by Corey Brown
Russell’s eyes go wide. “Are you insane?” he says, leaning forward, voice rising. “Does it matter? Eric Hansen is----” Russell bites off the rest of his sentence. “Does it matter?” he says again. But now his tone lacks charge. “What the hell are you smoking and please do not share it with me because I don’t want to end up as crazy as you are. Jesus, do you hear yourself?”
Below the radar, Cody knows his captain almost gave something away. Eric Hansen is…what? But the question stays there, just beyond the plane of conscious thought.
“Russ, I….” Cody looks away, his sense of indignation evaporating. He draws a breath, sighs. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes you do,” Russell says, his tone softer, now. “Just tell me what happened. Tell me what’s going.”
“I don’t know. Something is….something happened this morning.”
“What kind of thing?”
“I’m not sure, can’t remember,” Cody says, his inflection one of distance. “I just do not know. Something happened, that’s all I know.”
“Don’t remember how? Like how you don’t remember what you did on the security tape.”
Cody swallows, losing ground, unsure of himself. “Yeah, kind of like the tape, but different. More important.”
Russell looks closely at Cody. Oh shit, he thinks. My guy is headed for the bottom of Marianna’s trench and because I didn’t follow regulations, now I am going down, too.
How could he have been so foolish? The tape should have been enough, but Russell had wanted to give Cody some leeway, give him a chance to straighten things out. Russell had wanted to believe that Cody was okay, but now he can see it had been a mistake. Not following procedure might be a costly decision. He should have taken stronger action, should have put Cody on full administrative leave and insisted on an immediate psychological examination. Then he should have submitted the tape for review. As it was, the goddamned psychiatrist still hadn’t returned his call. How would that look at Russell’s own protocol review hearing?
“Did you see Hansen again, later today?” Russell says.
“No.”
“What did you do after you left him?”
Cody hesitates, licks his lower lip then says, “I met someone in Opelousas.”
“Who? Who did you meet?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Russell closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen to me very carefully. I have to know exactly what you did this morning and this afternoon. Tell me everything.”
“And you have to tell me why,” Cody says. “What the hell is going on?”
“Who did you meet with?” Laroche says, pressing.
Sensing his captain’s intensity, Cody gives a little. “A friend of mine,” he says. “Derek Simmons, we met around ten O’clock, for about an hour.”
“Who is---- ?”
“He’s a Fed. FBI, okay?”
“The same guy who came looking for you two days ago?” Russell says.
“Yeah, him.”
“Where did you meet?”
“Walmart, in the food court, you can check their security tapes. And, no, you won’t see anything weird.”
Or would Russell see something?
Cody thinks back. He remembers feeling out of step, distracted. Definitely distracted. But had he exhibited those feelings in such a way as to be noticeable, in a way that would show up on another goddamned security tape? Cody is not sure.
“Then what?” Russell says. “What did you do after you met Simmons?
Cody relaxes, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. Russell isn’t interested in checking the Walmart part of his story. Cody shrugs his shoulders. “I drove home then you called, I took a shower and came here. Now what the hell is up?”
“Opelousas is a long way away. Can you account for your time between the meeting with Simmons and when you got home?”
“I was in my car, I was driving. How do you think I got from one place to the other?”
“Anyone with you?”
“Fletcher called me on my cell,” Cody says. “Otherwise, I was alone.” Cody draws breath. The sound is both action and emotion, inhale and sigh. He says, “What is this all about?”
As if in rebellion, as if exercising some weary defense, Russell exhales hard. He pushes a hand around his face then tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Eric Hansen is dead,” he says, tone flat, deliberate. “They found him a few hours ago.”
“Jesus Christ.” Cody says, then his voice goes quiet. “How?”
“Shot in the head, point blank, execution style.”
“Like Julia?”
“Yeah, like Julia.”
Cody leans back against the wall, lets out a low, quiet breath and says, “Holy shit. What is going on around here?”
Russell waits a moment, tries to figure Cody, looks for some kind of tell. He does not want to say it, doesn’t want to give away the farm but, for some reason, Russell feels compelled to lay it all out.
“It was your gun, Cody,” Russell says, his voice flat. “Hansen was shot with your gun. They found it at the scene. Obviously, your prints were on it.”
“My gun?” Cody says. He feels off balance, almost dizzy. “That’s not possible. Its right----” Cody reaches for his weapon but it isn’t there, the holster isn’t even clipped to his belt. Cody frowns, thinking, trying to remember when he last saw his gun. On the car seat, maybe?
“Wait,” Cody says, thinking, reconstructing the morning. “Hansen took my weapon, when I was unconscious.”
Russell takes a long, slow drag on his cigar. “Yes, I know.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Hansen told me. Said he took it out of your hand.”
“There you go,” Cody says. “He never gave it back.”
“Hansen said he took it, didn’t say he kept it.”
Suddenly uncomfortable with his captain’s demeanor, Cody does not answer. He folds his arms across his chest, waits a moment longer then says, “Did you find out Hansen was dead before or after you called me?”
