Bounty

by J. D. Cunegan

  Ramon smirked and nodded. "Yeah."

  Jill turned to walk into the bedroom, motioning for Ramon to follow her. She could feel her heartbeat storming away in her chest, taking another ragged breath in a futile attempt to calm herself. Along the far wall of her bedroom stood an eight-foot tall armoire made of mahogany. She glanced over her shoulder, and when Ramon nodded, Jill swung both doors open and stepped back, folding her arms over her chest and staring at her partner. Waiting.

  Ramon gasped when the contents of the armoire were unveiled. A black leather body suit hanging off a wire hangar. Matching knee-high combat boots and elbow-length gloves in the corner. In the other corner, a custom-made katana. The inside of each door was littered with newspaper clippings, blurry photographs, redacted files... an aerial shot of the Pentagon on the left-side door, a head shot of Dr. Roberts on the right-side door.

  Ramon was speechless. He couldn't move. His eyes darted from one item to the next, purposefully avoiding Jill's gaze. He swore he was dreaming; either that, or the beers hit him harder than usual. He finally took in a deep breath and forced himself to study his partner's face, cocking his head to the side.

  "Jill." The word practically croaked out of his mouth. "Hey, c'mon. I know Halloween's in a few weeks, but this is --"

  "It's not a costume, Ramon." She shrugged, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. "Well, it is, but..."

  Ramon joined Jill on the bed, his eyes moving from her face to the body suit. He frowned a little before looking at his partner again. "You... you're Bounty?!"

  Jill could only nod in response, too busy holding her breath to say anything. She was a lot more scared of her partner's reaction than she thought she would be.

  A small grin played at his features, the darkness of the room accentuating his stubble. Ramon stood and approached the armoire, studying the suit and the newspaper clippings. "I'll be damned," he said, mostly to himself. "My partner's a goddamn superhero."

  Jill smiled in spite of herself, standing and joining Ramon. "So... you're cool with it?"

  "Yeah!" He shrugged, pointing at the katana. "I mean, I've got, like, a thousand questions, but..." He shook his head and smirked. "I already knew my partner was a badass, but damn."

  Her relief was palpable. Jill exhaled a ragged breath, unable to keep the smile off her face. "There's, um... there's something else. And you gotta promise not to freak, okay?"

  Ramon looked a little confused. "Okay."

  With a sigh, Jill reached for her left temple, slowly peeling back the skin graft over her left eye. She heard her partner gasping as skin gave way to silver, and she it finally came all the way off, and Jill stood in front of her partner in all of her superhero-ish glory, she couldn't help but smirk.

  Ramon squinted, convinced he could see his reflection in her eyeplate. The pulsating of her left eye caught him off-guard, and he leaned in to get a better look.

  "Holy..." He shook his head and grinned. "Sweet mother of..."

  Ramon sat on the edge of the bed again, shaking his head with a chuckle. Jill smiled again, relieved beyond words that her partner was taking this as well as he was. Truth was, there were still moments, almost three years after she first donned the suit, where the whole thing still overwhelmed her. She almost envied Ramon for being so cavalier about it.

  "You can't tell anyone," she reiterated.

  "Not a word." Ramon shook his head. "Promise." He studied the contents of the armoire again, a smirk playing across his boyish features. "Just... one question." He nodded in the direction of the bodysuit when Jill shot him a questioning glance. "Why?"

  Jill frowned. "I don't--"

  "Like, I get why you're a cop." Ramon became more animated as he spoke, and Jill found herself wondering if he had a secret stash of comic books in his closet. "I get what drew you to the badge. But all this?" He pointed at the katana again. "There's gotta be a reason for this."

  Chapter 7

  Twelve years ago...

  "Paul Andersen, you are under arrest for the murders of Martha Velazquez, Kevin Rodgers, and Samantha Montgomery."

  Even as he spoke the words, Daniel Richards couldn't believe them. He slapped the cuffs on his longtime partner and friend, his mind running through everything his unit had gathered over the years. Every clue, every shred of physical evidence, every eyewitness. Everything, no matter how unbelievable, pointed to Paul Andersen. Richards tried to ignore his family standing at the doorway. Paul's wife Janice, sobbing in silence. Jill, a sophomore in high school, standing on the stoop with anger in her eyes, her hand on younger brother Brian's shoulder.

