by Brian Parker
“No, sir,” he pleaded. “I’ve never even drank alcohol except for the holy sacrament on Sundays at Mass. We are a clean, God-fearing family. I would never have anything to do with drugs of any kind, Mr. Detective.”
Shit. This was going south quick.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s calm down. I’m going to ask you a few questions here at your home instead of taking you down to the station. That will save us some time, and hopefully we’ll be finished before your children come home. Does that work?”
“Yes! Yes, sir,” Hector answered.
I glanced at his wife and then pulled my handcuff key from my pocket. Gesturing for Gonsalvez’s hands, I leaned toward him. He lifted his hands hopefully and I started to unlock them.
“Wait,” I said. “Did you get frisked?”
“Uh? I don’t remember.”
“Stand up, I’m going to pat you down and make sure you don’t have anything that can hurt you or me.”
I went through the motions of making sure he didn’t have any concealed weapons or anything that could be used as a weapon. When I was satisfied that he was clean, I took off the cuffs, but left the leg shackles in place; just in case.
“Better?” I asked. Hector nodded his head. “What is your association with Carlos Ortega?”
“He is a community activist,” Gonsalvez replied. “He organizes events—like the human rights rally we held last week.”
“Don’t try to sugar coat it,” I interrupted. “It was an anti-robot rally.”
“Some of the protestors may have had that agenda, but not all of us. It started out as a protest against our elected officials to improve working conditions. Increasingly, robots are being utilized in the workplace, and as a result of their precision programming, other things like safety are being neglected. A robot isn’t going to accidentally get a scrap of clothing caught in a machine press, so they’ve gotten bigger, much harder to handle for the humans still working them. And there has been a rise in deaths among factory workers as a result.”
“I haven’t heard of a growing number of factory worker fatalities.”
“You probably haven’t. Things like that get covered up in the name of profit. There used to be a federal organization called the Occupational Safety and Health Administration—OSHA for short. That organization no longer exists, so it’s up to the states and local authorities to ensure the safety of our workers. New Orleans doesn’t give a hoot about us.”
I didn’t really have a comment on his statement, so I simply nodded my head about the defunct organization. “So you were there protesting for workers’ rights and safety,” I said. “There were also teachers and prostitutes, bus and taxi drivers. Where they there protesting for rights or against the robots that are taking their jobs?”
“Eh, you may be right, sir. For me, and the fellows I recruited to come to the rally, it was about our rights. I can see how the others you mentioned would have legitimate concerns with simply losing their jobs to robots, not the dangers of working alongside them.”
His statement hit home. I’d seen firsthand, on several occasions, the dangers of the police drones. Once they landed and their targeting protocols kicked in, they were more dangerous than the criminals they were brought in to stop. The city seemed to be perfectly fine with the collateral damage as long as they could point to their robot defenders and the reduced crime rates that were associated with them.
“Did you ever associate with Carlos Ortega outside of planning these events?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he ever ask you to work with him on any special projects or events that were illegal?”
“No, sir. We got permits to protest before every rally we ever held. We’ve had five or six of them; only that last one turned ugly.”
“I was there,” I stated. “I saw you near Ortega. When the drones blocked the march’s access, he said something to you and another man named Farouk Karimov. Did Ortega order you to tell the protestors to become violent?”
“No, sir,” Gonsalvez replied. “He told us to help him spread the word that the police wouldn’t shut down our legal protest. I was shouting to the people around me to keep moving along the route, and not to be deterred by the droids’ presence. Getting media coverage of our plight is the first step to make the politicians discuss the topic.”
I knew all too well that line of thinking. I’d followed the same logic when I had the clone, Sadie, do an interview after I’d rescued her. Getting the public talking about clone rights was the only way to make the political establishment weigh in. Otherwise, they would have been content to let the matter continue without any intervention.
“I did not call for anyone to throw rocks or break windows,” Gonsalvez finished.
“Okay. What about Karimov? Did you hear him inciting anyone to riot?”
He thought for a moment and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t recall hearing him give any orders to go crazy like some of that crowd did. I think getting trapped on that street like rats in a maze set some of them off and then it escalated from there.”
“So you think it’s the police department’s fault that the protest turned into a riot?”
“I don’t want to offend you, sir, but yes, to answer your question directly. We were cut off by a line of policemen wearing armor with shields and shock batons. Then the side streets and the back was blocked off by those big, creepy police droids. There was a very real fear of dying in that moment.”
“Hmm… I hadn’t seen it that way before,” I said. Inside my head, I added another tick mark in the column of evidence against me in the Internal Affairs case. According to Gonsalvez, I was the one who should be up on charges since I’d ordered the drones to block off Ortega’s potential escape.
“It was scary,” Hector continued. “I don’t condone their actions, but I can see why people began rioting and trying to fight back. Then, when Carlos was snatched from the crowd, panic set in for a few moments. The fact that those droids can swoop in and take anyone they choose is terrifying.” He paused, picking at his fingernails, telling me he was nervous and wanted to add more, so I remained silent, letting him process it in his mind.
“No one has heard anything from Carlos since that day. The police are holding him in isolation somewhere. Please, don’t take me from my family, sir.”