Russell shakes his head, dismissing the implied accusation. “After. I got the call about half an hour ago. This was not a set up, I wouldn’t do that. So, how do I know Hansen kept your gun?”
“Because I’m telling you he did. Look, if I shot Hansen, would I leave my gun at the scene?”
“I wish it were that easy,” Russell says, waving his cigar, smoke trailing. “God, I wish it were that simple. Think about this, Cody. Someone kills your partner then his girlfriend, and then tries to kill Jamie and or you. That same day, I have you on tape acting really bizarre. And your behavior was not only caught on tape, but was witnessed by two security guards and a city cop. But you can’t remember or explain what you did. Two days later your would-be assassin turns up dead, sliced and diced by someone with a sword. Jesus, a sword, I still cannot get over that. On that same day you are found unconscious, in the middle of fucking nowhere, by the detective investigating your partner’s death. Again, you can’t or won’t explain what happened. Not three hours later that detective is shot, point blank, in the head by your gun.”
Russell takes another draw on his cigar, squinting at Cody, holding it in the extra moment before exhaling. “Oh,” he says. “And let’s not forget that the only surviving piece of evidence from suspicious fire has your fingerprints all over it. A fire, I might add, that destroyed not only your partner’s remains but any clues to his death, as well.”
A cloud of expensive smoke drifts between Russell and Cody. They stand six or seven feet apart, staring at each other. Russell is silent, fingering the cigar. Cody stands motionless with his arms folded across his chest. Cody wants to be angry but doesn’t have the strength. He wants to walk out, walk away, but knows he cannot.
“Does it seem odd to you,” Russell says. “That you are the only one with an apparently connection to each of these events? Everyone around you seems to be dropping dead. And do you think I’m the only one who
wonders why you wanted this case so badly? I guarantee Slater is asking that exact question right now.”
Cody nods. “I see your point. It’s a problem. So now what?”
“What were you doing out on J.P Oil road this morning?” Russell says. “What happened between you and Hansen?”
“Nothing happened between us.” Cody wonders if he should mention Tina McGrath, but decides against it. If Russell doesn’t know about her there is no reason to add fuel to the fire. “Truth be told,” Cody says, “I think he might’ve saved me from serious harm.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, who knows what would’ve happened if he hadn’t come along? I might still be lying out there.”
“Why were you lying out there?”
Cody sighs, rubs his face. “I wish I knew.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do with you?” Russell says, his tone both pleading and sharp.
“Back me up, trust me.”
Russell snorts. “A joke, you’re being funny, right?”
Russell sinks into his desk chair. The action is heavy, burdensome, like a laborer shucking the last load of the day. Tipping back, Russell stares at the ceiling, cigar clamped between his teeth, collecting his thoughts. “Okay, for a moment let’s take this off record. For now, I am not your boss. Neither of us are cops. We’re just two guys talking. In a minute I’ll put my captain’s uniform back on, but right now it’s just you and me.”
Cody waits a moment then gives a slight nod, agreeing.
“You’re good,” Russell says. “Maybe as good as this god-forsaken city can expect. You just might be the best detective New Orleans has had in the last fifty years. And it’s not just your solve rate, it’s more than that. You aren’t afraid of the assholes, elected officials, perpetrators, even bad cops. You lead where others wait for direction but your leadership is subtle, unassuming. People respect you. But more than anything, you’re a decent person. I know it, you’re a good person and in that way I do trust you. I want to back you up, but something in your life is out of control. I have absolutely no idea what that could be, but whatever is out of whack, it’s going to ruin you. And the worst part is you won’t let me help.”
Russell stubs out the cigar in an ashtray on his desk, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Cody,” he says quietly. “I don’t care what’s happened or why, I just want to help. But you have to let me.”
Cody looks away. “I can’t,” he says, almost in a whisper.
“Why?”
Tentatively, Cody shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“What in God’s name is going on? Are you in trouble, are you getting squeezed?”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” Cody says, giving Russell a sharp look. “Nobody’s leaning on me. I’m clean, Russ, I swear. And I haven’t killed anyone. I don’t know what’s happening, but I….I can’t talk about it.”
A temporary silence slips in, taking over the room again. Russell continues to scrutinize Cody, hoping it will push him to say something more. But Cody remains quiet, his face a study of emotional vacuity. Russell sighs, and in the sound Cody can tell his captain is troubled, there is worry in that simple act of expelling breath.
“Okay, I understand,” Russell says. “If you can’t talk about it then you can’t talk about it. All right, I’m back in uniform, now. We’re on the record. Here’s what’s going to happen. As of right now, you are suspended with pay for an indefinite period of time. As a condition of your continued employment, I’m requiring that you undergo a complete physical and psychological evaluation.”
“Goddamnit, Russ,” Cody says, voice rising. “You know I’m okay. If you cut me out---- ”
Russell holds up a hand. “I don’t care. Keeping you in, cutting you out, it doesn’t matter. Listen to me, and listen closely. I think you need to be evaluated. Argue with me all you like, but I know you’re in trouble. You need to be checked out if for no other reason than to build a defense, because I think you’ll be charged with Hansen’s murder, maybe even Hank Mitchell’s. Medical issues might postpone the investigation, maybe to give you time to sort things out before you have to face the music.”
