Behind the Mask

by J. D. Cunegan

  Saunders waited until Richards was seated before clearing his throat and adjusting the thin black microphone in front of him. "Where's the vigilante?"

  And there it was. This was the meeting Richards had expected for the past few weeks. Why did it take so long for the BPD to take him to task over this? Were they too busy trying to ensure there wasn't any egg on their own faces before turning to the all-too-predictable witch hunt? The captain fought the urge to sigh and roll his eyes, instead crossing one leg over the other and running his fingers over his thick black mustache.

  "I don't know."

  It was actually the truth; despite Richards' best efforts, he’d had no contact since Jill had turned in her badge. He had watched her televised confession with the same slack-jawed surprise that he figured many in the city had, and all of his attempts at communication in the days and weeks since had been for naught. Wherever Jill was, she was in no position to contact anyone who was in her corner—or maybe she had no way of knowing who was in her corner anymore, so she was better off cutting off contact with everyone.

  Baldwin squinted. "I don't believe you."

  "Well, that's tough shit." Richards was still upset at Baldwin for the way she had acted during the Buckner case, popping up at the Seventh Precinct and roundabout threatening one of his detectives for trying to do her job. Jill had been in line to take the Sergeant's exam, but Baldwin had made it clear that Jill would lose that shot if she kept poking around the four cops who killed Devin Buckner. It reminded Richards of his earlier days on the force, and it was something he had let himself believe no longer happened. Clearly, he had been naive. "I haven't talked to Jill since she turned in her badge."

  Downs, who at one point had been the most sympathetic of the five at the table, shook his head. "How long have you known Detective Andersen was actually Bounty?"

  Richards opened his mouth, a lie on the tip of his tongue. It was instinct; what was the surest way to protect Jill? How could he make sure she was okay, even if he had no way of getting in touch with her? Lying was certainly an option, but so was telling the truth. And if Richards was being honest with himself, he wasn't sure if he cared enough to hide the truth. They were likely going to try forcing him out regardless of the answer, because it was now abundantly clear where the department's priorities were.

  "Do you honestly expect me to help you in this witch hunt?" the captain asked instead.

  Downs shook his head. "Detective Andersen has been breaking the law."

  "And so did the four cops who killed that boy!" Richards sat up straighter and grabbed the arms of the chair. "Yet I remember some in this room standing in my detectives' way when they were trying to do their jobs!"

  The bespectacled man on the far right cleared his throat. "No one was telling them how to do their jo—"

  "Bullshit!" Richards sprung from his chair and jabbed his finger at Baldwin. "She came to my precinct and explicitly told my detective that her shot at a promotion was on the line if she didn't stop pursuing our suspects!"

  "Your suspects were Baltimore police officers," Baldwin argued. "They were entitled to decency and respect."

  "Decency and respect," Richards repeated with a shake of his head. "For the four fuckers who tortured a kid, but not for the woman who devoted almost four years to this force, and then tried to go beyond even that to make this city better."

  "Captain," the commissioner interjected, "sit down."

  Richards did not sit; instead, he began pacing back and forth in front of the table, glaring at each of the five administrators who were clearly pursuing an agenda. He had half a mind to toss his gun and badge at them and be done with it, but that was probably what they wanted. And Daniel Richards was damned if he would give these people the satisfaction of running him out.

  "The truth is," Saunders continued, "we've been concerned about your precinct for a while now, Captain."

  Richards frowned, his hands balling into fists. "My precinct has the highest case closure rate in the city."

  "Your precinct also has a record of suspects being attacked in interrogation," Downs rattled off, reading from an open manila folder in front of him. "Suspects in Holding either escaping or dying, detectives running off without alerting their partners, your own absence several months back when one of your detectives was injured on duty... what, exactly, is going on at the Seventh, Daniel?"

  Richards clenched his jaw. "We're doing our jobs."

  "And aiding and abetting a vigilante," Saunders added.