“I don’t think we’re going to have to do that, Mr. Gonsalvez,” I replied truthfully. He didn’t know anything and I doubted the search was going to yield any results. “I’m sorry to inform you that Carlos Ortega is dead. He died of a heart attack on the way to the precinct.”
“Dios mio!” he muttered. “You killed him.”
“No,” I said forcefully. “He died of a heart attack. We did not kill him. He had a pre-existing heart condition and died while in transport.”
Hell, maybe in the purest sense of the word, we did kill him. The drone carrying him didn’t know that he was experiencing a medical emergency, so those seven or eight minutes he was in the air could have made the difference if it’d been equipped with different types of sensors. It could have diverted to a hospital or even a fire station for emergency care.
Sergeant Drake appeared in my line of sight and motioned me over. “Excuse me for a moment, please.”
I walked up to him, positioning myself so I could watch the homeowners as he spoke. All we needed was for one of them to pull a weapon from somewhere and get the drop on us.
“The house is mostly clean,” Drake rumbled as he held up a small baggie holding a quarter-sized square of a black, putty-like substance and another bag with a syringe, rubber tubing, a blackened spoon and a flamer torch. “We did find this in one of the children’s rooms. Looks to be a boy by the posters on the wall.”
“Heroin?”
“Probably,” Drake confirmed. “Not the worst of the shit out there, by far, but it’ll do a number on you.” He hefted the bag, “This is about two ounces, maybe a little more or less.”
I mo
tioned him into the living room and pointed at the baggie of drugs and the bag of supplies. “Mr. and Mrs. Gonsalvez, did you know that one of your children was using heroin?”
The woman gasped, throwing her hand to her chest as she flung herself backward. Her husband shook his head slowly. “No, sir. We didn’t. Which room was that found in?”
“The one with the grey walls and the giant vid screen connected to the VR equipment,” Drake replied.
“Marco. That lying little—please forgive me, Mr. Detective. I did not know that he did such things; especially not under my roof.”
“There’s enough here to put him away for three months, no questions asked, no concern for his age,” I said. “I’m going to have to hand this evidence over to the Narcotics Division. I’m sorry.”
The woman wailed uncontrollably while Mr. Gonsalvez nodded grimly. “It doesn’t matter that he is only thirteen?”
“No, sir. The state has a zero-tolerance for any controlled substance. It takes away the emotions of the arresting officers since they have no say in the matter. Heroin, while certainly not as deadly or as some of the other shit—excuse me—while not as deadly as other substances on the street, is still illegal. I’m not a narcotics expert, but I can tell you that we’ve put eleven-year-old kids in prison for dealing. That’s a life-changing event for such a young person.”
“The youngest person incarcerated for drug use was Allan Grant, aged ten,” Andi’s voice stated in my ear.
I ignored her and said, “I’m sorry. Legally, there is no recourse, someone from this house will go to jail today. Once a Narcotics detective arrives and tests the evidence for fingerprints and DNA, they’ll be able to tell us who the user is and that person will be gone by nightfall. It is what it is.”
Mr. Gonsalvez nodded his chin grimly. “I understand.” He reached across to grab his wife’s hand and she jerked away from him.
“It’s mine,” she stated in Spanish.
“What?”
“I am the user.” She kicked off a shoe and spread her toes. Little scabbed dots of blood showed where she shot up. “I hide my supplies in Marco’s room because I know he never cleans, only plays that stupid video game.”
“Sarah…” Mr. Gonsalvez muttered.
“Don’t you ‘Sarah’ me. You don’t understand how hard life is here. You go to work, each day I don’t know if you’ll be coming home. Now you are involved in protests against the government and the police attack you. It’s only a matter of time before you are dead too. Political dissenters don’t last long in America. We should have moved to Argentina with my family; I hate it here.”
Her worldview was a little skewed, but I didn’t interject myself into the conversation between husband and wife. When their discussion began to wind down, I placed handcuffs on Sarah Gonsalvez and read her rights to her. She refused to look at me or speak further once the cuffs were on, so I tried to finish up with her husband while we waited for a Narcotics dick to arrive.
Talk about a turn of events. I hadn’t seen that one coming.
“I think we’re just about done here, Mr. Gonsalvez. Last question. Do you know Farouk Karimov?”
“He is at planning meetings for events, but I have never interacted with him socially outside of those. The man is a jerk. His job at the Dockyards has made him hard, so he does not interact well with people he deems less-hard… I’m sorry, I can’t think of the term.”
“Weaker than him?” I offered.
“Yes, something like that.” He glanced at his wife and then back at me. “This jail term is immediate?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. If her DNA is found on those supplies, they’ll take her today. A judge will pass sentence in a few days based on mandatory sentencing requirements for possession based on weight of the product. The Narcotics detective will be able to give you a better estimate on timelines.”
He nodded quietly.
“So you’re sure you’ve never interacted with Karimov outside of planning rallies and protests?”
“I am positive. He is an abrasive man who curses with every breath. I do not like to be around people like that. If I can avoid them, I will.”
