Corus and the Case of the Chaos

by Mark Hazard

  THIRTY-NINE

  At the prosecutor’s request, Andy Garvey came to 3rd precinct that afternoon. He arrived with his lawyer, Mr. Alonso, and was afforded the dignity of meeting in the conference room rather than one of the holding rooms. They were greeted by Prosecutor Bowman, Corus and Rosen, who again wore his best approximation of banking consultant garb.

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” Alonso said. “My client is most eager to move forward in assisting the prosecution and be put into the witness protection program.”

  “We understand Mr. Garvey’s eagerness,” Bowman said. “However, we’ve hit a snag.”

  “What snag?” Andy asked. “What snag?”

  “Based on the nature of the evidence in this case, we aren’t able to charge Andre Kirilov with any crime at this time.”

  “What do you mean? I—”

  Alonso put a hand up to interrupt his client. “My client said he is willing to give damning testimony.”

  “About that. Mr. Garvey’s statement was incorrect. He said Kirilov came to the bank at 8 am when he was arriving for work that day.”

  “He did, I swear it.” Garvey’s eyes were pleading and fearful.

  “Andre Kirilov was on an airplane at 8am that day. He couldn’t have met with you then.”

  “But I…I must have…I—”

  Alonso again held up a hand. “Please. Please.” He glanced at Bowman. “I will need to discuss this with my client. If you would like clarification on the discrepancy now, could we have the room?”

  Once again those on the law enforcement side of the table left to twiddle their proverbial thumbs. After five minutes of texting and score checking, Alonso told them they were ready for them.

  “My client got the time wrong. He arrived at work at 6:30am that day, not 8am.”

  “Why did you forget that?”

  “My client always arrives at work at 8am, but on this day, he came in early to get a jump on things. It slipped his mind. He has been most afraid for the last many months.”

  “The problem with that,” Bowman said, “is that it calls into question his recollection of events. While I am personally willing to humor Mr. Garvey’s lapse, I can tell you that if I were cross-examining him, I’d hone in on that like a heat seeking missile.”

  Corus usually let Bowman do the talking with the lawyers, but he spoke up now. “Many specifics will be necessary, even in the federal money laundering investigation. Because Griffin and Badcocke are both dead, they cannot offer a different version of events, but sadly, they cannot confirm them either. This case was highly dependent on your credibility.”

  “My client wishes to assure the prosecution he will have all of his ducks in a row before any further statements are made. I assure you that.”

  “That may help our investigation,” Bowman said. “But you’ve opened the door for the defense to call every ounce of that testimony into question.”

  “So what are you saying, Ms. Bowman?”

  “For a witness to be protected before and after testimony at trial, they must apply and be accepted into the program. The danger to the witness is not the only concern. The witness must be deemed credible and vital to the prosecution.”

  Rosen leaned in to whisper into Corus’s ear. “Ask him about the log-in time.”

  Corus thought for a moment and took out his phone. He searched for a number, dialed it and waited for a voice to answer. “Hello, this is Inspector Corus with the King County Sheriff’s office. I’m calling to speak with the system administrator…Yes that’s right. The IT guy. Fine…Thanks very much.”

  Corus looked at Garvey and Alonso while he waited for an answer.

  “Hello my name is Inspector Corus with the Sheriff’s office. I need a piece of information from you. Can you access the log in and log out times for all the users on your network?...ok great. Could you tell me what time Andrew Garvey logged into his computer on February 5th, 2013?...I understand. Actually he is right here and can give you permission.”

  Corus handed the phone across the table to Andy, who took it slowly. He glanced in Alonso’s direction, holding the phone like it was red hot. Alonso nodded, eyebrows raised.

  Garvey put the phone to his ear. “Thanks Jeff. I won’t be needing your help.” He hung up the phone and passed it back. His eyes were unfocused and locked on the table.

