by Mark Hazard
Five hundred yards. Nine-inch drop. Pank.
Joller hadn’t been given a leadership role, because in his file, he was described as having “caustic and short-sighted tendencies,” when it should have read, “spiritual successor to Patton.” But by then the Army had been wussified beyond repair, so he was shunted from one desk job to another, a glorified file clerk, until Major Hubert — then Captain Hubert — finally identified and valued Joller’s qualities and used them to their mutual profit and advancement.
All until a man with one name took everything away.
Corus got Hubert sent to Leavenworth and killed three of his support officers, and when Joller tried to bring military justice down on the man, it blew back on him somehow.
Corus had gone free, but he would never truly be free so long as Joller said otherwise.
On the pistol range, he produced his Sig Sauer 9mm with customized grip and shortened trigger. The Army’s Beretta M9 had never fit right in his hands, but when he complained, the MP shooting instructors at CID school had mocked him for having small hands. When the Army wasn’t telling him he was too much, they were telling him he wasn’t enough.
Joller rebelled in his own way. He started lifting weights and bought cycles of steroids from a transport officer whose brother knew a guy who competed in the elite level of bodybuilding.
Veiny forearms extended before his thick chest, and he pulled the trigger five times at twenty-five yards. He reeled in his target, expecting to see a group the diameter of a soda can.
His shots were all over the place. It wasn’t even a group. He reset and took more careful aim, shooting slower, but his group was a mess. He switched targets and reeled it out to just ten yards, but he accidentally drew an image of the big dipper.
He would have thrown the gun down and stomped it to pieces if it weren’t his only remaining possession.
His phone rang.
Joller ripped off his ear protection and barked, “What?”
“It’s Pineda.”
“I know. What?”
“He’s leaving. Going on some trip to Walla Walla.”
“What the fuck is Walla Walla?”
“A town. Other side of the state.”
“He just started, and he’s already taking a vacation?”
“Some assignment.”
“Already trusted with matters above his station? I told you he’d weasel his way to the top.”
“I don’t like it either.”
“This is our chance. This is what I’ve been waiting for.” Joller stepped out of earshot of the other shooters. “You need to go with.”
“You want me to ask if I can join?”
“No. I want you to complain of stomach illness and leave. Follow him. Keep eyes on.”
“I can’t.”
“You fucking will.”
“I already took all my sick days. If I leave, I don’t get paid.”
Joller opened his mouth to scream at Pineda, but stopped himself to avoid drawing attention, and bit into his fist instead.
“You there?” Pineda asked.
“Listen to me you big dumb animal,” Joller seethed. “You want those fat envelopes to stop coming? Tell me to stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
“Then move your fat ass. End of discussion.”
Joller hung up and clenched both fists, doubling over in silent, quaking rage.
SEVEN
Jameson led the way inside the Covington Medical Center with the familiarity of a man who’d visited dozens of times. He knew exactly where to find the Chief Detective without having to ask. Though still in plain clothes, nurses and hospital staff let him pass with smiles and nods.
Jim lay face down on an ER slab with blue medical cloths draped over his buttocks. His pale, hairy legs extended out from underneath, still wearing his socks and shoes. One of the cloths was drawn back to one side, displaying a bouquet of miniature javelins protruding from his hindquarter.
Corus averted his gaze, while Jameson gaped.
“You got like twenty harpoons in your ass, sir.”
“Disregard my state.” Jim gestured to his face. “Eyes up here.”
“Seriously, you look like target practice for a tiny whaling crew.”
“I was biking down a hill,” Jim said with a sigh. “I saw a cute little family of porcupines crossing the road. I hit the front brake too hard.” He flopped a hand over.
“Physics can be a real bitch,” Jameson said.
“I’m a stoic, but this feels like a personal slight from the universe. That or a loud message in language I can’t parse.”
Jameson bent low. “Oof. Those suckers are deep.” He looked at the ER doc who was working intently on extraction. “You gonna be able to get those out?”
“Yeah, bro. I got this.”
Corus almost didn’t recognize Dr. Fiske without his foppish hairstyle.
Dr. Fiske perked up at seeing Corus. “Oh, hey dawg!”
“You cut your hair?”
“Got some feedback from a girl at a bar. I thought we were getting along, and I asked for her number, and she called me a Jimmy-Neutron-lookin-mother-fucker, then laughed and walked away. Got me thinking, you know?”
“Change is good,’ Corus said.
“Did I do a good job? I buzzed it myself.”
“You did a great job. The club is honored to have you.”
Fiske blinked. “Wait, you’re a cop now? Last time, you were almost getting arrested.”
Jameson looked askance at Corus, as he’d never known about the foray onto Whidbey Island that saved Flip and Yair from Manuel Ferdinand. Instead of asking for clarification, he cracked a grin. “Yeah. It’s a new pilot program. Turning criminals into cops instead of sending them to jail.”
“Sweet. I’m all about that.” Fiske bobbed his head. “How’s the ass?”
“Excuse me?” Jameson asked.
Dr. Fiske snapped his hemostats in the direction of Corus’ legs.
