Severed

by Corey Brown

  Derek takes his foot off the brake, turns left onto Broadway and they are rolling north again.

  “And Slater never got suspicious?” Cody says. “I mean, about Hansen being so new.”

  “Slater’s a walking interstate pile up. Even if he was suspicious, I’m not sure he’d realize it. But we thought of that, so when Eric joined the force he was moved around a lot during the first year. A few months in this district, a week in that one, two months in records, it was hard to track him.”

  “Why was Hansen up near Opelousas?”

  “Working a lead on Tina McGrath. The church is part of the traffick pattern.”

  Cody thinks about this, tries to remember everything that happened out there in the backwoods. Two memories, one singular experience nudges its way into the mainstream: On two occasions Tina McGrath had insinuated herself into Cody’s emotional space in a flirtatious way. What was that all about?

  “So McGrath is involved?” Cody says

  “Not sure. It appears that way, but Hansen was killed before he could tell us what he’d learned.”

  “How does this tie into Nick?”

  “Well,” Derek says. “I think Nick was working this thing from the inside, meaning he was after the cops managing the trafficking here in New Orleans. But I don’t think he knew about our op. I don’t think he knew how really big this thing is.” Derek glances at Cody. “These guys are as bad as they come, I’m sure they killed him. They probably killed Hansen, too.”

  “How could Nick not know?” Cody says. “I mean, Superintendent Brezdek knew about your project and I guarantee you he knew about the case Nick was working. I’m sure---” Cody stops, stares at Derek. “What if Brezdek is dirty?”

  “I thought of that when I heard about Hansen. But we never gave Brezdek the whole story and didn’t provide updates, I never even told him Eric’s real name. If you don’t have the pattern, you can’t connect the dots. Besides, we’ve been on this thing for two years, why authorize an internal investigation if you know the FBI already has one going?”

  “Headlines,” Cody says. “Snag a piece of the glory.”

  “Maybe, but that means Brezdek is clean. If he’s part of the crime, starting an investigation after the FBI has told him they already have one is pretty risky. It would increase the odds of being caught. Besides, we’ve got tons of intel and Brezdek shows up in none of it.”

  Derek eases onto South Claiborne. A truckload of questions pour into Cody’s head. How do the women Doctor Harris treated figure into a huge drug trafficking scheme involving cops and rich businessmen? The information Nick had left on the compact disc was clear about the sex club, but details on the illegal drug angle were sketchy. And what about David Carlson or this T’biah guy, where did they fit in? How did Carlson write a screenplay about things that happened in the future?

  Just as disconcerting, is the nagging sense that Derek has said something important but he has missed it. Cody had that same feeling when he was talking to T’biah, like T'biah had said something Cody needed to know and the secret, the code, had slipped past undetected. Like an answer or question is right in front of him, but what is it?

  An image of Nick Wheaton floats into Cody’s mind and he thinks hard about Nick’s death. There is something he knows about it, but Cody just can’t remember. Inexplicably, Cody tastes salt. The sensation comes from the back of his throat and overpowers his taste buds. He swallows, sticks his tongue out. No, not salt, saltwater. It’s brackish, dirty water. He leans forward and tries to spit but his mouth is dry.

  Your turn.

  Cody stiffens. He looks at Derek.

  Derek notices the expression on Cody’s face, senses some level of alarm in Cody. “What?” He says. “What’s the matter?”

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That raspy sound, like a hiss.”

  Derek shrugs, shakes his head. “No. I didn’t hear a thing.”

  Then the memory of a huge cottonmouth fills Cody’s imagination. Cody shuts his eyes and he can hear it breathing, hear it speaking, rasping. Cody shudders. “Cops didn’t kill Nick,” he says. “It was something much worse.”

  A few blocks behind, in the maroon Crown Victoria, Slater’s partner says, “They’re heading for Interstate 10.”

  “I know,” Slater says.

  “How far are you gonna let them go? If they hit the Interstate, the troopers might get first crack.”

