Severed

by Corey Brown

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Oh my God,” Jamie says. “Your face....you’re bleeding.”

  Cody touches the left side of his head. A sharp sting makes him pull his hand away. There is blood on his fingertips.

  “Forget it,” Cody says. “It’s nothing. How about you? Are you okay?”

  “Somebody tried to kill us,” Jamie says, a tremor in her voice. “Oh god, Cody, what’s happening?”

  Not far off, the wail of a siren signals the approach of police.

  “What about you?” Cody asks. “You’re okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Cody looks around. His roaming glances find no real direction, no real solution. “We’ve got to get you out of here,” he says.

  “I can’t leave, you’re hurt.” Jamie says.

  “Honey, I have to stay. I have to clean up this mess, but not you. You gotta go.”

  “But----”

  “Jamie, please, do as I say.”

  From the west, the sound of an approaching trolley catches Cody’s attention. It is close. Cody takes Jamie’s hand, pulls her away from the car.

  Stepping onto the tracks, Cody holds out his badge, and shouts, “Police, stop!”

  The trolley grinds to a halt, metal wheels skidding, and screaming, against steel rails.

  Leading Jamie to the trolley steps, Cody looks at her, says, “Ride this for three stops. Then get off, call a cab and go out----”

  “You getting on or what?” The trolley driver says, interrupting. “I got a schedule to keep.”

  Cody gives the driver a look. “Just wait,” he says. Turning his attention back to Jamie, Cody says, “When you get off this thing, take a cab to the airport. On the way call your dad, tell him to park in the long term lot and meet you in the United ticketing area. Then go to East Jefferson General and get yourself checked out. It’s on Houma Boulevard in Metairie.”

  “But----”

  “Pay cash at the hospital,” Cody says, cutting her off. “Go to a cash station, max our account.”

  “We can’t,” Jamie says. “Cody, we’ll bounce checks.”

  “Just do it,” Cody says. “And don’t give the hospital your real name. Afterwards, get Todd. Understand?”

  “But, Cody,” Jamie starts to say.

  “Get Todd, understand?”

  “Yes, but----”

  Cody shoves her up the trolley steps. “It’ll be all right.”

  From inside the trolley Jamie looks down at Cody. “Okay,” she says, feeling uncertain. “But what about you?”

  The lone siren becomes two then three, all are drawing close. Cody steps up into the trolley, cups his hand around Jamie’s neck and kisses her. The tension slips away. Her kiss, her lips are seductive and warm and tender. It is a moment unto itself. Her kiss connects Cody to the only thing that makes sense in his life and he does not want to leave Jamie.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Cody says, pulling back. “Just get away, get Todd and go to your folk’s house. I’ll see you later. I promise.”

  “Okay. Wait, Cody, my purse is in the car.”

  Cody points at the trolley driver and says, “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “C’mon, man. I----”

  Producing his detective’s shield again, Cody says, “Police. Do not leave.”

  Cody sprints to their car. The driver’s side door is still open. He leans in, sees Jamie’s handbag lying on the floor, some of the contents have spilled out including her cell phone and a music CD. Cody reaches for it and a stab of pain shoots down his left arm. He grimaces, for a second the discomfort immobilizes him. Shoving the phone and a few loose items back into the handbag, Cody returns to the trolley, jams the purse into Jamie’s hand as the first squad car arrives.

  Cody steps back and the trolley starts forward. “I’ll see you soon,” he says to Jamie. “Do everything I told you.”

  The trolley picks up speed. Jamie leans out of the doorway, looking back at him. Cody knows Jamie is afraid and for an instant he considers running after her. Everything feels just like her departure from Doctor Harris’s office earlier in the day and a knot forms in Cody’s gut. He wonders if he will ever see Jamie again. Three more squad cars burst into the intersection almost simultaneously as the trolley rumbles away, rolling off into the evening.

