Corus and the Case of the Chaos

by Mark Hazard

  “I demand the immediate release of my client for these baseless accusations.”

  Corus laughed. “Not going to happen.”

  “Then charge my client.”

  Corus ended the conversation and stepped out of the holding room. Prosecutor Felicia Bowman caught his eye, just as she stepped past the duty officer’s desk. He pulled her into the nearest cubicle.

  “He’s stonewalling.”

  “Roundley?” she asked. “That scumbag. You know he used to work with me, before he botched that human trafficking case.” She made air quotes around the word “botched.”

  “That wouldn’t be the one where three Chinese women were found in the hold of a ship registered in Vladivostok?”

  “The very one. And a few years later he’s working for the mob.” She gave a curt chuckle. “The gall of the man. So, what’s his case?”

  “That the kid waiter lied. That he was there for the skiing. My evidence is all circumstantial.”

  “Well, he’s right that we don’t have anything airtight for a capital murder conviction.”

  “You aren’t going to let him plead down are you?”

  “At this point, I might be lucky to get him in a courtroom at all.”

  “You saying my case is that weak? I thought we had this guy dead-to-rights.”

  “Well, it’s stronger if we can prove the money laundering link. But then we just opened a huge kettle of fish. We’d have to go after his employers too, and we still might not prove that he was the killer.”

  “I gave you motive, means and opportunity.”

  “Listen, I’m not going to get torn apart by that bottom feeder Roundley for ten hours a day in trial if you don’t give me something more to work with. Hard evidence linking him to the crime scene, not the hotel, the room, the actual crime scene.”

  Corus went into holding room B with Roundley on his heels and sat across from Kirilov. He said, “Your client visited someone the day after the murder and referenced Miles Griffin.”

  Roundley, crossed his arms. “What do you mean, referenced?”

  “He threatened to kill one of Miles’ colleagues the same way he’d killed Miles.”

  “When do you say this threat was made?”

  “I’ll have to check the time, but it was early the next day.”

  Kirilov gave a hint of a smile and shook his head back and forth. It was the only expression Corus had seen from him.

  “I will have to discuss this with my client,” Roundley said, for the first time seeming not completely in control of the situation.

  “You do that, but you’ll have to do it at county lockup where he’s headed for the night.”

  Corus left the room and walked toward the stairs leading to his secret hideaway.

  “Corus!” Chu shout-whispered from next to a ficus. He waved. “Captain wants to see you.”

  They walked through the main floor operations desks and down the east hall. Chu knocked on the open door, and they entered. Captain Barbieri stared at his computer screen through reading glasses. He took them off and pointed to the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Have a seat. I’ve received a complaint about you, Inspector.”

  Corus tensed for the blow.

  “Did you shackle the County Vice Commissioner to Detective Pineda’s desk and then throw the key away?”

  “There’s no excuse sir, I—”

  “Because I have wanted to chain that guy to a desk for over twenty years, and then throw that desk into the ocean.”

  He was being thanked? “Oh… so you and he had some falling out back in the day?”

  “You gotta be friends before you can fall out. That guy was a slimy fuck from day one.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “Just between us,” Capt. Barbieri folded his hands on his stomach and leaned back, “Mr. Garvey decided to have himself an insurance barbeque on a failed venture. I’m sure Jim Cummins told you about it. He got caught up in the coffee boom in the early 90s. But the market was flooded and he mismanaged it along with a few other elements of life. I later found out he was declaring bankruptcy. Well, this café goes up in smoke, and when I file the report as a suspected arson, he corners me and tells me how it’s gonna be.”

  Captain Barbieri scratched behind one ear. “Well, I didn’t take that very well. So, I reported him for actively obstructing our investigation. Anyway, long story short, the brass let him resign in exchange for say-no-more-about-it. Got off way too easy. And don’t you believe for one second that he didn’t have friends who were trying to protect him. Only reason he didn’t go to jail.”

  “So, you were a crusader once?” Corus asked. “I have a hard time imagining that.”

