by Brian Parker
“Where’s this Ortega guy?”
“Dead,” I replied. “He died in police custody after a drone picked him up at the riot.”
“Detective, we haven’t gotten to the best part yet,” Drake stated.
I glanced back at him. “What am I missing?”
He palmed something off of his desk and held it up in the air between his index and middle fingers.
“Son of a bitch,” I breathed as I accepted the item.
In my hand was a small, serrated-edged disk. The same kind that Branch Corrigan’s pneumatic air weapon fired.
NINE: MONDAY
I pushed the hovertray containing Branch Corrigan’s weapon down the precinct hallway to the evidence locker. I knocked and got buzzed in.
“Ah… Hello, Zach,” Katheryn greeted me.
“Yeah, sorry it took me so long to bring this back. I got tied up with some things this morning.”
“It’s okay. I knew it was in safe hands.”
She leaned against the counter. I couldn’t help but notice her arms pushing her breasts together, creating a deep furrow of cleavage that was clearly visible in her low-cut top. The woman smiled and tilted her head to regard me.
“Well, you wanna come back here?” she asked in a sultry voice that wasn’t her normal tone. As she did so, she pressed the button that opened the cage door.
I maneuvered the tray through the opening and looked around. The place was deserted. “Where is everybody?”
“Out to lunch. I’m the new girl, so I got stuck working all alone.”
That seemed almost as strange as her change in pitch. “I thought the evidence locker had a mandatory rotational shift so there were always two people back here at all times. You know, to make sure somebody doesn’t take off with a bunch of drugs to sell on the street for some major cash.”
She shrugged and twisted a few strands of hair around her index finger. “I don’t know about that, Zach. All I know is that everyone went out for Phelisha’s retirement lunch. I don’t know her that well and don’t have any seniority, so… Here I am.”
“Hmpf,” I grunted. “That’s a major breach of protocol.”
She laughed, stepping closer to me and putting a hand on my forearm. “You’ve done plenty of things that weren’t exactly by the book. You won’t tell on me, will you?”
“Katheryn…” I sighed. She was laying it on pretty thick, whether to try and continue what we’d sort of started last night or for some other reason, I didn’t know. “Why are you acting like this? I like you—a lot—but I’m in no position to go on a date with you.”
She frowned, but didn’t remove her hand. “Besides the fact that I just got out of a relationship,” I pressed. “I can’t date you. You’re a contractor for the police department, I’m a cop; it’s forbidden.”
Katheryn gently pushed the hovertray aside and placed her other hand on my opposite arm, pressing close. “No one would ever know, Zach.”
“We would, and about a thousand cameras in here. This is the evidence locker, remember?”
“I know a place where there’s no cameras. We could go there…” She left the last part of her sentence open for interpretation.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m on thin ice around here as it is,” I said, stepping back from her. “We can be friends, there’s no regulation against that. Maybe once you make it through the academy, we could see about going on a date.”
“You’re missing out, Zach,” she pouted, looking down at the floor.
“Hey,” I said, drawing her eyes back up to mine. Her pretty face slowly came back into view as she looked up. “I probably am. But you know that we can’t do this. It’s best if we just stay friends.”
Why the hell was that always my go-to with women? It was the same way with Teagan for years, now here was another beautiful woman, much closer in age to me, practically throwing herself at me and I was rebuffing her. Goddamn department regulations.
“Okay,” she whispered, her voice returning to its normal tone. “I’ll log the weapon back in. Please don’t report the locker supervisor for leaving me here alone. They said lunchtime is always slow and that I’d be fine.”
“I won’t. I don’t want any heat to come down on you.”
Katheryn nodded and grabbed the tray before turning and walking down the hall to the first doorway. “You can show yourself out, Detective,” she said without looking back at me.
Seriously, what the fuck just happened? I wondered in confusion as I left the evidence locker behind me.
I sat in the ferry, trying to make sense of Katheryn’s actions at lunchtime. I wasn’t coming up with any good reasons why she’d turned on the charm so thickly today when she easily could have gotten what she wanted last night when we were both intoxicated. The little bit I thought I’d learned about women seemed to be washed away in the rain outside the boat.