  Chapter 11

  Doctor Glen Harris swirls the ice in his glass of brandy. He sits with his back to the large picture window overlooking his swimming pool. The blinds are closed but Harris can hear laughter and shouting as his two teenage daughters and their friends play a game of volleyball in the cool, blue water.

  A self-indulgent feeling of satisfaction comes over him. For a moment he takes some measure of comfort in the knowledge he’s done well for them, his children have the good life. Staring at the snifter tucked between his fingers, Harris’s thoughts slip back to the news of Nicolas Wheaton’s death and his discussion with Cody Briggs.

  His wife, Diana, leans into the study, left hand holding onto the doorframe.

  “When did you get home, dear?”

  Harris looks up. Forcing a quick smile he says, “Oh, a little bit ago. My last appointment cancelled, so

  I was able to sneak out a little early.”

  Diana is thin and angular, a contrast to her college years, and quite the opposite of her post-natal visage. In college, at twenty, she appeared to be athletic and fit, even though the only sport she engaged in was partying. Pregnancy did not serve Diana well and in her thirties she had ballooned, putting on dozens of pounds. But even that hadn’t bothered Harris. What really worried him was the fact his wife didn’t seem to care that she was growing heavier each year.

  Then middle age had set in. Or, in Diana’s case, late middle age. And she attacked her weight problem with a vengeance. The result was a toned but boney woman, devoid of any kind of shape. For some reason, the disappearing pounds had reduced more than her thigh size. Somehow the lively, cavorting, kind woman Harris fell in love with thirty years ago had lost more than the extra weight. She had lost her heart.

  Diana glances at the drink in his hand, frowns. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah.” Harris twists his neck, pretending to work out a kink. “I guess I’m a little tense,” he says. “Don’t know why, really. But I thought I’d try to relax a little.” Harris presses a cheery expression onto his face. “But everything’s okay.”

  “Well, if you say so,” Diana says, sounding unconvinced. “I’ve got to run but maybe we should go out for dinner later—oh wait, the girls are coming over tonight. We’re going to talk about the party. How’s tomorrow look?”

  Harris nods, smiles crookedly and says, “The new Brazilian place?”

  Diana eyes him, she is unsure. “Yeah, sounds great. Okay, got to run. See you later.”

  For once, Harris is glad his wife doesn’t care about what is happening in his life. This time it is a blessing Diana is all-consumed with her own affairs. He needs this moment alone.

  Another swallow of the Janneau Armagnac and his thoughts return to that conversation with Cody. He wonders, once again, if his hunch about the raped women is correct; he worries Cody will meet the same fate as Nick.

  Harris reaches for the bottle, pours another three fingers, swirls the liquid around the glass. He thinks about calling Doctor Finlay. He tells himself it is because of her dead patients, but in his heart he knows otherwise. Harris closes his eyes, draws a breath, exhales hard then pushes his feelings away. Forcing concentration, forcing his thoughts back to Nick Wheaton, Harris wonders what those numbers mean. Why six women then one then two? Did that mean anything, did it mean everything? He wonders what lead Nick to the swamp, considers what it means when a fetus does not have any DNA.

  Like the brandy swirling in his glass, these ideas spin around Harris’s mind like discordant variations on a theme. Details and minutia seem to change the possibilities but, in t
he end, the facts remain the same: unlikely events have led to inexplicable situations.

  An electronic buzz draws Harris out of these thoughts, his pager beckons. Without even checking the number Harris dials his answering service.

  “This is Doctor Harris.”

  “Yes Sir. Doctor Robiere with Saint Charles General called for you.”

  Harris frowns. “Doctor Robiere?”

  “Yes, Doctor. She asked for you.”

  “Okay, where can I reach her?”

  Harris writes the number down, looks at his notation. Does he know Doctor Robiere? He thinks about his patients but none of them are due any time soon. He tries to figure out whom Robiere might be treating. And why Saint Charles General Hospital? None of his patients would go there

  “This is Doctor Harris,” he says to the hospital operator. “May I speak with Doctor Robiere?”