“Oh, right. Good.” Corus made a quarter turn. “Not setting off any metal detectors thanks to you.”
“Your ass?” Jameson asked.
“Caught some lead from a shotgun. It was my upper thigh, really.”
Jameson jabbed a finger between them. “Hey, is that why you were bleeding out your rear when we pulled Ferdinand out of that truck?”
“Must have been. I didn’t think about it.”
“Good. ‘Cause that one had me puzzled.”
“Boys. You need to get going,” Jim said. “Let’s cover the parameters. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t touch anything. Don’t step on toes. And don’t break the law. And Jameson, stop looking at my ass.”
“Sorry, Chief. You gonna be okay?”
“He’ll be fine. You should see this guy’s ass.” Dr. Fiske pointed at Corus. “You have nothing to worry about compared to that mess. I’m not talking about the shot.”
Jim set his chin on his elbow, and his mustache twitched. “I mean, if a doctor was impressed…”
“Yeah. Drop trou, Rook.”
Corus rolled his eyes, undid his belt and pulled his clothing away from a silvery-purple patch on his hip about six inches long.
“My first battle scar.”
“Shrapnel?” Jameson asked.
“Fence post,” Corus said. “I would’ve preferred the porcupines.”
“That thing’s a work of art,” Fiske said.
“Indeed.” Jim gave an appreciative nod. “Okay. Pull your pants up and tell me you two understand your job.”
“We won’t cause trouble,” Jameson said. “It’s like we aren’t even cops down there.”
Jim gave Corus a quizzical look, which Corus took as trepidation.
“Find the lines. Read between them.” Corus re-tucked his shirt. “Gather evidence. Don’t bring shame on our house.”
“All right. Move out. Jameson!”
Jameson looked from Jim’s ass to the wall. “Sorry, sir.”
Corus
nodded to Fiske. “Hope the new haircut helps on the dating scene.”
“Thanks, dude. Next time you need medical care, I’ll let you know.”
Corus drove them to Jameson’s house, figuring the sergeant wanted to pack a bag, and pulled up to the curb. The trail Jameson had left in his lawn the day before hadn’t faded, like footprints in the desert.
“You get your talisman yet?” Jameson asked.
“Pardon?”
“Your talisman.” He pulled out his zippo lighter. “This is mine. Keeps you grounded. Keeps you in reality.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Listen, Trudy is a loon, but she’s our loon.”
“Trudy?”
“Way back before she was Sister Kuthra, she was a meth head we had constant run-ins with. When she cleaned up her act, we were real proud of her. She started working with other addicts, treating the root causes. Traumas and such. You know Michael?”
“Handsome African American?”
“Real name’s Alfonso Wilder. Sergeant over in second precinct. Got himself hooked on pills after a back surgery. Went to her for help on the down low out of desperation. She helped him identify the root cause, PTSD from when he got stabbed by a different meth head and almost died. Every time he learns a co-worker is showing all the signs, he brings them into the circle.”
“How long?”
“Not sure. Brought me in a couple years ago. We all knew we needed help but didn’t want to get labeled as war-ravaged psychos.”
“You’re not.”
“You know that. I know that. But it’s getting worse, Rook. Every year more of you kids come back, and you’re all kinds of fucked up. People are talking about PTSD, finally taking it seriously.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“No, it’s not. As soon as they make a name for your quirks, it can brand you as a defective. An acronym is the kiss of death.”
“Stigma.”
“Stigma, right. A person who cares for you, like Trudy, they’ll use that knowledge to help you. But someone who doesn’t like you? They can use it to ruin you. You read?”
“But everyone likes you.”
“Rook, you don’t even like me.”
Corus raised his eyebrows and mouthed a response that he couldn’t vocalize.
“Find your talisman, something that grounds you. Trudy will teach you how to use it. Now, Rook, we gotta part ways, here. I’m gonna save my marriage. These knuckleheads just gifted me the means to do it.”
Jameson brought out their per diems and piled them into a neat stack of twenty-dollar bills.
“I figure this Walla Walla area has to have some little bed and breakfast. Since there isn’t shit-all to do down there except look at scenery and visit wineries, my wife’s gonna think it’s super romantic.” He swatted a palm with the cash and opened the door. “Maybe I’ll see you down there. Maybe I won’t.”
“That money was for the both of us.”
“Adapt and overcome, Rook.”
Corus leaned over. “Jim just told us not to screw around.”
“He said to go down there and not act like cops. Well? That’s what I’m doing. And I’m saving my marriage.” Jameson punched a thick finger into the air. “That’s good for me, you, Jim, the entire department. I’m no good to King County if two years from now I’m a bloated boozehound shoving a shotgun in my mouth.”
Corus blinked, mouth agape.
“Safe travels, Rook. And remember, stick to Jim’s orders. That’s an order.”
Jameson slammed the door.
“Unbelievable.”
Jameson ducked back in. “You do this for me, and I won’t forget it. And remember, it’s not Kandahar. Don’t kill nobody.”
He followed his trail inside, where an argument broke out the moment he crossed the threshold.