Where the drizzle hit the windows, it ran in tiny rivulets down the glass, each drop chasing another toward the deck, where they’d eventually fall into the water below. I’d never paid much attention to the way water made its way back to the earth, I was always too busy, too preoccupied. Maybe part of my problem was that I didn’t take time to appreciate the small things in life; to see the simple, everyday events as the works of art that they were instead of a hassle that interrupted the daily grind.
I zoned out, alternating between the watery runoff and watching the waves beyond. The ferry ride out to Sabatier Island was a full twenty minutes in calm water, but since Chandeleur Sound was choppy from the weather, it was closer to thirty by the time the boat pulled up to the dock. The extra time didn’t seem to bother me as much as it would have in the past. Maybe I was getting old and slow.
Or maybe I just needed a break that wasn’t forced on me by a hospitalization or a suspension from the force, I decided.
Thankfully, the same guard who’d been on duty last Friday was here today, so we didn’t have to go through the same dick dance that almost got me shot the last time. He recognized me as the cop who was here to see the cyborg in Cellblock Three. As an added bonus, Corrigan’s lawyer had been on the ferry with me and I hadn’t even known. Hopefully, the weasely fucker would stay and talk with his client and I wouldn’t get stuck riding back with him. Lawyers annoyed the hell out of me.
Sergeant Jackson met me once again, this time the lawyer, a man named Christopher Bonds, came with us. Bonds was so wet behind the ears he could probably grow a garden.
“When did you graduate from law school, Mr. Bonds?” I asked the diminutive lawyer, who was crammed into the seat next to me in the two-seater hoverskiff.
“You just want to say something stupid about me,” he answered. “So I’m not going to respond to your obvious attempt to be rude.”
I chuckled. “Was it last spring?” I gauged his response, but there was little to go by. “Last winter term?” His suit was the latest style, no older than a few months. He fidgeted with the handle of his briefcase, so new that there was still plastic wrapped around one of the rivets. Even the notebook he’d written my name in wasn’t creased along the spine.
“No,” I said in disbelief. “They wouldn’t have done that to you. Would they?”
“Who did what to me, Detective Forrest?”
“You just graduated last week, didn’t you?”
He turned toward me, his eyes wide. “How did you know?”
“I’m the best motherfucking homicide detective in the city,” I deadpanned. “I can spot people like you a mile away.” I kept the fact that when I’d talked to Corrigan last week, Bonds wasn’t one of the public defenders that Andi showed us. I used that knowledge that he must have been a new hire along with the minor physical details I’d noticed to put together my hypothesis. And I was right.
“So, this is your first case?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
It made sense that the PD’s office would assign their least-experienced attorney to the hopeless case. We had street video evidence of Cor
rigan attacking us unprovoked with a couple of deadly weapons, drone gun camera footage of him throwing the bench to damage the drone initially, and then destroying it with that pneumatic disc shooter. I’d reviewed the evidence, both Drake and I identified ourselves as police officers when he first appeared. It should be an open-and-shut case, don’t waste the horsepower on an experienced attorney. They didn’t know anything about his admission to murdering forty people yet; I’d let that one drop during the session with the perp.
“Don’t tell that to cyborg, kid,” I warned.
“What?”
“I’m trying to give you some friendly advice about your client, Mr. Bonds,” I shouted over the sound of the rain hitting the small hoverskiff’s roof, which had miraculously made an appearance now that the lawyer was present—Jackson was such a dick. “Don’t tell Corrigan that this is your first case. He’s a psychopath and all that hardware he’s cut into himself hasn’t helped his mental state. If you want to stay alive, make sure that he’s always restrained, especially when you’re alone with him. I mean it, don’t trust him.”
“He’s my client, Detective,” Bonds rebuffed. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
I gave it one more shot. “Whatever, kid. I’m just trying to give you some advice, free of charge. I don’t need another murder to investigate, I’ve seen enough of them to last me a lifetime.”