  “I’ll connect you, please hold.”

  The next voice catches Harris by surprise.

  “ER how can I help you?”

  “Pardon me?” Harris says slowly.

  “This is the Emergency Room of Saint Charles General Hospital, how can I help you?”

  “Well, may I speak with Doctor Robiere, please?”

  “Your name?”

  “Doctor Harris.”

  “Oh yes, Doctor Harris. Doctor Robiere has been waiting for your call. Hold please.”

  Harris hears the receiver tap against the counter at the nurse’s station. He was on hold without a hold button. He frowns. Who does that anymore? Who just lays down the handset?

  Listening to the sounds of the ER, Harris catches himself starting to smile. It has been over twenty-five years since he’d suffered through his graduate work at University of Chicago Hospitals. As a private practitioner in obstetrics, he has spent little time in emergency rooms since that long ago internship, but what he hears brings back memories of one crisis after another strung together into never-ending days and nights.

  Thinking about the utter exhaustion of working thirty-six hour shifts only to be called back to work after just a few hours of rest, Harris shakes his head. He hated those days when he was living them, but the sounds filling his ear now reminds him of why he wanted to be a doctor in the first place.

  Harris had never felt more alive than when he found himself tugging on a beer in their favorite Hyde Park bar with Diana tucked under his arm, and fellow interns telling war stories. They would be crammed into a booth, eating free popcorn and re-living their wild emergency room experiences; each one of them anxious to get out and become real doctors, live real lives. Not knowing they already were.

  “Doctor Harris?” The woman’s voice drags Harris back to the present. “Thanks for returning my call.”

  She sounds so young, Harris wonders if Doctor Robiere is an intern herself. “It’s no trouble,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I have a patient who claims you are his doctor. It seems a little odd, given your specialty. But he won’t let me perform even a simple exam.”

  Him? What man would call an obstetrician for treatment?

  “What’s the patient’s name?” Harris asks, his heart starting to beat hard.

  “Cody Briggs. Detective Cody Briggs with the NOPD.”

  Stunned, Harris fumbles for a response. “Oh, yes…..”

  “Is he really one of yours?”

  “Of course,” Harris says, regaining composure. “I’ve known Detective Briggs for a long time. What’s his condition? Is it serious?”

  “Not as far as I can tell,” Robiere replies. “Some abrasions, a minor head wound, nothing critical.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m told he was in a car accident. No seatbelt. He may have strained some neck and shoulder ligaments, but like I said, he really won’t let me look at him. Says it has to be you, no one else. His vitals are okay, but that’s about all I know.”

  “Fine,” Harris says. “Tell Mr. Briggs you’ve spoken with me and that I’ve instructed you to proceed with a full exam. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “All right. Thank you, Doctor Harris.”

  «»

  “Wait here please, Captain. You can speak with him when they’re finished with his imaging. His personal physician is on the way.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

  Russell Laroche watches as Doctor Robiere turns and walks away, her soft soled shoes hardly making a sound on the waxed tile floor. The light of the fluorescent tubes and white walls make the place seem unusually sterile. He sighs and glances at the wall clock. Six-forty PM. It’s been one long-ass day and a glass of scotch, neat, has been whispering his name for some time now. Thankfully, he does not have to wait long before the imaging room door opens and Cody is rolled into the hall.

  “Hey Captain. What’re you doing here?”

  Russell Laroche looks down at Cody, scowls. “Don’t give me that shit,” he says, falling in stride with the wheelchair. “You’re not the least bit surprised to see me.”

  Russell Laroche is a tall, black man who is rock-solid because of daily trips to the gym. Exercise is almost a religion for him. Expensive cigars are definitely his religion, the scent of which seems to follow him everywhere. A well-trimmed salt and pepper moustache compliments his short gray hair. At sixty-three Russell looks as young as Cody, who is some twenty years his junior.