  "You wanna fire me? Fire me." Richards approached the table, flattening his palms on the surface and getting in the commissioner's face. Saunders had a close-cropped cut, his features chiseled and screaming every bit the military career he had before transitioning to law enforcement. "But you will not run me out, you will not touch my people, and you damn sure will not be bringing Jill in while I'm around."

  "No one here's looking for a firing," Saunders said, his right eye twitching. "We just want to know where the vigilante is."

  "Well, you won't be getting that from me." Richards stood upright again. "And no one from my unit will be helping, either. Now, if we're done here, I've got a precinct to run."

  Turning on the balls of his feet, the captain stormed out of the conference room before anyone at the table could respond. He let the heavy doors slam shut behind him, and as he marched toward the staircase, Richards pulled a gray flip phone from his back pocket. It hadn't worked yet in the weeks following Jill's resignation, but after this meeting, he had to at least send her a warning. Even if she didn't get it, or ignored it, Richards couldn't let this slide without at least sending up the flare.

  Bishop asking about you - be careful

  Pocketing the phone and descending the staircase, Richards sucked in a deep breath. He had survived the first blow, but something told him the fight was just starting.

  CHAPTER 3

  AS MUCH AS JILL WISHED she could completely devote herself to hiding from the police and being on the run, the fact was her sense of duty stuck with her even after she had turned in her badge. As a result, she was still prowling the city as Bounty whenever she felt comfortable in evading any prying eyes. She understood the risk she was taking every time she devoted any time to her vigilante endeavors—though truth be told, there wasn't much else for her to do these days. Being Bounty wasn't going to pay the bills—unless Jill wanted to really push into the proverbial gray area—but it was something she still felt obligated to do.

  Partly because she couldn't ignore Erikson's tip. Partly because she still wanted to bring down David Gregor once and for all. The chess match he had played with her in the aftermath of Devin Buckner's murder had been for a specific purpose, which was what had led to Jill to turn in her badge and admit her truth to the city in the first place.

  But even with the billionaire out of the country, she knew his less savory exploits were likely continuing—possibly even increasing in activity since he had a rock-solid alibi in the unlikely event the authorities came calling. As it often did when Gregor came up, Jill thought back to the FBI agent she had met months ago, the one who had cornered her in a hospital elevator and offered his assistance in bringing Gregor to justice.

  But if the FBI was that capable, why not handle it themselves? Why did they need a Baltimore homicide cop's help?

  Check that: former homicide cop.

  Unless Agent McDermott knew Jill's secret. Which was entirely possible, and yet the FBI had not yet come calling for her. The Baltimore Police Department would have been well within its rights to seek federal assistance with its manhunt, and the fact that Uncle Sam's alphabet soup of agencies weren’t yet on Jill's tail was both a relief and a source of confusion. The media made it seem like Jill had done nothing but evade law enforcement in the weeks since her revelation, but the fact was, her encounters with the police were few and far between.

  How much longer would that last?

  Instead of worrying, she chose to devote her energies to
determining what scheme Gregor was plotting this time. Given the area in which Jill was camped out—near the Seagirt Marine Terminal in the Port of Baltimore just south of the Inner Harbor, where Narcotics often caught deals about to go down—Erikson's theory was that the cocaine ring feeding into the northwest portion of the city was kicking back up again. Of all the cops on Gregor's payroll, most of them came from Narcotics. They were among Baltimore's most overworked and underpaid officers, leaving them particularly susceptible to Gregor's prodding; the fact that they oversaw the one area of law enforcement the mogul hoped to circumvent was an added bonus.

  Gregor's greatest coup might have been a homicide cop, but he had more than enough narcs in his back pocket to pad his bottom line.

  As Jill's intel had suggested, a hefty man wearing a black sweater, black jeans, and a black toboggan emerged from behind a line of multi-colored storage crates when the clock struck midnight. The man, who Jill had never seen before, glanced over his shoulder before checking his watch. Whoever this was, he was clearly new at this. He moved far too much for someone used to clandestine meetings. His fingers twitched, his eyes kept dancing back and forth. He wore a scraggly red beard that he scratched as he paced back and forth, clearly muttering something even though Jill was too far away to hear it.