The lawyer stared straight ahead and didn’t reply.
“Suit yourself,” I grunted. “It’s your funeral.” Don’t talk in clichés, idiot, I berated myself.
We arrived at the perimeter shortly after that and went through the same process as I’d gone through alone last Friday. I hated not having my weapons with me, but it was the only way I was getting inside. When we arrived at the hospital ward the lawyer asked for ten minutes to discuss the case with his client alone.
I took the time to read through the draft search warrants for Gonsalvez and Karimov that Drake sent me, making sure there weren’t any glaring errors that would hold up the judge signing them.
Soon enough, Mr. Bonds and I were seated on opposite sides of one another, Branch Corrigan’s hospital bed in between us. I went through the spiel with Corrigan about how everything he said during our discussion could be used against him, and then I got down to the meat of why we were here.
“I didn’t want to upset you again, Mr. Corrigan, so I left your arm back at the precinct, locked away where you’ll never have to see it again. Ever.”
“Fuck you.”
“Pleasant,” I responded. “Who made that piece of equipment?”
He looked over at the kid, who answered. “That question won’t hurt the case against you. However, I advise you not to talk about anything except—”
I cleared my throat and pulled out a piece of paper from the folder I’d stashed in my coat against the rain. “Ahem. Excuse me there, Mr. Bonds. I’m holding a plea bargain deal from the DA. They’re willing to offer you Corrigan years on Sabatier, without his prosthetic, in exchange for telling the NOPD who’s running these chop shops to create the cyborgs, who they work for, and any information pertaining to the associated weaponry and technology that has been used in a crime.”
Corrigan’s lawyer took the paper and examined it. “Can I have another minute with my client, Detective?”
“Sure, take two,” I said, standing up. “But I want you to know, if this goes to court and he’s found guilty of two counts of assaulting a police officer, destruction of a police drone, discharge of a firearm within the city limits, destruction of public property exceeding ten thousand dollars, destruction of private property, interfering with a police investigation, and of being an all-around asshole, your client can stay right here on the island for eighty years. That’s a long time, Mr. Corrigan. Think about that while you talk to Mr. Bonds.”
I left the small treatment room and went to the nurse’s station where I asked for a water fountain. She pointed me to a breakroom that held disposable cups and boasted a water filtration system that was fed directly from the desalinization plant that the prisoners worked at below the prison. It was damn fine tasting water.
By the time I was finished with my cup, the nurse came to tell me that Corrigan and his lawyer were ready for me. I took my time returning to their room.
“Alright, tell me we have a deal and you want to squeal,” I said in a sing-song voice.
“Yeah,” Branch rumbled. “I’ll tell you what you want to hear.”
Internally, I smiled widely, knowing I was the best damn detective in the city. Outwardly, I affected a moderate grin, meant to be calming. I sat down in the same chair I’d abandoned less than five minutes before.
“Who’s operating the chop shops? I need names, addresses, last known location, whatever you’ve got. We want to put an end to this stuff.”
“The doc who did me,” Corrigan said, stopping to catch his wheezing breath, “was Terri Solomon. Has a shop over off of Fowler.” Another pause. “The front is a flower shop, in the back is where they do the cutting. As far as I know…works alone, but there’s muscle protecting the place.”
Corrigan proceeded to give me the names of three other chop shops in Easytown. Andi recorded everything as my mind reeled with the idea that there were so many places performing cybernetic enhancements. I’d thought there was only one, maybe two, but four? That was stretching it, and that was only the ones that this guy knew of. What else was out there that we didn’t know about?
“A weapon, or weapons, similar to your prosthetic was used in a mass shooting at a thumper club called Liquid Genesis last night. Who else do you know who has a weapon that fires the same ammunition as what you’ve got?”
He blinked heavily and I wasn’t sure if he was thinking or going to sleep. “Hey, Corrigan! Wake up,” I said.
“Huh? Oh, shit,” the cyborg said. “Hey, lawyer, do me a favor and wipe this drool off my chin.”
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, b
ut 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.”