  “I lied,” Garvey said. “Kirilov didn’t come to my work the day after the shooting. I was scared of him, so I embellished my story to help you put him away. But he really did come to my home that night with another man in ski masks. I recognized the voice because I met him other times.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and onto the oak table. “I’m just so scared. There is a target on me the size of the moon. I don’t want to be gunned down in my driveway!”

  “What other times did you meet Kirilov?”

  “My client and I obviously need to talk before proceeding.” Alonso stood up.

  “No God dammit,” Corus said. “What didn’t you tell us?”

  “Corus please.” Bowman set a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Garvey do you wish to confer with counsel or can we proceed with the God’s honest simple truth?”

  “I met Kirilov a few times,” Andy said without protest. “He was the liaison between URM Construction and us. If Miles or Badcocke had questions or concerns or needed to negotiate anything, they used me as their intermediary. They used me as their errand boy. It put me at greater risk to talk to a Russian face to face. So they avoided it, for deniability.”

  Bowman stopped the conversation there, and called for a recording device to be set up. It took only a few minutes and Garvey continued explaining the details of what he and Kirilov had discussed. “Terms of transfers, dates, percentages. Kirilov had a firm grasp on finance and banking, especially the computer side. When Miles had run into issues with computing, Kirilov himself had written code that helped keep their transfers dark when necessary.”

  Corus peppered Andy with questions about the time and locations of these various events. Whenever Andy gave that information, he was asked to be absolutely certain and avoid guessing. He stopped his statement at times, to sob about how sorry he was, or how powerless he was to act, or how scared he was.

  “I’m not a liar. I just made a mistake. Please you have to get me into protection. They’ll kill me.”

  After a full hour and a half of questioning, the recorder was finally turned off. Pens were set down, and Garvey made one last plea.

  “How are you going to protect me? You understand why I lied right? I was just trying to help.”

  “Mr. Garvey, I think you understand that honesty is the most helpful thing now,” Bowman said. “Let us do our jobs. If you lie again, I will charge you with obstruction of justice and our deal will be done.”

  “I won’t. I promise. I understand what I did wrong.”

  “Where are you staying now, Andy?” Corus asked.

  “I’m moving from hotel to hotel. A different one every night. Eventually they’ll find me, though. Even if you get Kirilov, they’ll send others.”

  “Honestly Mr. Garvey,” Bowman said, “I’d say your chances are fifty-fifty, due to the lies in your first statement. You’ll have to do extremely well in your interview with the Marshals, and then they’ll send their recommendation to the US Attorney General’s office for final decision.”

  Corus walked Garvey and Alonso to their cars. Garvey climbed into a ten year old SUV with mud all over the tires and sides.

  “Keeping a low profile I see,” Corus said.

  “Oh. Yeah. Doesn’t make sense to be driving around in my BMW. They’ll be looking for that. This was my only car after my divorce. Made sense to use it now.”

  “You were divorced?”

  “Yes, in 2001. I haven’t remarried.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “Yeah, but they live with their mom in California. Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  “This whole thing, if I get through it, wil
l they let me see my kids ever again?”

  “I don’t have too much experience with WitSec. But I think your ex-wife and kids would have to come with you for you to see them ever again.”

  “She won’t. She doesn’t care about me.” Andy’s sad, baggy eyes and upturned nose made him look like a baby pug dog.

  “They don’t let you have contact with anyone from your old life, especially family. You understand why.” Something caught Corus’s attention. He pointed to a sticker on the rear window, an eagle, globe and anchor, the insignia of the US Marine Corps.

  “Were you a Marine?” Corus asked, shock plain in his voice.

  “Yeah. My dad was a Marine before he became a cop. He made all of us join up. Wasn’t much choice in the matter. It was something to do out of high school I guess.”

  “I was Army.”

  “Then you know how Marines can be about the Corps. At first he wanted me to be a grunt, but I wanted none of that. We compromised on me becoming a pen pusher.”

  “Were you ever deployed?”

  “No, I was in the rear with the gear as they say.”

  Corus laughed. It broke some of the tension from the long interrogation. “Marines are always gabbing about how everyone is a rifleman first, even the rear echelon mofos. So, if you were a Marine, then at least you know how to shoot, Mr. Garvey. I hope you’re protecting yourself.”