  The crackle of the two-way on the man's right shoulder made him jump. He rolled his eyes, seemingly annoyed with himself, before grabbing the device and barking something in a language Jill didn't understand. It was likely a Slavic tongue, if Gregor's past associations were any hint, but that was all Jill could deduce from it. The man stopped in his tracks, folded his arms over his chest, and stared straight ahead. His eyes were focused in Jill's direction, but the dead of night, and the crate she used as cover, kept Jill from being spotted.

  Sirens whined to life several blocks away. The sound only seemed to fuel the man's impatience; he checked his watch again and shook his head. One more glance over his shoulder, and the man unfolded his arms to take a step—which was when a flash of black streaked across the night. As quickly as the streak appeared, it vanished... leaving behind a spray of red as the man in the toboggan clutched at his throat with both hands.

  His eyes were wide as he tumbled to the ground, rolling onto his back before his right arm fell to his side. The last of his blood spilled onto the railroad tracks. Before long, his final gargled breaths gave way to silence.

  Covering her mouth over the shock of it all, Jill studied her surroundings again. Nothing else caught her attention in the dead of night. With a tap of her left temple, Jill activated the infrared sight in her left eye, connected to the supercomputer embedded in her brain. The left side of Jill's face was covered in titanium, the silver plate the only outer hint of what happened to her all those years ago when she volunteered to be Project Fusion's first American test subject.

  What was then considered a huge step in human cybernetics, Project Fusion had provided Jill with an indestructible titanium skeleton, enhanced strength, speed, and constitution, as well as her infrared sight. Those enhancements, courtesy of the late Dr. Trent Roberts, helped lead to Jill's decision to become a costumed vigilante. They had even helped solve the occasional murder, though her former partner would teasingly accuse her of cheating on the rare occasion he caught her in the act.

  But right now, they told Jill nothing. The infrared vision didn't reveal anything Jill didn't already know.

  Lowering into an even deeper crouch, Jill clicked off the infrared sight and bit her lower lip. A man who had fit the description of Gregor's latest BPD-sanctioned drug mule had just been murdered in cold blood... and Jill never once caught a glimpse of who or what did the deed. A gnawing certainty churned in the pit of her stomach, but Jill pushed that thought aside. She didn't care to consider that possibility at the moment, even if doing so was likely prudent. Instead, she did what came naturally to her:

  She focused on the victim.

  Emerging from her hiding spot, Jill fished for the flip phone tucked away in her left boot. She was kneeling by the body before she really understood what she was doing. She might not have been a cop anymore, but certain habits were so engrained in Jill that she did them without thinking. A quick glance at her surroundings told Jill the assailant had left, and she was alone with the body. Reaching out with her free hand, Jill stopped herself. Gloves or no, the last thing she needed to do was touch the body before the police got to it.

  Glancing at the device's meager contact list—there were only three numbers stored—Jill stared at the first contact. Time was, she would call or text that number without any hesitation, eager to talk to the recipient whether it was about business or anything else. But her recent choices had left a strain between Jill and Ramon. She couldn't tell if Ramon was furious with her, but she knew something had been off the last time they had contact. Ramon was too kind a soul to actually have an outburst or a tantrum, but there was something in the way he had carried himself around her, something in his voice, that had given her pause.

  So for as much as Jill wanted to call Ramon to report this murder, she decided a text message was likely better.

  Dead body at the docks - do your thing

  By the time the message was sent and Jill had stuffed the phone back in its hiding spot, she found herself hovering over the body. The man was no less a mystery up close than he had been from afar. The frightened look frozen onto his face was unnerving, even for a woman who had made this sort of thing her life's work for the past four years. Besides, the longer Jill stayed, the more she risked leaving behind some sort of evidence—and the last thing she needed was to become a murder suspect. If the cops weren't truly after her now, linking her to a dead body would certainly do the trick.

