Corus and the Case of the Chaos

by Mark Hazard

  “Explain why to my friend here.”

  Adam responded. “People’s families don’t get murdered for high checking fees, Abe.” Adam’s voice was soft, with a small lisp, but he spoke with intelligence and conviction. “If the murder had to do with Miles Griffin’s work, it was probably some form of money laundering. Miles having control of inter-bank transfers increases this likelihood.”

  “See?” Corus said to Rosen. “Did you know what a good cop your cousin was?”

  “Mr. Corus,” Adam said.

  “Yes, Mr.—” Corus wasn’t sure of Adam’s surname. “Are you a Rosen as well?”

  “Our moms are sisters. My surname is Roth, and I’d like a favor after you catch the bad guys.”

  “Oh yeah?” Corus asked. “Name it.”

  “I want to learn how to shoot.”

  Corus looked to Rosen and back to Adam. “Why don’t you learn from Abe here?”

  “We Jews are not a gun-toting people by and large. Not in America I should say. I don’t trust another Jew to teach me.”

  “Wow. Jew-on-Jew anti-Semitism.” Fletcher took a spoonful of pie and asked, mouth full, “Whatcha gonna do?”

  “Fine Adam, you got a deal.” Corus laughed. “Sorry, Abe. Such untrusting relatives.”

  Rosen shook his head wearily and went back to his computer. “I don’t think we’re gonna be able to get in until Badcocke logs in in the morning.”

  “Try guessing his password,” Fletcher said. “Just gotta think like a rich old bastard. Try Cabernet or Mercedes.”

  “No. Don’t do that.” Corus waved a hand. “We don’t want a bunch of failed log-in attempts to show up and get flagged by their IT people. It can wait ‘til tomorrow.”

  Adam and Fletcher began examining the audits. Corus took Rosen by the arm and led him away again to a table of their own. “You got a certain wide-eyed look Deputy.” Corus lifted an eyebrow. “How you doing?”

  “I’m ok sir. I just feel like this can’t be real.”

  Corus laughed. “I’ll admit it’s a weird one. It’s not usually like this.”

  “You always worked alone before?”

  “I did for the most part.”

  “But that was before…” Rosen hesitated.

  Corus gave a single curt nod of approval.

  Rosen continued, “…before you hit your slump. Before you got the shanks.”

  “Did Chu tell you not to say the word mojo?”

  “He did.”

  “That Chu is a lot smarter than people give him credit for. Though, if he was that smart he wouldn’t be my friend. So who knows?”

  “Are you better now sir? It’s like there is something in you again.”

  “That something is called desperation, Rosen. I stink of it like an obese virgin on a dance floor.” Corus checked his watch. It was still rather early in the evening, but they were nearing the winter solstice. It had been dark for nearly two hours already.

  “How do you mean, there is something in me again? We didn’t know each other until recently.”

  “I watched you before.” Rosen looked down and winced. “Sorry, that sounds creepy.”

  “It’s a little creepy. Yeah.”

  “You did remarkable work.”

  “I had a gift,” Corus said with an air of mournful nostalgia. “Cases just magically arranged themselves. I’d have solved this case six different ways by now. For whatever reason, those days are gone.”

  “I mean you’re different from most cops. That hasn’t changed.”

  Corus was a little taken aback. “How so?”

  “I almost quit the force, twice. When I got transferred to our precinct I was ready to go. Too much bravado. Too much brutality. Not enough thought about the greater good. No finesse.” Rosen shook his head, his face twisted in disgust. “Sledgehammer solutions to nuanced human issues and bullshit justifications after the fact. I just didn’t see my ideals reflected in the folks I served with. They’re brave in their way, but something is deeply wrong in our system now.”

  Corus dipped his head dipped gravely. “The elephant in the room.”

  No one talked much about it. Policing all over the country since 9/11 had changed, largely for the worse. It was the most obvious fault no one was really allowed to address. Federal money, truckloads of cast-off military equipment and increased paranoia had turned departments into paramilitary forces highly suspicious of the public they’d sworn to protect.

  “You have no idea how right you are,” Corus said. “I don’t know if police work has ever changed so much in a decade.”

  “But then I met you, and I saw what you did. No bullshit. You were just amazing police. People broke laws and you got them. No lawyering could get them off because you didn’t leave holes in your work. You reminded me there was a purity in what we do, a real service. At least there can be.”

  “Rosen, I believe your idealism might put you in a difficult position. For starters, that man to whom you are referring is no more. You see me now? I’m sitting in a shitty diner with stolen material, making criminals out of good people.”

  “Only because you have to,” Rosen insisted.

  “Have to? I don’t have to do anything.” Corus pointed a finger at his chest. “I’m responsible for my choices.”

  “No. There is a have to,” Rosen said. “Some demand. It’s the reason guys like you and me get up in the morning. It’s the reason I haven’t put down the badge yet.” Rosen pushed a finger down into the table and a little heat came into his voice. “Forgive me, but sir, it’s the reason you’re not giving up, even though you’re a shadow of the detective you once were.”

  Rosen sat back up. Trepidation passed over his face, perhaps from wondering if he’d said too much.