  “No. I wasn’t no crusader. I’m fine with bending the rules, or giving a cop the benefit of the doubt. After all the shit we take? Why not? But to think you can bald face break the law and get off scot-free is something else.” Barbieri leaned forward. “Anyway, Corus, thanks for that. I got a picture of him shackled there before they un-cuffed him. It’s gonna be the wallpaper on my phone ‘til the day I die.”

  “You’re welcome sir.”

  “The Lieutenant here tells me you’ve made quite a leap with Skokim pass.”

  “It’s been a lot of fumbling in the dark, sir. Not the neatest case I’ve ever done. But we know a lot more than we did a week ago.”

  “It’s Russians? Laundering money through Pacific Trust? That’s what got the Griffins killed?”

  “Pretty much. We will have to speculate as to the reasons why exactly. Andy Garvey only saw some spat go down before the night of the murder. He doesn’t know what they were fighting about. Kirilov has Roundley, so we’re not gonna find out anything.”

  “Roundley, that traitorous piece of shit. Is he gonna blow this up?”

  “We’re trying to make sure he can’t, but Bowman isn’t persuaded.”

  “Well, Ms. Bowman may need to grab some lady-sack and go to battle with Roundley. I need a conviction out of this.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “When will we know?”

  “Within the next forty hours or so. We’ll have to charge him or release him.”

  “Get me that conviction, Corus. You have everything you need?”

  “About that. Sheriff Honchak said I wasn’t to consume departmental resources, so Deputy Rosen has been assisting me off the books, using his vacation days. He’s eager and very given to investigation, sir. Sharp, solid guy. I’d like him to return to active duty so he isn’t burning vacation in exchange for the stellar work he’s doing for me.”

  “Oh, Honchak?” Barbieri waved a hand. “I’ve got a case to solve. Make it happen Chu.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “If that’s all, men, I need to visit the latrine.”

  They rose to leave, but Corus stopped. “If I could take advantage of your momentary window of goodwill, sir, I’d like to ask another favor.”

  “What is it? I’m clenching over here.”

  “Well, sir, I was wondering if I could borrow some tactical gear for an experiment.”

  “The armory is all yours.” Barbieri rifled through some papers on his desk. “Now where is my field and stream?”

  “God this coffee is terrible,” Chu said, sitting down behind his desk. “And this is the Seattle area. Imagine how bad police coffee is in, like, Des Moines.”

  “If I had a nickel for every time I had to hear someone here complain about coffee...” Corus grumbled.

  “Well, that was unexpected. Thought you were just gonna get reamed.”

  “Office politics works in mysterious ways.”

  “Why don’t you call me Sir the way you do Barbieri?”

  “Go to hell… sir.”

  Chu cackled and sipped his coffee.

  “You busy this afternoon?” Corus asked

  Chu set a hand on a foot-high stack of folders and binders. “They call me the paperwork ninja for a reason.”

  “No on
e calls you the paperwork ninja. Aren’t ninjas Japanese?”

  “Oh, so the one time I want white people to allow me a pan-Asian identity, that’s when you all of a sudden can tell the difference?”

  Corus smirked.

  “Why do you ask?” Chu asked.

  “I’ve had an itch since we reopened this case. It’s grown and grown. I think I finally figured out a way to scratch it.”

  “How?”

  “Let me into the armory and I’ll show you.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Corus pulled off a dirt road deep in the boonies of Pierce County. A log cabin stood in a clearing with a couple sheds holding a collection of scrapped odds and ends and some old rusting cars parked in tall grass.

  Toby Moikins was outside and met him as he stepped out of the Explorer.

  “The test is going well.”

  “Good,” Corus said. “Is your uncle here?”

  “He’s been helping me.”

  Just then a man stepped out of the cabin sporting denim overalls, a black and white train conductor’s cap and a slight limp.

  Corus met him halfway. “Real nice of you to help us out.”

  “Gus Moikins. I don’t make a habit of assisting the government, but Toby here says you’re trying to avenge a murdered family. And you were Army?”