I felt like he was telling the truth. Hector Gonsalvez was out there trying to stick up for the little man against the government; he wasn’t the fish I was after. Unfortunately, his wife happened to get caught in the net.
Enough fishing metaphors, I groaned internally as Andi updated me on the arrival time of the Narc cops. Aloud, I said, “Thank you, Mr. Gonsalvez. The Narcotics officer should be here in about ten minutes to discuss what’s going to happen today. I don’t have any more questions for you.”
I knelt at his feet and unshackled him. He was free to go. “Mrs. Gonsalvez, I’m sorry that you were found out through the course of this investigation.” Her husband translated for me.
She tossed several curse words my way, causing Hector to throw his hands to his mouth and recoil in shock. Apparently, drug use wasn’t the only thing his wife was keeping secret from him.
“Alright, Drake,” I said as we walked out the front door of the Gonsalvez home. “Let’s schlepp across town and check in on the Karimov search.”
“No need,” he replied.
“Why’s that?”
“The man lives in a studio apartment. Our guys notified me that the search took less than an hour. The most condemning thing they found was a laundry basket full of dirty clothes. Otherwise, the place was spotless,” Drake said. “The ranking officer on scene released Karimov when it became apparent that they weren’t going to find anything.”
“What the fuck?” I said, slamming my open palm onto the roof of the Jeep. “Corrigan implicated Karimov as the guy behind the synthaine problem. What’s he doing living in a studio apartment?”
“Either Corrigan was lying to you or Karimov is smart enough not to shit where he sleeps.”
“You’re probably right on that account,” I conceded. “This synthaine shit has given Narc fits, so the guy’s obviously pretty damn smart. Guy like that wouldn’t manufacture it in his home or have any type of paraphilia that might incriminate him.”
I thought back to Corrigan’s statement. I believed that he was telling the truth. Karimov was the person who was behind the synthaine—and if it wasn’t him, he was at least close enough to the source to get the answer.
“Goddamn it,” I muttered. We were at another dead end. “Since we aren’t rushing back over to Easytown, are you ready to eat now instead of later?”
“I’m always ready to eat, Detective.”
I punched in the Pharaoh’s address into the Jeep’s nav system and we both sat back in silence. We’d run into yet another brick wall in this investigation. I needed to talk to Karimov and my opportunity to do so had been fucked up by some cop who wanted to get off scene as quickly as possible.
Fucking beat cops.
“There’s not another seat available?” I asked Karina, the hostess.
“No, I’m sorry, Zach,” she replied. “We’re really busy right now. That’s the only table.”
“Okay, fine. Thank you.”
As we walked toward the table Karina had indicated, I looked over my shoulder at my big partner. “I hate this guy,” I said.
“I know. He’s a mouthy jerk who tries to get under people’s skin.” I felt a large hand descend on my shoulder. “I don’t know why you two don’t get along better. You’ve got a lot of the same personality traits.”
I gave him the bird and sat in the seat right next to Liam Tidewell and his partner, Jake. I did my best to look the other way, but no matter how much I tried to blend in, Drake’s size made him stick out like a sore thumb.
“Detective Forrest!” Jake Hannity exclaimed. “How’ve you been?”
“Good, kid,” I lied. There wasn’t any sense in ruining the young cop’s day with my drama.
“Not what I heard,” Tidewell muttered.
“What’s that?” I asked. Hell, IA was already going to throw the
book at me, might as well add fighting with another officer in public to the list.
Tidewell shifted in his seat, turning to face me and spreading his legs wide in the booth. “Word is you’re up on assault charges.”
“What’s new?”
“This one’s getting some traction already. Seems you pistol-whipped a defenseless guy laying on the ground after you’d already shattered his knee. All of the ligaments that connect the muscles in the lower leg to the upper leg were destroyed and you still felt the need to beat him unconscious.”
“The perp stabbed me.”
“And surrendered after you drew down on him, but you still beat him up. Bashing his buddy’s head into a medical examiner’s droid wasn’t enough for you, Forrest? What’s the matter, there wasn’t enough blood for your high-profile record, so you had to go for a bigger bang?”
“Liam,” Jake cut in.
“Can it, Jake. This is between me and Detective Forrest.”
“What’s your deal with me, Tidewell? Did I fuck your mother or steal your girlfriend in high school?”
“I just don’t like you,” he admitted. “You’re a reckless cop that is gonna get others killed.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” I said.
“You make young cops, like Jake here, think that every day is about big explosions and gunfights and saving the world. Vidflash, hotshot, it’s not. Good cops do their jobs and then go home to their families at night. The ones who try to emulate you go home in a body bag.”
“I’ve never asked for anyone to try and be like me. Truth be told, it’s a pretty miserable existence.”
“Well they do,” Tidewell shot back. “I can’t get Hannity to shut up about your damn cases and how many times you’ve been in a gunfight with no repercussions from the department. If it were him or me, we’d be on administrative leave the moment we fired a shot. You? You get nationwide TV interviews.”
He had a point. I didn’t seek the media coverage, but they sure as hell wanted to follow me around on investigations. Saving the Pope’s life had been an accident. I was trying to stop a killer who preyed on Easytown; the rest just fell into my lap.
