in a lot of eyes; these guys tended to become suspects because they had a lot of money that they flaunted with no discernable income stream. Also, the two times I’d seen him, at the riot and on video at the club, there hadn’t been any obvious henchmen around—certainly no cyborg bruisers like Branch Corrigan. He participated in social causes, making him seem like the good immigrant he posed as.
This case just got a lot more complicated. I’d have to confer with Narc before I went down to bust this guy.
“Farouk Karimov was at the Liquid Genesis last night when it was attacked—no, he was unharmed,” I answered the question forming on the big man’s lips. “Is that why two cyborgs shot up the club that he was in? Is this a drug war?”
Corrigan tried to lift his hands in a shrug, but the two handcuffs holding his wrist to the side of the bed prevented it. “I don’t know. It happened after I was mutilated by you and locked up.”
“Something that big, you would have heard rumblings…” I left it open for him to fill in the blanks.
“I work for Karimov, dickhead. If Farouk was the target, it makes sense that he didn’t know about it.”
“Okay, you’re right,” I conceded. “How has he stayed off the police radar?”
A soft knock at the door caused me to turn as a dark-haired nurse came into the room. “Sorry, I have to change Mr. Corrigan’s IV.” She deftly changed the bag of fluids and retreated quickly before I got a good look at her face.
“Back to my question,” I said, bringing the discussion back online. “How has he been able to stay anonymous?”
“Very few people know about it. Hell, maybe four or five total. Another person posing as the producer orchestrates the big deals. Keeps clean by distancing herself from everything.”
“Her?”
“I mean ‘him’. Drugs, man,” he corrected himself.
“So, how do you know about what he does?”
“I met the guy in Sabatier seven or eight years ago. He paid me to protect him on the inside and we’ve kept up that relationship ever since.”
“How does he produce this shit and distribute it without us knowing?”
“Are we done talking about my bosses?” the cyborg said, changing the subject abruptly. “I’m getting sleepy from all these meds. Just finish your questions that completes my end of the plea bargain.”
“Bosses?”
He clammed up quickly. It was another inconsistency. “Is there someone else involved besides Karimov?”
He smiled wide and I noticed for the first time how dark his gums were. They were a deep purple, almost black. “Nope. Just Karimov.”
I went back to my original line of questioning; I could talk to this dude any time I wanted as part of the plea bargain. “What were you doing at Dale Henderson’s apartment that night when you attacked me and
my partner unprovoked?”
“Karimov sent me over there to make sure he didn’t have anything that could point to the synthaine operation in his apartment.”
I tried to follow his statement, but he’d spoken it oddly. I glanced at the IV going into his arm. The nurse had replaced his narcotics drip, so it was probably starting to hit him. I needed to finish questioning him today so I didn’t have to come back out here anytime soon.
“You said Karimov sent you to Henderson’s apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“And you went there to make sure Henderson didn’t have anything to implicate him?”
“Sure.”
“So Henderson knew that Karimov was behind the synthaine?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Pillow talk,” Corrigan slurred. “Farouk talks in his sleep… Karimov wanted to shut him up.”
“Hmpf,” I grunted. That sort of shit had been bringing people down since the dawn of man. “How did Farouk know he’d let the cat out of the bag?”
The cyborg stared at me stupidly and I rephrased the question. “How did Farouk know he’d talked about producing synthaine in front of Henderson?”
“Recordings.”
His answers were becoming short. How much morphine did that nurse give him? I had to hurry. There were still three questions I had to get answered.
“A projectile, the miniature saw blade, was found in Dale Henderson’s neck. Did you shoot him?”
“That’s not what the plea bargain—”
“Read the last line, Mr. Bonds,” I hissed. Bullshit if it wasn’t part of the plea bargain. “It says information about crimes committed with the associated technology.”
I turned back to Corrigan. He was falling fast, so I stood and quickly slapped him across the cheek. “Hey!” the lawyer squealed.
“You want to come back out here tomorrow?” I asked.
“No, I—”
“Then shut up. You see the size of this guy? A little wake-me-up slap isn’t gonna do anything to him.” The lawyer was annoying me. Maybe I should have slapped him instead. “Corrigan. Corrigan, wake up.”
His eyelids fluttered and he flopped his head in my direction. “Did you kill Dale Henderson at the order of your boss, Farouk Karimov?”
“Nah,” Branch breathed heavily. “Was supposed to…but fucker was already dead.”
“Why were you going to kill him?”
“He knew about the…synth…aine.”
“Did you kill Janie Kelso in February at a synthaine house on Snapdragon Avenue?”
“I kill a lot.”
The Christopher Bonds rolled his chair away from his client, visibly shaken by Corrigan’s admission.
“Drug deal gone bad?” I asked.
“Didn’t pay,” the cyborg mumbled.
“During our last conversation, I advised you of your rights and then you admitted to killing more than forty people. Do you stand by that assertion?”
“Huh?”
He was fading fast. “You said you killed more than forty people. Is that true?”
“Heh… More like seventy-six. But, who’s counting?”
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“Please, Detective Forrest,” Mr. Bonds pleaded. “You can see that my client is very tired. He’s overcome by the medication.”
“Hey! Corrigan,” I said, shaking him roughly once more. I was rewarded with the fluttering of his eyes. “Do you have proof that you killed seventy-six people?” I asked slowly.
“Videos,” he heaved. “I jerk off to them.”
“Where?”
“My apart…men—”
He passed out and I shook him again. It was no use. The drugs had forced the big man to sleep.
“Well, Mr. Bonds. Looks like we’ll be getting a search warrant for your client’s apartment as well as playing this recording for the grand jury.”