  “I get it.” Slater pauses, thinking how badly he needs a drink. He sucks in a breath. “Tell them to make the stop between South Carrolton and Dublin. Push them into the median crossover.”

  “What do you mean cops didn’t kill Nick?” Derek says. “Who else would do it?”

  Cody shakes his head. “You’ll never believe me but take my word for it, there is more going on here than either one of us knows. So, how did Lucas get involved? How did he know about the church?”

  “No, wait a minute. You tell me what that means, who killed your partner?”

  Cody palms his forehead, rubs the heel of his hand into his eye. “Just like I know Todd is at that church, I know things but don’t exactly understand them myself. Things are kind of messed up right now, so just work with me, okay?”

  “C’mon, Cody. I have been working with you. But this one-way street bullshit is getting old. How about some reciprocation?”

  “It’s not like that,” Cody says. “I’m not withholding, I really can’t explain. I know, but don’t know how I know.”

  Derek looks straight ahead, thinking, wondering if he should say more. “Lucas’s company,” he says. “U.S. Auto, they provide the trucks. Their delivery trucks haul the shit into and out of Louisiana.” Derek pauses, waiting, not wanting to say it. “Lucas is in it, too.”

  “What?” Cody says, sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know about Lucas until tonight. I mean, I knew he worked for U.S. Auto but there was no evidence connecting him to the operation. Turns out, Lucas has a little something on the side. Listen, Cody, I hate to tell you this but, well, Lucas…” Cody tries not to listen but he can hear the words even before Derek speaks them. “…was using Todd as a courier.”

  The moment pauses, grows pregnant. Derek can feel Cody’s anger building, can almost hear it then, like the whoosh of gasoline, it ignites.

  “Motherfucker!” Cody punches the dashboard, splitting the vinyl. “That worthless piece of shit!” Another blow to the dash, this time lifting a corner of the airbag cover plate. “I’m going to kill him, Derek,” Cody says, looking at his friend, wild eyed. “I will kill him, if it’s the last fucking thing I do. Mark my words, Lucas is dead.”

  The black SUV crosses South Carrolton. Derek is about to tell Cody that he understands but Cody should check his emotions. Derek is about to say that Cody needs to think like a cop, not like a dad. Todd needs someone with a clear head, not anger, not rage. But before Derek can speak, a line of NOPD squad cars light up the street, blocking their way. Derek glances in the rearview mirror, three more cruisers pull up behind.

  “Shit,” Derek says, his foot pressing the brake pedal. “In the glove box, get the light.”

  Cody looks over his shoulder at the squad cars. In his mind, he hears T’biah’s voice, telling him that both sides are after him, telling him to trust only his closest friends. Cody glances at Derek. For an instant, Cody wonders if he’s been set up.

  “Cody? Derek says. “The light?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

  Cody pops the glove box open, removes the emergency light and jams the power cord into the accessory port. Lowering the window, Cody flips the switch and a flash of blue light momentarily blinds him then sticks the unit to the truck’s roof.

  “Why the light?” Cody says. “What’s the point?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I’m FBI, I gotta have a light.”

  Derek brakes harder, slows to a crawl. There are four squad cars in front, three in back and a unifo
rmed officer directing him toward a strip of concrete connecting the north and southbound lanes. Derek looks left. There are two additional cruisers blocking the far end of the median. There is no escape, no chance of running. He cranks the steering wheel and pulls onto the median strip, brings the truck to an abrupt stop.

  Ringed by squad cars, white light floods the interior of the Chevy Suburban, blinding both detective and federal agent.

  “You sure you don’t know why they’re after you?” Derek says.

  Cody looks at him, a blank expression on his face. “Seriously, I have no idea.”

  Squinting, shielding his eyes, Cody looks around and does the math; seven uniformed, armed policemen surround the car. Seven guns target the SUV, seven guns target him. Seven. Seven?

  The number brands itself into Cody’s mind, he can actually see the digit, he sees the number seven floating out there, hanging just in front of his eyes. Then another image appears, a black man ringed by eight others. Eight surround this one man, but only seven of them are holding guns.

