Behind the Badge (10 page)

CHAPTER 24

“Hey, Hi,” Ramon called out as he came out of the break room, a fresh mug of steaming coffee in his grasp, “any word from Tech yet on that mystery call?”

“Nothing yet,” Hitori Watson answered, his voice muffled by the pencil clutched between his teeth as his fingers danced over his keyboard. Inter-departmental emails were his preferred method of communication -- phone calls were not Watson's forte. In what felt like a stroke of irony, Tech was notoriously slow at responding to emails. Watson's lack of patience was in direct conflict with the other department's slow-but-steady approach, and he was in the process of typing his third email inquiry of the day -- and he still had an hour before lunch.

“You know what would be funny?” Ramon asked before cringing. “I mean, not
funny
, necessarily, but...”

Watson looked up from his monitor. “Ramon.”

“What if that voice was Detective Paulson?”

Watson removed the pencil from his mouth, placing it in a mug next to the framed photograph he kept of his parents from a trip they had taken back to their native Japan before he was born. His father had died a month ago, and after finding the picture while going through his things, Watson was determined to keep the reminder of where he came from close. “You don't really believe that, do you?”

“No.” Ramon took his first sip. “But the guy's a Grade A prick, and his badge is going to waste.”

“Could say that about a lot of the cops in this city.”

The elevator
dinged
, and Ramon turned in time to see Officer Sorenson emerge from the car with Mitch in tow. The blond and purple dreads clashed with her maroon hoodie and khaki-colored cargo pants. Mitch favored large, loose-fitting clothes, and she struck Ramon as the sort of person who liked covering up from head to toe even if the weather was warm.

“Mitch,” he called out in surprise. “Is everything alright?”

“She insisted I bring her here to see you,” Sorenson explained. “Never seen someone so eager to talk to a cop when they weren't in any danger.”

“Thanks, Greg.” Ramon tilted his head to the side and started back toward the break room. “C'mon. I'll get ya something to drink.”

◊◊◊

“Got any hot chocolate?” Mitch asked as soon as Ramon shut the door to the break room.

“Um... not sure.” Ramon frowned and opened the faded blue cabinet above the coffee pot, his eyes scanning the almost-bare shelves. “Most of us around here are coffee addicts. I know I can't live without the stuff... even if it tastes like warmed-over piss half the time.”

A small grin tugged on Mitch’s lips as she hoisted herself onto one of the stools surrounding a circular break table. “Not even gonna ask how you know that.”

Setting his mug on the table next to Mitch, Ramon crossed over to the vending machine. Ramming his shoulder into the side of the machine, Ramon caused it to briefly lift off the ground before he heard the telltale
thunk
of a soda can dropping into the reservoir in the bottom. He grabbed the ice-cold can and slid it across the table Mitch's way before taking the stool opposite of her.

“So what's up?” Ramon asked before taking a sip. If nothing else, the coffee was at a more manageable temperature now. “How you holdin' up?”

“Is it true?” Mitch asked as she popped the can open. “About that Devin kid?”

Cradling his hands over the mug, Ramon soaked up some of the warmth. Not that he was cold; he just liked how it felt. “I'm afraid I can't say much, but... yeah. Yeah, it's true. Did you know Devin?”

Mitch shook her head. “I'm just tired of y'all killin' us.”

“I am, too.” Ramon glanced over his shoulder, peeking through the blinds out to the bullpen. Detective Watson was furiously typing away again, and Stevens had just returned from wherever he had been. If Ramon had to guess, he had been to the morgue. “But you know what? My partner's running point on this case, and there's no one you'd rather have working it.”

Mitch frowned, not in sadness, but in deep thought. “The white girl?”

Ramon chuckled to himself with a nod. “The white girl. Who also happens to be as stubborn and tenacious as any cop I've ever met. Believe me, if I ever get murdered, Andersen's the one I want on my case.”

Mitch tossed her head back with her swig, and it looked as if she was downing half the can in one gulp. Her dreads flopped in front of her face when Mitch set the can back down, twirling it around in her fingers. She stared at the can in silence for what felt like minutes, and Ramon opened his mouth to speak before she looked up again.

“Whoever killed Grampy's gonna get away with it.”

“You don't know that.” Even as Ramon said it, he knew how hollow it sounded.

“Paulson's not gonna do shit,” Mitch said as her lips curled in disgust. “Too busy pickin' his nose and whinin' about how no one'll talk to him.”