Corus sat there in stunned vexation. He was alone, solely responsible for a spurious task in unfamiliar territory, now without a mentor to guide him.
He smiled. He had to double check to make sure, but yes, he was smiling.
The dissatisfaction with life as a rookie cop ebbed away as he turned the vehicle around and made for the highway.
EIGHT
Lt. Ruiz walked past CID and rapped a knuckle on the metal strip capping Godfried’s cubicle wall.
“Yes’m.”
“It’s so empty,” she said.
“It is.”
“Nice suspenders.”
“I’m bringing them back.”
“I mean it’s really empty in here.”
“Pineda said he had the shits and left.”
“Like that guy ever had a solid bowel movement.”
Godfried made a face.
“It’s a joke.”
“You don’t have to work ten feet away from him after he’s downed his second lunch.”
Ruiz didn’t respond.
“You got that stormy look.” Godfried set his pen down and swiveled in his chair. “Girl, what’s up?”
“I screwed up.”
“Up, down, sideways, no matter. Screwing Danny Jameson was the problem.”
“Who knows?”
“You, me, Jameson. Redmond knows everything. That new boy y’all have taken to, the one with the feral eyes and the good shoulders.”
“Corus knows?”
Godfried waggled his chin. “I assume he sees through walls, into souls. I said good morning to him and had a nice little chat, but afterward my palms were sweating.”
“I didn’t think you were into white guys.”
“Not that kind of sweaty. I’ve interviewed murderers who unnerved me less. He has a way of just being there that creeps me out.”
“He’s so nice and polite though. Good posture. Total boy scout.”
“Have you read that Army file Jim has?”
“Getting the feeling I’m the only one who hasn’t, but you’re being overdramatic.”
“You’ll see. If he comes back from Walla Walla without putting anyone in a body bag, I’ll buy you dinner.”
Ruiz bit a thumbnail.
Godfried looked her over. “And you still haven’t heard from the FBI?”
Ruiz shook her head.
“When do you find out if you got in?”
“Was supposed to hear by now.”
“There’s no way the two issues have anything to do with one another.”
“It’s the FBI. They’re thorough. And I was screwing a subordinate.”
“They aren’t omnipotent. Look at the Most Wanted list. They gotta advertise a whole list of the shit they don’t know.”
Ruiz smirked. “Thanks.”
“You got this, girl. And you deserve it.”
She patted him on the shoulder and toured the bullpen, arms crossed, checking in with ongoing cases, making sure no one was screwing around or jawing too much. When she got back to her office, she sat down, looked at the work she needed to focus on, tapped her thumb on the desk, then got up.
When Godfried wasn’t looking, Ruiz snuck back to Cummins’ office and sat in his desk chair, pulling out drawers until she found an unmarked file, which was how it stood out from Cummins’ scrupulous coding system.
The first pages were Corus’ DD-214, a giant form that held a soldier’s basic information related to service: awards, reprimands, schooling, deployments. The rest of the documents were an assortment of transcripts, commendations, JAG reports, and a few first hand AARs written by the man himself.
She pulled one page from the file, something relating to his Silver Star for Valor. Not the official commendation, the nomination his HQ had sent in on his behalf. The language was stilted, but soon a picture formed in her mind and the narrative flowed. She eased back int the chair, and suddenly twenty minutes had passed.
Pulse racing, cheeks flushed, she set the papers down on Jim’s desk.
“Son of a bitch.”
NINE
Outside Walla Walla
Tanner Farm
Arlo Falc
one stood in front of a big screen, flipping through the channels. He rolled his large shoulders inside the Carhartt jacket, enjoying the range of motion. Say that much for blue collar clothes, they were cut for a man who actually had muscles and used them. The big man preferred to dress in expensive clothes, but after Baynes’ arrest, he’d taken over management of the distribution center. Faced with either adopting a distinctly rural look or soiling thousands of dollars-worth of shoes and clothes he’d brought with him from New York, he chose the former.
He paused on CNN and watched the latest news from Iraq, also seeing his own bald head in the reflection of the screen.
“I’m telling you,” Arlo said in his husky voice. “They’re gonna find those WMDs any day now.”
Iris and Rodger Tanner sat on either side of an ornately carved table in the formal dining room of the main house. Unlike many area farmers who lived in town, sometimes many miles from their acreage, the Tanners lived on their sprawling plot, as Rodger’s father and grandfather had. While they pursued the family tradition of onion farming, they were not traditional people in any other sense. Their formal dining room, for instance, was only so in name. Over the years, it had become a war room of sorts, half office, half meeting space. The dining table sat stacked with file boxes which had yet to be put away after the big push to file their taxes.
“You’ve been saying that for three years,” Rodger said. His reading glasses sat at the end of his fine nose, as he made notes on a legal pad about the upcoming planting. His lustrous graying hair streaked back over his head.
“And when they find them, you’re going to owe me the biggest steak this backwater can produce.”
“Backwater?” Iris perked up, adjusting her own glasses. “This is a nice place to live. Out of the way. And there’s no water for many miles.” Her accent from the old country put a smear of disdain on every word.