  Richards handed Paul off to a uniformed officer, sighing as he watched him being led into the back of a squad car. Richards shook his head; it had been almost fifteen years since his last cigarette, and for the first time since then, he felt the longing for that long first drag of nicotine.

  He knew he couldn't avoid Paul's family forever, so Richards turned back toward the house, just in time to watch Janice fall to her knees, yelling hysterically, black streaks running down her cheeks. Her body jerked with each sob. Brian, upon seeing Richards looking at him, turned and ran back into the house. Jill remained motionless, the expression on her face unchanged.

  "I'm sorry." Richards knew how stupid that sounded, but it beat silence.

  "You're wrong." Jill took a step forward, her breath faltering as she approached Richards. "You're all wrong."

  "Jill, honey." Richards placed his hands on her shoulders. To his surprise, she didn't recoil. "I would like nothing more than to be wrong about this."

  The squad car pulled off; Paul was staring out the window. A tear slipped down Jill's cheek as she made eye contact with her father. She looked at Richards again, taking a deep breath to steel herself. Her eyes darkened. "Then keep looking."

  "We will." Richards gave her shoulder a squeeze, then stood. "I will."

  Chapter 8

  Ten years ago...

  "We the jury find the defendant, Paul Eugene Andersen, guilty on all charges."

  Half of the packed courtroom groaned; the other half gasped. The prosecution collected its files in silence before the pair of lawyers exited the room. The defense council sat in their chairs, heads hung. Television cameras kept rolling, newspaper writers furiously scribbling notes into yellow legal pads. Janice openly wept. Brian stared at the floor. Paul's face was blank; he didn't even look up until the bailiff came to escort him back to his cell. He gave the bailiff a nod of understanding before the uniformed officer led him out of the courtroom.

  Daniel Richards loosened the black tie around his neck, desperate to breathe, to get some space. The room felt like it was closing in on him, the certainty of the verdict crushing what little hope he was still clutching against. The media was ignoring Richards for the moment, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the vultures started circling. He had already received phone calls from the Sun -- apparently, the abandoned partner made for a good angle. Richards was going to hold that writer off as long as he could, but deep down, he knew he'd eventually have to give them something.

  Richards watched Paul leave the courtroom before turning his attention to the family. In the commotion, Janice had gathered Brian and was escorting him out. She probably hadn't noticed Jill still sitting in her seat. She was eighteen now, weeks from her high school graduation -- months from enrolling in Army boot camp. Richards had hoped she would attend college, but she had pretty much decided the night Paul was arrested that she wanted to get away.

  At the time, he thought that meant going to college out-of-state. Daniel had no idea she would enlist, and the thought only deepened the pit in his stomach. He sat next to Jill with an exhausted sigh. She held her gaze on the chair her father had been sitting in, shaking her head.

  "What happens now?"

  "He'll be sentenced in a month." Richards shuddered at the thought; best case scenario, Paul was looking at a jail cell for the rest of his life, and that was a longshot. Given the fact that
he was found guilty on three counts of first-degree murder, and all of the evidence surrounding it, Richards was sure his former partner was staring at the death penalty. There had been rumblings that Maryland wanted to do away with capital punishment, but Daniel doubted that issue would be settled in time to save Paul.

  Jill looked up at Richards. "He's gonna die, isn't he?"

  Though he dared not let her see it, internally, Richards cringed. He hated lying to Jill like this, but he understood the need to keep the faith -- especially given how hard Janice and Brian had taken the entire ordeal. Truth was, Richards wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed the past two years. Paul was like a brother to him, and Richards had been the one to arrest him.

  "Not if I have anything to say about it."

  Chapter 9

  Present day...

  The locals were less than pleased that the Inner Harbor was still roped off and treated as a crime scene. Never mind the fact that Dr. Roberts' body -- what was left of it -- now resided in Juanita Gutierrez's lab in the bowels of the Baltimore Police Department. The pier, the water, even the yacht in question were all off-limits to passersby. Businesses and restaurants were still open, but getting to them proved cumbersome to the point where it almost wasn’t worth the effort.