“Paulson's a prick,” Ramon said.

“You know why Mama started sellin' drugs?” When Ramon shook his head, Mitch downed the rest of her soda. “She used to work for the electric company. Real good job. Year after Daddy died in the war, Mama lost her job. Military pension wasn't enough to pay rent, and she couldn't find work again. No one wanted a single black mother to work for them, I guess. I know sellin' drugs is illegal an' all that, but... we didn't go hungry. I could afford clothes and supplies for school. We kept the lights on.”

“Did you move in with your grandfather after that?”

Mitch nodded. “Grampy was the one who helped me come to grips with who I am. It's hard, realizin' you're not really who society thinks you are. Makes you feel broken. Grampy always made sure I knew I wasn't.”

“Your grandfather sounded like a hell of a guy.”

“Grampy was the best,” Mitch said with tears in her eyes. “I hope Hell's real, so whoever killed 'im will rot there forever.”

“Where are you staying these days?” Ramon asked.

Mitch gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Just been hangin' around the church.”

“My fiancé has an extra bedroom at his place,” Ramon offered. “We’ve talked about it, and you're more than welcome to join us for dinner tonight, and if you'd like, that room could be yours for as long as you need it.”

Mitch's eyes widened. “Oh, no... I don't wanna be a bother.”

“Nonsense.” Ramon waved that off. “Look... just have dinner with me and Jorge tonight. Imagine it's been a while since you've had a hot meal that didn't come out of a paper bag.”

“Yeah.” Mitch pushed the empty can aside before pushing herself off of the stool. “Yeah, alright.”

“Perfect.” Ramon opened the door leading back out to the bullpen again. “Let me wrap up this thing I'm working on, and we'll be outta here.”

CHAPTER 25

Ramona Parish was used to seeing a swarm of cameras and a cluster of microphones in front of her. It came with the territory of being Baltimore's District Attorney; every so often, a case came along that caused such a public outcry, drew so much attention not just throughout the state of Maryland but nationwide, that she had to get out in front of it and speak publicly. It was her least favorite part of the job, but Ramona understood that it needed to be done -- especially given the sensitive nature of this particular case.

Far too often, Ramona had stood on the steps of City Hall and told the assembled media that her office was investigating police officers for misconduct -- if not outright criminal activity -- and given her relatively barren track record in that regard, she understood the message was beginning to ring hollow. Because no matter how many times Ramona pledged justice, she kept coming away empty-handed.

It was never through any fault of her own, but that never mattered. Not to the press, not to the voters, not to anyone. Because ultimately, the buck stopped with her. She understood that when she sought this position, and she accepted any heat that came her way.

“I understand everyone's frustration,” she began amid the click of camera shutters, trying not to grip the lectern too tightly. A group of protestors hung around behind the cameras, holding up handmade signs begging for justice and admonishing City Hall.

“I understand that emotions are running high, and rightly so. We have been down this road too many times before, and I understand if you think you know how this story is going to end. But mark my words: those responsible for the senseless death of Devin Buckner, a
child
, will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, and I do not give one single
damn
if they have badges or not.”

The reporters on hand started shouting over one another, so desperate to have their questions answered -- to get their precious soundbites -- that all the words canceled each other out and Ramona couldn't pick one out over the others. The wolves were salivating; they cared less about justice and more about finding some way to sensationalize this case for ratings and readers. For them, the fact that four cops killed a 17-year-old boy wasn't cause for outrage, it was just more fodder to feed the monster that was the constant news cycle. The national outlets were the worst, but the local stations weren't doing themselves any favors, either.

“At this time, my office has no further comment,” Ramona added once the scrum had quieted down. “And... we don't normally do this, but given the extraordinary nature of this case, I felt it in everyone's best interest to give you an update on the investigation, not from myself or through a spokesperson, but from the lead investigator herself. So with that said, Detective Jill Andersen.”

If the media scrum was foaming at the mouth when the DA was speaking, the frenzy intensified almost tenfold once Jill approached the podium. She hated the notoriety she had within the city, for no other reason than because of who her father was -- or rather, what her father had become. They didn't care that she was one of the lead detectives downtown; the media cared far more about the fact that her father had been a serial killer. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, ignoring a question someone in the back had shouted about her emotional state in the months following Paul's execution.

That was not what she was here for.