  Corus regarded Rosen for a long moment. He decided then, at that diner, that no matter what became of him or his career, he would help Rosen become the best detective he possibly could.

  NINETEEN

  Early the next day, Corus found Rosen in their makeshift basement office, poring over the case file. Corus gave the deputy a coffee. “Hope black is ok.”

  “It is, thank you.”

  “Figure it out yet?”

  “The case? Ha. No. Not quite.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Not much.” Rosen raised an eyebrow. “Not enough.”

  “What does your gut tell you is important?”

  “I’ve been puzzling at something. The people in the room next door. They really didn’t hear the bullet pass through the wall into their room?” Rosen held the bullet between two fingers, still in it’s plastic evidence bag. It was a flattened mess from where it had buried itself into a 2x4.

  “I interviewed them with Inspector Prangnathong,” Corus said. “Older couple. Fancy-looking folks. Said they were dead asleep at the time of the shooting, because they go to bed at 8pm. I didn’t get the feeling they heard too well either.”

  “To not hear gunshots next door? Even with a suppressor? And not hear a bullet going though your wall?”

  “Good question. Drywall is fairly soft, though. Nice hotels like Skokim Pass Resort usually do a better job insulating their walls from noises on the other side. That might have cushioned the sound a bit. Both from the bullet and the shots.”

  “The way they were positioned,” Rosen said, “it also puzzles me.”

  “How so?”

  “They all were far from the door.”

  “True.”

  “It was like someone surprised them. It didn’t look like someone had opened the door for the intruder.”

  Corus had pondered that himself.

  “It could mean someone had a key card to their room and surprised them. What if the killer had knocked, been let in, and then had backed the door answerer up to where they were shot?”

  “The mother might have moved in front of her children.”

  “True. Perhaps she was doing just that. Maybe she was the first one hit and not the father. But if someone answe
red the door, who was it?”

  “The father…or maybe the older boy.”

  “Let’s assume it would be the father. Why would he have time to stand up and come around the couch if he were surprised by the intruder?”

  “So either way, there were some seconds before the shooting started.”

  “What does this indicate?” Corus asked.

  “That maybe they talked?”

  “Why would a nameless, faceless assassin have anything to say to the people he was about to kill? Wouldn’t he have started shooting before anything could be said? Before they screamed?”

  “So, it was someone they knew?”

  “Highly plausible. What could be other explanations, other than talking?”

  “It could have been someone they trusted. Hotel staff.”

  “Why would hotel staff come into your room that late?”

  Rosen seemed stumped by that one.

  “When was the last time they ate?” Corus asked again, giving him a hint.

  Rosen’s eyes shot up. “They wouldn’t have eaten since Taco Express! It had been almost seven hours probably.”

  “How does that help our situation?”

  “It supports the premise that Miles was running scared. He didn’t want to leave the hotel.”

  “Good.” Corus smiled. “Now what’s the problem?”

  “There was no record of it. The overnight staff didn’t mention room service to any of our investigators.”

  “Why could that be?” Corus asked.

  “Someone was in on it,” Rosen whispered. He looked around at the table full of evidence with a wild expression.

  “Or?” Corus said, preventing Rosen from jumping to conclusions.

  “Or… or we just didn’t ask the right questions. We have no idea how room service could be involved.” Rosen deflated like an old balloon.

  “Never underestimate the power of your peers to fuck things up,” Corus said. “So, how can we know if they ordered room service or not?”

  “The lobby camera.” Rosen clapped a hand over a fist. “Even if we didn’t talk to the right people or if the record was even erased from their ordering system, we might see the room service attendant going from the kitchen’s rear door to the guest wing through the atrium.”

  Corus bowed his head sagely. “Rosen, I think you maybe just blew this case open. Go get the tape.”

  It wasn’t as clear as Corus could have hoped, but the lobby cam that looked out over the front doors and the reception desk caught a single footfall on the lobby floor. The time was 12:07am. Investigators reviewing the tape previously had been focused on the parking lot, looking for armed men leaving the place. But way at the edge of the screen, almost unnoticeable, a black shoe and black pant cuff told them all they needed.

  When Lt. Chu came downstairs to check on Corus and Rosen’s lunch plans, he found they hadn’t even bothered to turn the TV off. It sat alone in the basement office, paused at the frame on which they’d left it.

  TWENTY

  Before Rosen could turn on the engine, his phone rang. He spoke with the caller for a moment and hung up.

  “Adam. He says he has something.”

  “For real?” Corus asked.

  “For real. Adam doesn’t exaggerate.”

  “Okay…” Corus thought for a second. “Deputy, do you know what to do at the resort?”

  “I think so, but I—”

  “Call if you need anything. I’m going to see Adam.”

  Corus got out and ran to his own car. He stepped into the Explorer and went to close the door behind him, but it wouldn’t budge.”

  “Hello Inspector Corus.” Pineda’s fat body pressed against the inside of the door.

  “Not now Pineda,” Corus said.

  “You ain’t going anywhere. I got a bone to pick with you.”

  “I said not now!” Corus growled, baring teeth.