  “That’s right. 101st.”

  “Army Cav and Special Forces. Two tours.”

  “In Vietnam?”

  “Let’s say mostly, but I graced the countries of Cambodia and Laos with my presence as well.”

  “I see. So where are we shooting?”

  “Over here.” Toby waved and walked off.

  “Toby?” Corus pointed at his vehicle.

  “Oh gosh. I’m sorry.” As he changed directions, he mumbled, “Come on Toby...”

  They carried eight wide, flat boxes to Gus’ shooting range. Gus followed with the two gun cases and some of the ammunition.

  “These are heavy,” Toby said.

  “They’re double-paned. Same ones they use at Skokim Pass. How about your end?”

  “Well, the real thing might be hard to come by, but here was my solution.” They set the boxes down and Toby pointed to an open box of his own. “I will probably get in trouble when my bosses come back, because these are more expensive than regular gel that we mix ourselves, but here are synthetic busts that have ballistics gel to simulate flesh and brain and hardened ceramics to simulate skull and neck bone.”

  “They look pretty creepy.”

  “They’re less creepy than your first idea.”

  “Hey, why not get the real thing? This counts as science. That’s what people donated their dead bodies for.”

  “You wanted to put dead people’s heads on a board and blow them apart. Something is wrong with you.”

  “Your protest is duly noted. Now can we please reenact the shooting death of a young boy in whatever way you deem acceptable?”

  “So we’ve been firing at a few different targets. To get a base line. Non-jacketed bullets, just like in the crimes.”

  “Don’t understand that myself,” Gus said. “Jacketed bullets fragment. Better if your aim’s to kill.”

  Corus gestured at the dummies. “That’s why we’re here today, Gus. Lots of questions.”

  The elder Moikins picked up the M4 Corus had brought from the 3rd precinct armory and sighted in.

  “Firing.”

  Gus fired once. The melon spun to its side and fell from the target bench. From fifteen feet, the damage was readily apparent. They all walked forward to inspect. Toby picked up the watermelon and pointed to a small entry hole, no bigger than the diameter of a ballpoint pen. Then he turned it over, exposing the eight-inch-wide hole the bullet had made on exit.

  “Jesus.” Corus said. He prodded a finger into the remnants of the melon’s insides. “It’s like jelly.”

  “That’s the cavitation effect,” Toby said. “Small bullets plus velocity equals a big mess.”

  “Okay, let’s try the real thing.”

  Toby set one of the ballistics dummy busts on the target bench. Behind the bust, Gus and Corus slotted a glass pane into a half frame on a simple stand that Toby and Gus had tacked together on Corus’ request. They scurried back behind the shooting bench while Gus sat and positioned the M4.

  “Firing,” Gus announced.

  The M4 gave out its distinctive report, like a giant clapping his hands together. It was the sound of combat, which Corus never truly loved. But when the shit was hitting the fan, at least the clap! of the M4 was the sound of the good guys shooting back.

  The bullet tore through the head of the bust. It jumped, but didn’t result in a macabre or cinematic explosion.

  “Clear.”

  They moved forward to inspect. The ballistics gel skin had prevented the skull from flying apart in the way the watermelon rind had, but, still, the damage was immense. It was certainly a death dealing shot. The ceramic “skull” had cracked in a line along the top of the head, with a few small fissures to either side. In the rear, was a mangled exit wound roughly the size of a tangerine. Red ooze flowed through it, down the neck and onto the bench.

  “Fake blood?” Corus asked.

  “It was only ten dollars more,” Toby protested with a shrug.

  “And you call me the sicko…”

  Toby pried the exit wound open. “It definitely scrambled this guy’s eggs.”

  “That kid’s head was half gone in that picture though,” Gus said.

  Corus looked at Toby, who said, “Sorry, I showed him the photo you gave me.”

  It was sensitive matter, but Toby showing the crime scene photo to one mountain hermit wasn’t exactly the same as posting it on the internet.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  They turned their attention to the window behind the head. Toby took a picture of the hole next to a quarter that Corus held up for comparison.