“Here's what we know so far,” Jill announced without the benefit of notes. “Three days ago, 17-year-old Devin Buckner was picked up by an unmarked white van on the corner of Monument and Calvert. Thus began what you all know as a 'Rough Ride,' starting south on Calvert before turning left onto Orleans. From there, the killers merged onto I-83, weaving dangerously through traffic before darting off the highway at the Fallsway exit. A left onto Chase, followed by a left onto St. Paul and a right on Read. This whole time, our victim was in the back of the van, with no restraints or anything to keep him from being flung around. The extent of our victim's injuries alone would revile and disgust you.

“The van darted onto Charles before taking a hard left onto Eager and another sharp left onto Cathedral. We have surveillance footage that shows the van cutting a violent right from Madison onto Tyson before the van screeched to a halt, our killers pulled the victim out of the back, tossed him onto the sidewalk, and put a bullet in his brain.”

The murmurs of shock and disgust rippled through the throng on the steps of City Hall. Jill didn't wait for them to die down.

“Prior to his death, Devin suffered a broken nose, a fractured clavicle, and a dislocated shoulder. He suffered massive internal bleeding in his ribcage and re-injured his left knee -- the same knee where he tore his ACL playing high school basketball a year and a half ago.

“Make no mistake. This was a targeted, malicious effort on the part of our killers. They sought out Devin and we believe they had every intention of killing our victim in as violent and humiliating a fashion as possible.”

“What makes you think the cops are behind this?” one of the voices called out.

“The van in question is a tactical vehicle that the department had taken out of rotation almost a year ago,” Jill explained, “because the repairs needed were far more expensive than what the BPD was willing to pay. We have reason to believe those repairs were a direct result of that van repeatedly being used for these 'rough rides.' GPS data in the van allowed us to track the route the van took the morning our victim was killed.”

The reporter piped up again. “How did you come in possession of the van?”

“Authorities discovered the van last night after interrupting another 'rough ride,' this one involving Colonel Jeff Downs. Downs is currently in the hospital due to his injuries, and he is under round-the-clock police protection.”

“Why would they attack the colonel?” one of the reporters Jill couldn't see shouted.

“Downs was assisting with the investigation,” Jill explained. “It was his tip that led us to the van in the first place. We believe he was targeted for talking.”

Flash bulbs nearly blinded Jill as she gripped the lectern, silently wishing the questions would stop. She knew they wouldn't, but it was still a nice thought.

“Do you think the cops in this case were responsible for the other deaths?”

“We don't have anything concrete to suggest that.” Jill studied the faces staring back up at her, holding out digital voice recorders and smartphones. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the lectern. “As of this morning, we have Officers Nolan Carter, Kayla Stevenson, Scott Harper, and Freddie McPhee in custody and awaiting further questioning.”

If the reporters' reactions were any indication, the naming of the suspects was a surprise. Jill understood standard procedure was to withhold those names until charges were filed, but she felt she was justified in this instance. Honestly, she didn't just want the four officers brought to justice; they wanted them humiliated and shamed in the process. As far as she was concerned, they were murderers -- and Carter was more than likely a corrupt money-grabber -- and she wanted that known. She chose for the moment to keep the bit about Carter being on the take out of the news, but if Officer Carter's attitude toward this investigation didn't change, she still had that card to play.

“When will you be pressing charges?”

“We don't have a timetable for that,” Jill answered, even though paperwork had already begun on the money laundering charges. Even if he managed to slide on the murder of Devin Buckner, those pictures of Carter with Gregor would ensure the end of Officer Carter's career. Jill selfishly hoped they would spell the end for Gregor as well, but she doubted it.

“This is a complicated case, and we have to make sure every piece of evidence we obtain is properly handled and arranged so that when the charges do come down, we have as solid a case as possible.”

“Are the officers cooperating?”

“They are not.” Jill scowled at the throng before her.

The writer from the
Sun
who had given Jill's vigilante persona its name, Stanley Erikson, spoke up. “Is this personal for you?”

“Every case is personal to me,” she deflected. “This is my city. Every time someone is killed in my city, it's personal. The fact that badges are behind this one makes it worse, yes, but all that does is make me more determined to bring these killers to justice.”

Jill caught her brother out of the corner of her eye, and he nodded with a sideways grin. Brian had been in her corner from the beginning, sharing her desire to overcome any hurdle to make sure Devin Buckner's killers were put away. Police corruption was a citywide issue -- hell, probably even a nationwide issue -- but for Jill and Brian, it was decidedly more personal.

“One more thing,” she added. “This will not be a repeat of the Mendoza case. I'll make sure of that.”