  “You see this here is my parking space. I am the most senior investigator now.”

  “Fine Pineda, now move your fat fucking body.” Corus jerked hard on the door, which only served to squish Pineda a little.

  “You need to learn some respect. You gotta show me some respect, Inspector. I played second fiddle to you. Now you are gonna toe the line with me.”

  Pineda was just behind Corus’ left shoulder, so it was difficult to plain smack him. He thought about reaching down and ripping off his genitals, but that would involve touching Pineda’s special place. Instead, Corus turned the key and shifted into reverse. Realization dawn on Pineda’s face, just before Corus floored the accelerator and stomped on the brake in one sudden motion that sent the explorer three feet backward. Pineda’s body forced the door fully open, then it flung him ass over elbows off the side of the SUV and onto the asphalt. Corus put the vehicle into park and stepped out. He knew it would all be on camera if Pineda complained. So he crouched down low over Pineda as if taking care of him. Pineda’s suit jacket was over this head. Corus lifted it back and said, “Your insecurities are going to get the better of you, Detective Pineda. I suggest you stop worrying about me and think about becoming a professional. You do that and you’ll get all the respect from me I’m able to give.”

  He helped Pineda to his feet. His nose was bleeding, but he seemed otherwise unhurt. He pushed Corus’ arms away and stomped off staring daggers at him over the torn shoulder of his jacket.

  Corus arrived twenty minutes later at a Coffee shop near Adam Roth’s office. Adam spoke excitedly in a hush the moment Corus sat down.

  “I found at least three instances of smurfing.”

  Corus shook his head. “Slow down. You what?”

  “Smurfing. Any cash deposits over $10,000 have to be reported to the IRS by means of a form called a CFT. So to avoid this, people sometimes try to make smaller deposits over a period of time to avoid the CFT and alerting the IRS. That is smurfing. One thing auditors ought to be looking for. They have to make sure the branch management is identifying it when it’s happening.”

  “So, you found some branch was letting that happen?”

  “No, the opposite. Last year, every one of the three branches I found that had instances of smurfing, all caught it and had issued proper CFTs to the IRS.”

  “I’m confused. So what’s newsworthy about that?”

  “This year, all three of the branches’ managers were not named in the branch audits. I checked online. They all work for different banks now.”

  “So they got fired for doing their jobs?”

  “It appears so, since it’s three in one year, and they were the only ones reporting the smurfing. Plus, the audits we’re all altered to reflect that the CFTs were sent to the IRS in error. Those changes afterward all were signed off on by the head of auditing.”

  “Andrew Garvey?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the new management might be reticent to issue CFTs when they suspected people of repeatedly making cash deposits in large amounts.”

  “Not worth losing their job they figure. Plus, if people are smurfing with any sense, using odd amounts and different depositors, then the branches can easily leave well alone.”

  “Why would Garvey do that?”

  “You said that this man now runs the investment banking for Pacific Trust?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s laundering money, Inspector. Only thing it can be. He was protecting his depositors… his clients.”

  “Can you tell who he’s doing it for? Whose accounts were receiving smurf money?”

  “No, that has been redacted as well in the final audits.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Redaction? No.”

  “So why is he getting away with it?”

  “Maybe lax leadership. It’s a small bank. Fewer checks and balances.”

  “Or Badcocke was in on it.”

  “Or that.”

  “How can we tell if he’s laundering?”

  “We need to go back to that diner.”

&nb
sp; TWENTY-ONE

  When Corus arrived back at the precinct, he parked far from the entrance. To keep taking a disputed parking spot would just be childish. By launching Pineda onto the asphalt, he’d already made any point he was trying for anyhow. Instead of walking down to his basement office, he went up the half flight of stairs to the main floor. He passed by Pineda and Prangnathong speaking in hushed tones. They both watched him pass in silence. Corus stopped by Chu’s office and poked his head in.

  “Looks like our boy Rosen wasted no time. You ready?”

  Chu followed him out and toward detention room C where a small 4x3 foot table sat against a wall. A young, red-haired man rested on a chair, his back toward the door. Rosen, already in the room, sat across the corner of the table from him. Corus entered first, and Chu closed the door behind them.

  Rosen stood. “This is Brandon Fife. He was on duty when the incident took place.”

  “Hello Brandon,” Corus said.

  Brandon didn’t lift his eyes from the table.

  Rosen spoke again. “Brandon here is a community college student. Twenty-one years old. No prior arrests.”

  Brandon balled his hands into fists, not out of anger, it seemed, but simply trying to keep his hands from shaking.

  Corus opened up a file and read from a photocopy of a handwritten report. “Brandon, you spoke with one of our deputies at the resort, the day after the murder. His report says that you worked a shift from 10pm to 7am. Is that correct?”

  Brandon nodded.

  “And you are a waiter or a bellman or something?”

  “Bellman,” Brandon said shakily.

  “Do bellmen ever process room service orders?”

  “Sometimes,” Brandon sniffed. “If there’s no waiters available.”

  “Perhaps like at night, when the restaurant is closed?”

  Brandon didn’t respond.

  “Brandon, in your statement, you make no mention of a room service order for room 232.”