  Cody blinks, looks again at the police officers encircling the Chevy. They are holding their weapons at arm’s length, shotguns, pistols, dark ovals of sweat staining their underarms, staining their collars. What he sees seems familiar, feels like a repeat, like déjà vu. But whose déjà vu is it?

  The mental image comes into focus again. Seven guns, seven white men encircle a black man. These men are sweating, just like the real-life cops pointing real-life guns at him. But Cody senses another connecting thread: in the vision the temperature is abnormally high, just like it is now. Sweat and distemper the common denominators.

  These men he sees in his mind’s eye, are there seven or eight? For some reason, the number feels important, as if it is linked to something else, something more. Wait, not something, someone.

  In his mind, in this paranormal mental picture, Cody squints, sees the black man. The feeling of familiarity gives way to another feeling, a tugging sensation, the sense of being pulled away, pulled into something.

  Then Cody discovers he is with the black man, in the same room. He can smell the odor of perspiration and stale coffee and leather and paper dust. Cody looks closely at the man. It is his captain, Russell Laroche, only much younger and not wearing his captain’s uniform. Russell is only an arm’s length away. Cody could reach out and touch him. But who is the eighth man, why doesn’t he have a gun? Is Cody the eighth man? To Cody’s right, a voice, the eighth man is laughing: Remy Malveaux. What is going on here? Did Russell know Malveaux?

  From behind, an amplified voice booms. “Exit the vehicle one at a time. Keep your hands in sight. Lay face down on the ground. Driver first.”

  Cody shudders, finds himself back in the passenger’s seat of the Suburban. What had he been doing just now? He and Derek glance at each other. Had Derek seen him do anything weird? The sense of being in that squad room had been so powerful Cody wonders if he had actually left the truck.

  “Stay in the car,” Derek says. “I’m going to ID myself.”

  Cody nods, relieved that Derek didn’t seem to notice anything unusual.

  Credentials in hand, Derek stretches his left arm through the window and calls out, “FBI, Special Agent Simmons. I’m exiting the vehicle.” With his other hand he tugs on the handle and slowly opens the door.

  “On the ground,” some cop orders.

  “Negative,” Derek calls back, shielding his eyes from the lights. Holding his ID wallet above his head, he says, “FBI. Who has command?”

  There is the sound of shotgun being racked. From Derek’s left, Slater steps between two officers, Slater’s new partner follows a pace behind.

  “FBI?” Slater says. “I knew you were a cop.” He takes Derek’s ID, holds it up to catch the light then glances at Derek. Handing the wallet to his partner Slater says, “Check this out.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me?” Slater asks.

  “You didn’t need to know.”

  “You lied to me about Briggs, why?”

  “You don’t need to know that, either. Why do you want to talk to him?”

  Slater grins crookedly. “You don’t need to know. But I am taking him off your hands.”

  “Like hell.” Cody calls from inside the truck. “Slater, I’m coming out.”

  Slater points at him. “Briggs, stay put.” Slater looks around at the other officers and says, “If he gets out of the vehicle, shoot him.”

  “Cody,” Derek says. “Just hang tight for a minute.”

  “Where are you two headed?” Slater says.

  Derek shakes his head. “Can’t tell you. Are we going to play this game all night? I’m working a case, you’re holding me back.”

  The other detective returns and hands the ID wallet to Slater. “It’s for real, he’s FBI.”

  Staring at Derek, Slater flips the wallet open then closed again.

  “Slater,” Derek says. “You make me ask for my credentials and I’ll be pissed.”

  Slater raises an eyebrow. “Hmm, a little bit ago you said we’d never met, now you know my name? How does that happen, Agent Simmons?”

  “My creds,” Derek says through gritted teeth.

  Slater waits a moment, holding Derek’s eye. Slowly he places the wallet in Derek’s outstretched hand.

  Pocketing his ID, Derek looks around, arcs of blue and red light slashing across his face. “Briggs and I are on official business,” he says. “And we need to get going, so let’s cut to the chase. What do you want?”