  So as the sirens in the distance grew louder, she slipped into the shadows and made herself scarce.

  CHAPTER 4

  HITORI WATSON'S LEAST favorite part of being a homicide cop, by far, was whenever a body dropped between the hours of midnight and six in the morning. All the coffee in the world couldn't help Watson on days that started before the sun rose, a reality of which he was all too aware as he gulped down his first steaming cup of the day. His partner, Whitney Blankenship, had brought them to-go cups when she picked him up, a rare peace offering after a couple weeks of silent animosity between the two. Watson had thought he and Blankenship were tight, but Jill Andersen's recent resignation and public reveal had proven otherwise.

  Blankenship had yet to touch her coffee, intent on keeping both hands on the steering wheel at all times. Her police-issued Dodge Charger was among the department's oldest, but she took such good care of it that it required far less maintenance than most of the BPD's other vehicles. After Watson had mumbled his thanks for the coffee, the rest of their drive had passed in silence. Blankenship wouldn't even turn the radio on to provide Watson with a constant source of sound to keep him awake. As powerful as the Charger was, the purr of the motor nearly lulled him back to sleep.

  Thankfully, they reached the port before drowsiness could take full effect, the jostling of the car coming to a stop snapping Watson from his stupor. He downed the rest of his cup, cringing when the heat seared against his tongue. On a normal morning, he would let the black liquid cool slightly before downing it, but as the car mockingly reminded him that it wasn't even five in the morning, he was willing to risk a burnt tongue.

  Juanita Gutierrez, the city's chief medical examiner, was already at the scene with the other CSU technicians. Her brother, Detective Ramon Gutierrez, was also on the scene—as was Detective Earl Stevens, a fifteen-year veteran of the department who in recent months had developed a relationship with Juanita. She was crouched over the body, of which Watson and Blankenship could only see the legs from their car. One of the CSU techs also hovered over the body, the flash of his high-end digital camera far more light than should have been allowed at this early hour.

  "What do we have?" Blankenship asked before taking her first sip.

  "My gue
ss?" Juanita marked on her metal clipboard. "The sort of guy we're not sorry to lose."

  Watson cocked his head to the side, taking in the dead man's black garb. He was dressed from head to toe in black, complete with the ski cap lying next to his face. His beard was stained in blood under the chin, what was once the man's neck now a sloppy red line that splattered several feet along the ground. Were it not for the hot lamps strewn throughout the crime scene, the splatter would be invisible until sunrise.

  "Guy dressed all in black, hanging out in the abandoned dock at night." Watson shook his head and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. "Something bad gone wrong?"

  Ramon kept his distance from the body; though he had shaken his habit of getting sick at crime scenes, he still didn't care for the sight of a dead body. It was an interesting tic for a man who made his living investigating the dead, a point his sister was never shy about highlighting. "No ID on him, not that we expected one."

  Blankenship crouched down beside Juanita, getting a closer look at the gash along the man's neck. "Who called it in?"

  "Um," Ramon swallowed, "I did. Got an anonymous tip."

  The other three detectives stared at each other for a few silent moments; they all knew what Ramon had left unsaid. They all knew where the tip had come from, and at this hour, the tension between them all borne from Jill's disappearance—for lack of a better term—threatened to spill over. Instead, Stevens cleared his throat and pulled a small notepad from his back pocket, thumbing to an empty page and jotting down some notes.

  "Our gal Friday didn't happen to see the assailant, did she?" he asked.

  "More black." Ramon shook his head. "Head to toe. Wore a mask, moved quick as she did."

  "We thinkin' it's the other vigilante?" Watson asked.

  Blankenship shook her head, her upper lip curling into a sneer as she downed half of the coffee left in her cup. The scalding heat was actually welcoming at this hour; if nothing else, it helped keep her awake. Still, she felt the urge to roll her eyes, taking a step back toward her car. She didn't want to get into yet another argument with her partner, but if the vigilante—either of them—was going to become an issue, it might be inevitable.