  A wry smile works onto Cody’s face. “No, I’m not surprised.”

  “I tried to catch you at the scene,” Russell says. “But you were too fast for me.” He glances around, feeling cautious. “How’s Jamie?”

  “She’s okay,” Cody says. “As far as that goes.”

  “Thank God,” Russell’s words are heavy, his tone relieved. “Anything I can do? Denise will be happy to stay with her.”

  Cody shakes his head. “Thanks, she’s staying at her mom’s house tonight.”

  “Okay, well let me know if she needs anything.”

  The three of them, the hospital orderly, police captain and his detective turn a corner. Laroche glances to his right, looks through an open door and realizes the room is unoccupied. He reaches out, stopping the wheelchair.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Russell says.

  The orderly holds firm. “Hey, I can’t let----”

  Russell shows his gold shield. “Yes, you can. Police business.” He takes the chair from the orderly and wheels Cody into the empty room.

  The heavy wooden door latches quietly. Laroche stops pushing and steps back, folds his arms. Slowly, Cody climbs out of the wheelchair, wincing as he moves.

  “Hurts?” Russell says.

  “Well, I’m not on death’s door but, yeah, it hurts. I think I hit the steering wheel or the window. They gave me something for the pain but it’s not working yet. Ten years ago I would’ve walked away, shaken it off but now.…” Cody sighs, thinks about his middle-aged body and says, “But now it hurts.”

  Russell half-smiles and says, “How about it? Been there, done that. You’re okay, you sure?”

  Cody nods. “Yeah, I’ll be all right. No worries.”

  “Good. Now, what happened out there? Who fired first, you or him?”

  Cody’s eyes go wide. “Shoot at him? What kind of shit are you smoking?”

  “Witnesses say you jumped out of your car and shot at the driver behind you.”

  “Oh, screw that,” Cody says. “I never pulled the trigger. I didn’t even draw my weapon until he was driving away. Jesus, I could hardly raise my arm.” Cody narrows his eyes. “But you know I didn’t shoot. You’ve already checked my gun.”

  Cody had given his forty-caliber Smith and Wesson to the crime scene investigators just before the paramedics took him to the hospital. And, after a cursory examination, an investigator had given the weapon to Russell, told the captain it was clean.

  Russell had not wanted to check it, as if that would be a show of good faith. But he had no choice, given Cody’s reputation. He had to know for s
ure. But ten plus one was the magic number. To Russell’s relief, there were eleven rounds between the clip and chamber. More importantly, the weapon smelled of fresh gun oil. It had not been fired.

  An apologetic look slips onto Russell’s face. “You’re right,” he says. “I did check. Speaking of which….” Russell produces Cody’s forty-caliber Smith and Wesson. Extending his arm, the weapon in hand, Russell says, “I thought you might want it back.”

  Cody looks at the gun, waits a moment then takes it, shoves the piece into his waistband.

  “Thanks. Why the song and dance?”

  Russell draws breath, sighs. “I guess I wanted to hear your version.” He sighs again. “Sorry, I can’t be too careful.”

  Cody scowls then closes his eyes. He nods and says, “Yeah, I know.”

  “What really happened? Russell says. He pauses, his expression softening. “Why’d you hang up?”

  Cody runs his fingers through his hair, scratches his head. “I didn’t. The battery on my cell died.”

  “Figures,” Russell says. “Okay, give me the long version, tell me everything.”

  Cody swallows, pulls his thoughts together then says, “After Jamie and I left Nick’s apartment, I thought someone was following us. I drove around for a while and by the time I’d circled back down Saint Charles, I knew for sure. I called you and my cell died. At the stoplight this joker pulls alongside my car and starts in with a sawed-off. I tried to get away but got clipped by someone going south on Jackson. I cracked my head on something, which is why I’m here. Anyway, I got out and drew my weapon but he crossed over the tracks then turned west and took off. I was going to shoot, believe me I wanted to, but like I said, I couldn’t even straighten my arm.”