Cody gives Russell an angry look. “I didn’t do it,” he says. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
Russell nods. “I believe you, but I still think you’ll be charged. I can’t see how you won’t. You met with Eric Hansen this morning. Internally, everyone knows about the hostility between you two over Nick’s case, a fact that will come out in the course of an investigation. And your gun killed Hansen. It’s just a guess, I could be wrong, but my gut tells me you’ll be charged.”
“Hostility? What hostility?”
“It’s moot,” Russell snaps. “This decision is not open to debate.”
“You can’t do this. I have to….”
Cody’s words trail off. Do what? His mind scatters into a thousand pieces. What did he have to do? Todd, he knows there is something about Todd. Keep him, was that it? No, not that, someone else is doing that. It’s something else, he has to do something else, he is sure of it. But what is it? What did he need to do?
“So you’re sending me home,” Cody says, trying to regroup, resisting the urge to let his mind churn out even more questions.
“I’m making sure you’re healthy. I’ve lost you, Cody, but I want you back. We can do this the hard way, which is not pleasant for either of us. Or we can do this the easy way, where you go home and stay there until you are checked out.”
“Checked out?” Cody says. “You’re wasting your time. I’m fine.”
“I hope so.”
There is a knock on the door. Laroche glances toward the sound but Cody does not seem to notice, he is concentrating on the floor. Cody thinks hard, tries to remember, what is it he needs to do?
“Just a minute,” Laroche calls out. Then he looks at Cody.
“We’re done?” Cody says, bringing his wild thoughts back under control.
Russell nods. “Yeah, for now.”
Cody turns away.
“Your shield.” Laroche says quietly, “And your weapon.”
Cody stops short, back to his captain. Cody sighs, turning his head slightly and pulls his shield. After a moment Cody faces Laroche, hands his badge over. “Here,” Cody says. “You already have my gun.”
“I need your back up piece, too.”
Cody looks intently at his superior then places a foot on the chair and hikes his pant leg up. Nothing is there.
“The Beretta is at home,” Cody says. “Bad firing pin, the new part hasn’t arrived.” In a harsh move, Cody pulls the cuff down and puts his foot back on the floor. Then he spins away, heads to the door.
“Report back here by noon tomorrow,” Laroche says, stiffly. “I’ll have doctor’s appointments set up by then.”
Cody pulls the office door open. And there, facing him, is a tall, bulky man wearing an expensive gray suit, white shirt accented by an aqua blue neck tie.
“Captain Laroche?” The man says, extending his right hand.
Cody ignores the offered handshake, jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Laroche,” he says, stepping past the man.
As Cody walks away he hears the introduction. “Captain Laroche, I’m Robert Murdock---- ” The door closes, cutting off the rest of his sentence.
Chapter 25
Thirteen year-old Todd Briggs is sitting on the curb, the mid-afternoon sun blazing down on his head. Todd is big for his age, but with his knees bent, squatting at the edge of the road he looks smaller, more compact.
Todd stares at his red and black Reeboks. He loves these shoes, they are so cool and he is something to see when he wears them. But despite his cool shoes, Todd feels like crying. He feels like crying and Grandma Marion will be here soon and he doesn’t to want look like a baby. Todd does not want his grandma to see him crying like a….like a faggot. That’s what his dad, Lucas— oh shit, he didn’t know who his dad was anymore—that’s what Lucas had said, crying
was for fags.
And what would happen now?
Lucas was so mad he had practically hit Todd. The sight of Lucas’s hand rising high in the air proceeded by a string of cuss words had made Todd’s blood run cold. But instead of striking Todd, Lucas had told him to get out, that he did not want Todd hanging around anymore.
Todd did not get it. They were just boxes and not very big ones, either. What was the problem? Lucas could find someone else to drive around and leave them at the churches. It was easy, anyone could do it.
So why did Lucas care who drove, what did it matter who made the deliveries? Besides, Todd thought, I’m only thirteen, I shouldn’t be driving at all. The metallic blue Ford Probe, his dad— Lucas— whoever, had given him was cool and driving was really fun at first, but now….now he is driving the car all the time. Todd thinks about his unlicensed excursions and wonders, what will happen if he gets caught?
Todd swallows, stares at his shoes and, inexplicably, worries about Cody. He finds himself thinking of his adopted father, feeling as though something bad is creeping into Cody’s life.
A block away Marion Dubois can see that her grandson is unhappy. She brakes early, slowing the Honda, trying to get a sense of things. Her boy is sitting hard on that curb, like he is planted there. Usually this teenager can barely keep still, moving and looking every which way. But at the moment her grandson is sitting perfectly still, staring intently at the asphalt beneath his feet.
The gloss white Accord rolls to a stop. Marion waits for him, but Todd doesn’t seem to know she is there. Lowering the passenger’s window Marion calls out, “Todd? Are you all right?”