  “Looks a little small,” Toby said. “Less spidering too.”

  “True,” Corus said. “Let’s try another. Gus, can you hit right here?” Corus touched his own face, right above his left eye.

  Toby scribbled a dot onto the next bust target where Corus had indicated.

  “I can shoot the eye out of a soaring eagle,” Gus said, more in a comforting tone than a boastful one.

  They replaced the bust, and the shot out pane, and Gus fired again. This time, the dummy’s skull fractured more and fissured the ballistics gel skin to a greater extent, though the results were comparable to the first shot.

  “You see, each shot can have such different outcomes,” Toby said, motioning over the exit wound. The bullet fractured the cranium differently and the hydrostatic shock was able to split a little more of the skin.”

  “It’s still not as bad as what really happened.” Corus stood with hand on hips.

  “I’ve seen some really pitiful wounds from 5.56 and some real doozers,” Gus said. “It all depends on distance, how much velocity the bullet still has by the time it hits the target.”

  “Most combat engagements are at 60-80 yards,” Corus said, “but in Afghanistan, many were at 200 yards plus. It definitely loses a little punch that far out.”

  “NATO rounds do,” Toby said. “Under 2500 feet per second, those 5.56 NATO rounds don’t yaw or fragment as well either.”

  “We need to go back to the 7.62mm,” Gus said. “That’s what I keep saying.”

  Toby rolled his eyes a little. “It’s more complicated than that. My uncle and I go back and forth about this topic.”

  “Oh I know,” Corus laughed. “People argue the matter endlessly in the military.”

  They regarded the windowpane next. A small hole had been blown out, somewhat more irregular than the first, but roughly the same size. Just over a centimeter.

  “Have that car door handy?” Corus asked Toby.

  Toby ran off. He returned moments later with a grey car door.

  “It’s not from a Mercedes and there’s
no window.”

  “Mercedes door ain’t no different,” Gus said.

  Toby leaned the door back against a leg of the target bench.

  “Now let’s back up a bit,” Corus said. “These shots came from about thirty or forty feet away and from quite an angle. Gus, you can shoot from standing, right here. Accuracy isn’t so important. In fact, scatter them around the door a bit. Go ahead and rattle off ten rounds for me.”

  Gus did so.

  “Clear.”

  Corus counted the ten entry holes. He turned the car door around and leaned it back against the bench leg.

  “…8, 9, 10. Jesus! Every single one went through.”

  “Is that surprising?” Toby asked.

  “I mean, no, not really. But…” He felt embarrassed to be surprised. He was no novice when it came to the capabilities of the M4. Corus scratched his head. Perhaps it wasn’t that he was discounting the M4, but rather was ignorant of fancy cars. “Gus, you sure those Mercedes aren’t made of some special steel? The dictators and whatnot?”

  “Did repair and body work for a time. I’m telling you it ain’t significantly harder or thicker. Them dictators get those things specially tricked out with armor plating.”

  “You guys got another car door?”

  “I got a bad habit of hangin’ on to junk. Got more car doors than I know what to do with frankly.”

  They kept stacking doors, until most of the bullets failed to penetrate on their fifth try.

  “Toby, I counted, and two-thirds of the bullets that hit those Mercedes doors didn’t get through. Why are some of these getting through five doors? Are you sure the same weapon was used at both crime scenes?”

  “I’m nearly positive.”

  “90% should have gotten through that door, not 30%.”

  Toby snapped his fingers. “What did the witnesses say the shots sounded like?”

  “One person at the hotel said they thought they heard something like a nail gun. And the neighbor in Bellevue said she heard glass and metal breaking more than gunshots per se.”

  “So the firearm was suppressed,” Toby said, frustration plain to see.

  “Yeah, of course, but—”

  “Suppression hurts muzzle velocity,” Toby said, then shook his head. “But not enough to slow a bullet down this much. We’re dealing with a slower bullet. That’s the problem.” Toby put both his hands to his head and groaned. “Oh my god. They used sub sonic rounds!”