  “I haven’t owned a firearm in years.” Andy shook his head.

  “Would you like to borrow one?”

  Andy thought for a moment. He nodded.

  Corus unstrapped his ankle holster with the .22 pistol and handed it to Andy. It was against regulations to offer a duty weapon to a civilian, but the .22 was a personal weapon, and the situation was dire. “Do you want us to post deputies at whichever hotel you check into?”

  “I think it might draw attention.”

  “It’s your call. Let us know if you change your mind.”

  “Thanks Inspector. You’re alright for an Army guy.”

  “It ain’t a hand cannon, but if you shoot straight, it’ll help. Maybe you can go buy something bigger for yourself. I assume a banker isn’t strapped for cash.”

  “I don’t have a concealed weapons permit.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You’ve got bigger problems.”

  FORTY

  Corus removed his overcoat and donned a Kevlar vest with a high collar and flaps that hung like unbuttoned epaulettes over his shoulders. He took a tactical shotgun from the rack and loaded it with five shells and inserted five more into slots on the butt.

  “You don’t have to go with them,” Chu said. “Just let the tactical team pick him up.”

  “I need to be there, at least.”

  “So, you got a location for Kirilov?”

  “We think so. Garvey gave us an address. He said he found out where Kirilov lived when he was gathering his own evidence to take to the bank trustees or the cops. Did you get the warrant?”

  “It’s on its way.”

  The first time Corus and Rosen had arrested Kirilov, he hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe he wasn’t the mastermind of this murderous mess, but he was smart, and he was a killer. Corus knew that much, even if he couldn’t prove the latter. In thinking Roundley had gotten him clear of trouble only that morning, seeing the police at his door again so soon could cause him to act rashly. Corus sensed a battle approaching.

  He adjusted a Velcro strap on his vest.

  Dark had fallen over western Washington. An evening mist kept the windshield wipers moving periodically on Rosen’s cruiser.

  “Thanks for getting the captain to let me help you while on duty.”

  “You’re welcome. Save those vacation days for a real vacation,” Corus said.

  Rosen’s squad car led a convoy of two swat vehicles, Chu’s duty SUV, and three more pairs of deputies in cruisers. They turned onto a tree-lined boulevard, host to rows of townhomes and parked two blocks away from the target.

  Chu had asked if they should surround the house and call for Kirilov to come out. Corus didn’t think that would end well. He was sure Kirilov would rather go down swinging than face life in prison. It was just something in his eyes. Something feral. So Corus had demanded a no bullshit tactical entry.

  Chu radioed, “Corus, are we clear?”

  Chu’s voice, normally high-pitched and soft, took a more authoritative tone that matched the gravity of the situation.

  “Clear, Lieutenant.”

  “Team Leaders, you are go.” On Chu’s signal the two big armored personnel carriers swung around Rosen’s cruiser. One turned right before Kirilov’s and turned into the alley behind the house. The other armored vehicle parked in front of the house, but before it had come to a full stop, men were already spilling off the sides and out the back door. They grouped into two single file lines of four and took up positions on the patio, one line stacked up behind the door along the front of the house, the other directly in front of the entrance.

  The squad cars followed and arrayed themselves around the APC in front of the townhouse. Corus and Rosen exited their vehicle. Rosen stood behind it on the driver’s side and poised his 9mm pistol, arms extended on the roof of the cruiser. Corus chambered a shell with the pump and clicked the safety off. He leveled the shotgun at a second story window, kneeling behind his door.

  The front man of the line stacked behind the door nodded to the leader of the line in front of the door. That man waved a hand and the rearmost deputy ran around the group and squared his feet perpendicular to the door. He heaved a heavy metal ram into the door just above the lock, and the door sprang open.

  “Sheriff’s Department!” The two teams entered and began their room-to-room search.