  “You can go.” Slater points at Cody. “He stays with me.”

  “Slater,” Cody says, pushing the door open.

  “Briggs, you get out of that car and I will have you shot.”

  Cody is already rounding the back bumper. “Up yours,” he says. Cody looks at a nearby patrolman and says, “Tuck, are you really going to shoot just because this asshole says so? I’m unarmed, for Chrissakes.”

  Slater pulls his own gun and points it at Cody’s chest. “Stop right there,” he growls.

  Now only a few steps away, Cody scowls and says, “Put that thing away, you aren’t going to pull the trigger and you know it. What’s this all about, what are you up to?”

  Slater’s partner removes a set of handcuffs from his belt pouch. Three officers step closer, forming a semi-circle around Cody.

  “Cody, don’t make this hard,” one officer says. “I’m sure it’s a mistake.”

  “What’s a mistake?”

  “Turn around,” Slater says. “Hands behind your back.”

  Cody takes another step toward Slater. “What the fu----”

  Before Cody can finish his sentence, two officers flank him, each taking an arm and grabbing his hands, folding them inward, wrists up. Burning pain shoots through his sprained shoulder. Twisting his arms behind his back, one officer slides a foot in front of Cody’s ankle and shoves him forward. In a split second, Cody is down, his face pressed against the pavement and a knee is driven into the small of his back. He feels the handcuffs snap around his wrists.

  “Cody Briggs,” Slater is saying as Cody is hoisted to his feet. “You are under arrest for the murder of Russell Laroche. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be appointed to represent you. Do you understand these rights?”

  “What are you talking about?” Cody says, staring in disbelief. Road grit clings to his cheek. Cody brushes his face against his shoulder trying to knock it away. “Russell is alive, I just saw him.”

  “Cody,” Derek cuts in sharply. “Don’t say another word until you see a lawyer. I know a good one, I’ll call him. We’ll meet you at the PD.”

  “No, forget about me. Find Todd, bring him home.”

  Derek starts to speak but sees the look in Cody’s eye, understands what is more important. He nods in affirmation and says, “Okay, I will.”

  Two officers begin pulling Co
dy away, leading him toward Slater’s unmarked car. All at once, the thing Cody has been trying to recall emerges in his thoughts, his focus becoming crystal clear.

  “Wait!” Cody shouts, straining against the men. “Derek, your man, what’s his name? Murdock?”

  Derek shoves between Slater and a uniformed officer, catching up with Cody.

  “Yeah. What about him.”

  “He was at Russell’s office today.”

  What do you mean? You saw him?”

  The rear door of the unmarked police car is opened. An officer puts his hand on Cody’s head and starts to press down, trying to guide Cody.

  “Stop,” Derek says. “Just hold on a second.”

  Slater comes up behind Derek. “Are you trying to obstruct this arrest, Agent Simmons?”

  Derek turns to look at Slater. The corner of Slater’s mouth is pulled up in an obnoxious grin. Derek inhales sharply, collects a fistful of Slater’s sport coat and pulls him close.

  “Listen carefully,” Derek hisses in Slater’s ear. “I have reams of audio on you. I know all about your dirty little habits. I know your checking account is always in the red, I know how much you like Jack Daniels and how you suck down speeders almost every morning. I know your ex-wife kept the dog just to piss you off and I know all about your prostitute girlfriend, Cleo. You say she isn’t fat when you know she is, and you grunt like a caveman when she does that special thing to get your rocks off. Want a universe of trouble? Just fuck with me.”

  Even in the mismatched illumination of flashing emergency lights and bright spotlights, Derek can see the color drain from Slater’s face.

  Letting go of Slater’s sweaty sport coat, Derek turns back to Cody and says, “When did you see Murdock?”

  “Earlier today, just before I went to the bar. I was in Russell’s office. Someone knocked, I opened the door and this guy was asking for Russell. As I was leaving, I heard him introduce himself as Murdock.”