“We didn’t authorize the recording of Mr. Corrigan’s admission of guilt.”
“Too bad, son. The Clairbridge Ruling of 2027 allows me, as a police officer, to record every conversation I have with a suspect after I’ve read them their Miranda Rights.” I glanced up from my notebook where I’d scribbled some notes. “Are you telling me that you didn’t know about that US Supreme Court ruling?”
“No, of course I knew, it’s just—”
Beep! Beep! Beeeeeeeeeeeep!
I jumped up and ran to the door. “Nurse!” I screamed.
“What’s happening?” the lawyer screeched.
“He’s flat lining!” I replied.
“What’s that mean?”
The same crew of doctors and nurses who’d came in earlier burst into the room. They didn’t ask questions, they just got to work as Bonds and me pressed against the walls, finally making our way out of the room altogether.
We sat on cheap, foldable chairs in the waiting room, neither of us saying anything to the other until the doctors came out ten minutes later to tell us the news.
Branch Corrigan was dead.
TEN: MONDAY
The medical report was complete by the time my Jeep drove off the Sabatier Island Ferry’s deck. Corrigan died of a massive overdose of morphine.
The staff immediately implicated the nurse who’d given it to him. She was a new hire and pled innocent, begging them to allow her to keep her job. An investigation by the prison’s doctor showed that she’d set the IV drip to the proper dosage and an examination of the drug bottles turned up no missing morphine. Next, they turned to the drug itself. A quick scan of the bar code told them everything they needed to know.
Several months prior, there’d been a nationwide recall of morphine due to the lots having more than triple the strength of the narcotic than they were supposed to. Several people died across the country before it was discovered. The hospital had turned in all of their affected stocks, and had the documentation to prove it. Yet, somehow, a bottle of the tainted morphine had ended up in the Sabatier Island medical ward’s controlled substance locker, and the nurse had randomly picked that particular bottle to dose Corrigan from.
The whole thing stank of a murder to shut him up about Karimov, but there was zero evidence. Until camera footage, call logs, and internet messaging could be analyzed, it would be chalked up to an accidental overdose.
I needed a drink.
“Andi, call Dr. Jones’ office. Maybe she can fit me in.”
The phone rang twice before the doctor picked it up. “What do you want, Zach? I don’t have time for your bullshit.”
“I’m sorry about this morning,” I replied. “That mass shooting in Easytown took priority.”
“I saw a note about it on the NOPDnet. Didn’t even register as a blip on the local news radar.”
“Of course not,” I answered bitterly. “Nobody cares about what happens in Easytown. They just want to stick their heads in the sand and avoid the problems down here.”
“I was just getting ready to leave for the day, Zach,” Dr. Jones said, causing me to glance at my watch. Somehow, I’d blown an entire day between the run-in with Doug Sanders, returning the pneumatic weapon to Katheryn and that strange conversation, and my time at Sabatier.
“Oh. I didn’t even realize what time it was. Sorry.”
“I can fit you in at 8:30 tomorrow morning, but we’ve got to be quick because I have a nine o’clock. I’m only doing this because I’m your friend as well as your therapist. Believe me, though, coming and talking to me will go a long way to help derail the bullshit going on behind the scenes.”
“What bullshit?” I asked.
“I’d rather not say, especially over my office line. I’m glad that you’re seeking help and want to continue to be the best cop that you can be.”
“Huh?”
“Okay, I’m gonna go. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
She hung up without ever confirming with me that I could make 8:30. “Guess we need to add that to the calendar, Andi.”
&
nbsp; “Already did, Zach.”
“Thanks. I want a meeting with Tommy Voodoo tomorrow, too. Any time he can fit me in is fine.”
“On it.”
“I also want the home addresses of Hector Gonsalvez and Farouk Karimov. Then, get me a meeting with Narc so we can go over the story that Corrigan told to see how it compares with their ongoing investigation.”
“Alright, I’ll begin working on those items immediately,” Andi replied. “According to the Jeep’s GPS locator, you are approximately eight minutes from arriving back here. Should I allow your guest inside or make them wait in the hallway until you return?”
“Guest? What guest?”
“Katheryn Townlain is currently waiting in the hallway. She says she’s going to dinner with you.”
“Jesus,” I grumbled. “What is it with this woman?”
The Pharaoh’s Tomb was busy tonight, which was odd for a Monday night. Typically, the early days of the week didn’t see a lot of business, but tonight, more than three-quarters of the tables held customers. Good for Amir, I thought.
Across from me sat an enigma. Katheryn had been waiting at my apartment when I got home. She swore to me that she wasn’t some sort of weird homicide groupie, and acknowledged that we couldn’t date each other, but that she still wanted to be friends with me. I’m a sucker for a pretty woman, so I agreed to go out to dinner with her; it’s not like I had any plans for the evening.
“So this Paladin guy helped you solve the clone torture case?” she asked.
“Yeah. Turns out he was a clone too. He was trying to save others like him.”
“So he was self-aware?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know that at first, but it came out later on that he was a clone.”
“He’s still out there, in Easytown, isn’t he?”
I nodded. “He’s a dangerous vigilante, but after the fight at the clone facility, he’s only popped up on the radar a couple of times.”
“And the department is okay with letting him stay loose?”
“You worked at the Dockyards, right?” She nodded, so I continued. “You know what Easytown is like then: overcrowded, dirty, dangerous… We are barely keeping our heads above water protecting innocent, tax-paying tourists. Is the Paladin a murderer? Yes, unequivocally, but he’s killing other murderers and street thugs. If we could get more resources or more time, we’d go after him. As it is now, we just have to keep an eye on him and hope that he doesn’t mistakenly hurt the wrong person.”