  Corus heard only the sounds of boots stomping through the halls of the town home, along with periodic shouts of “Sheriff’s Department!” Lights began to turn on in the surrounding houses. Blinds and windows opened for neighbors to witness the scene. Corus focused on the upstairs windows of Kirilov’s townhome.

  The beams of the SWAT team’s flashlights roamed about the upstairs rooms.

  “Hands on your head! Get on the floor!”

  After a second and a half of silence without hearing shots, Corus moved across the short lawn to the door. He crossed through the living room and kitchen and turned up the stairs at the back of the house. Calls of “clear!” and “all clear!” rang out through the air and over radio waves. Corus stepped forward into the most populated room. Three SWAT deputies were binding a man up with cord.

  No, they were untying him. It wasn’t Kirilov. It was an older man with a haggard, pinched face, bushy eyebrows and an upturned nose. When they removed the gag from his mouth, he erupted. “God damn took you long enough!”

  Ed Garvey sat on the floor, ripping away angrily at the remaining bindings on his legs, even swatting at the arm of the deputy trying to untie him. He worked his way to his feet and pointed a shaking finger at Corus. “You…you...” The elder Garvey’s eyes were furious and his disposition as sour as ever. “You…” his eyes narrowed, and the SWAT operator led him away as protocol dictated. Once outside of the house, he was sat down on the steps and asked if he required medical attention.

  “I’m not hurt, goddam it.”

  “Garvey, why are you here?” Corus asked.

  “Oh, good, act it up for them.”

  “What?” Corus screwed up his face in bewilderment.

  “You know damn well what I mean, traitor!”

  Corus looked at the equally puzzled deputies beside him. “Mr. Garvey, have you taken any drugs or medication today?”

  Garvey shook his head. “I knew it would come to this, someday. Fine. If it’s war you want, it’s war you’ll get.”

  “Why were you here?” Corus asked in the tone he would use to talk to a ive year old. “Who tied you up?”

  “Your friends, the Russians. Of course they tied me up. Because I can’t trust the cops to do their damned jobs in this county.�
�

  “Did you see Kirilov? Talk to him?”

  “Kiri-what?”

  “Andre Kirilov, the man who lives here. He’s suspected in the murders at Skokim Pass.”

  “He’s not here. He’s probably on a ship in the middle of the goddam ocean by now.”

  “You think he left the country?”

  “Of course he left the goddam country, you imbecile!”

  FORTY-ONE

  Garvey sat in the back of an ambulance, having finally relented to a medical examination. Corus had tried to talk to him, but each time, Garvey’s look hardened, and once a spasm had even gripped the right side of his face. Clearly there were some very large dots that needed connecting. Chu tried, even Rosen, but Garvey just mumbled angrily to himself. Was Ed Garvey in the middle of a full on breakdown? The beginnings of dementia? But then why had he been found tied up in the residence of a suspected murder? Corus needed answers. So he called the one man he thought could get them.

  Jim Cummins, Corus’ erstwhile mentor, was never friends with Ed Garvey. He disliked the man, but that was an easy thing to do. Garvey was coarse and spiteful, usually quite happy to resolve matters by spitting hot coffee breath into the faces of his opponents. It was a tenacity that had won him position and power, but few admirers. Still, Ed Garvey’s run-ins with Jim in their early years on the force had all been interpersonal beefs, personality conflicts, never issues of ethics. Hopefully he would see Jim as someone he could trust with what he knew.

  Jim arrived about an hour after Corus called. “Made it as fast as I could.” They shook hands, and Corus nodded to the ambulance. “Something’s up Jim. He’s highly suspicious and paranoid. He knows something and we need him to tell us.”

  “What is he suspicious of?” Jim asked.

  “He thinks I’m bought by the Russian mob.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Exactly. You gotta find out where he got that idea. And convince him he can talk to us.”

  “Jesus, you called me over here to convince Ed Garvey you aren’t a shill for the Russians?” Jim shook his head and walked off toward the ambulance. “Goddam unbelievable. I’m missing Revolution for this shit.” Jim climbed up into the ambulance, closed the door, and sat across from Garvey.