  Pratt Street was packed with cars, inching along, screaming at random intervals when frustrated motorists pounded their horns. Jill weaved her way across the street, playing a slow-motion game of Frogger -- it was much easier when cars were barely creeping above three miles an hour. The burly uniformed officer moved to stop her, but Jill flashed her badge and gave an appreciative smile when the man stepped aside and raised the crime scene tape.

  The wind coming in off the bay was brisk. Jill was glad she put her hair into a bun before leaving the precinct, even as a couple strands broke free and wafted in front of her face. Other than the officer standing guard on the other side of the tape, there was no further police presence at the harbor. She checked over her shoulder, allowing herself a small smile when she saw the officer with his back to her.

  She walked the pier, heading directly for the yacht. As she moved, Jill reached up to pull at the skin graft on her face. It came off easily, and Jill pocketed the graft before flipping a tiny switch near her left ear. She still had to get used to seeing infrared vision out of her left eye -- it was particularly disconcerting when her right eye was still normal. If Jill went too long before closing her right eye, she'd get a monster headache.

  Jill stepped onto the yacht, glad she decided to wear flats instead of heels. Desk-heavy days were great for heels; at least she could look stylish while filling out mountains of paperwork. Days in which she revisited crime scenes on her own were a different story. Footing was unsteady, with the wind chopping up the water. Jill grabbed a bar overhead, closing her right eye. She scanned her surroundings, the orb in her left eye socket rhythmically pulsing.

  Ramon and Juanita had been right. There wasn't much blood. That didn't make any sense, though, given the shape in which they had found Trent's body. The slashed throat alone should have resulted in a massive spray of blood. The cuts along Trent’s chest and left arm should’ve also accounted for some blood loss, even if they were postmortem.

  Footprints near the captain's deck caught Jill's attention. There were three of them, alternating from left to right and back to left, but they didn’t follow the typical pattern of footsteps. Jill wondered if that was because footing had been treacherous that night as well, or if the killer had a limp or other impediment. Her eye worked up the left wall, immediately spotting a six-foot tall smear of blood. How had they missed that the other night? Black light would've surely picked up on all this blood, right? Unless they didn’t use a black light -- in which case, Jill needed to have a conversation with the uniforms about Crime Scene Investigation 101.

  Jill dropped to a knee to study the footprints. The mini computer embedded in her brain analyzed the shape, operating at speeds that would put the machines at the precinct to shame and estimating the shoe size at a men's 13. There was no tread in the soles.

  She stood again, examining the smear on the wall. There was part of a hand print, the thumb and forefinger of someone's right hand, but there was no fingerprint. Jill smirked and shook her head. Of course it wasn't going to be that easy.

  Making her way to the captain's deck, Jill studied the steering wheel. Nothing was on it. She sat on the soft cushions, immediately spotting a small wastebasket. It was almost empty, save for a used tissue, a balled-up piece of paper with blood spatter on it, and something the size of a business card. The tissue was nothing of note, and when she unballed the paper, all Jill saw was an apparent grocery list -- if vodka and limes could be considered groceries.

  But the card... when Jill grabbed it and flipped it over, her heart skipped a beat.

  David Gregor, CEO & President

  Gregor Enterprises

  Jill slid the business card into the pocket of her black leather coat, turning off the infrared vision before glancing over her shoulder. She returned the skin graft to its rightful place on the left side of her face before stepping off of the yacht and returning in the direction of Pratt Street. She tried to hide the adrenaline coursing through her veins; Jill always got amped up whenever she got a lead, and she had to tell herself to slow down as she walked.

  Deciding not to go back to the precinct right away, Jill hung a left and wandered in the direction of Camden Yards. When a group of college students passed her by going the other way, Jill stopped and ducked into a nearby alley. Pulling the business card out of her pocket, she studied the name and the logo again. David Gregor was a powerful man who had a lot of hands in a lot of pies. Was he connected to Dr. Roberts? To Project Fusion? If Jill was being completely honest, she wouldn’t be surprised if the answer was “yes” to both those questions.

  But she hoped the answer was no, for the simple fact that the man was impossible to touch. With all of the influence and money at his disposal, Gregor had a lot of friends in a lot of important places. Rumor had it that the FBI had been looking into him for the better part of fifteen years. The fact that it was just rumor after that long told Jill all she needed to know. If the FBI couldn't get near him, what hope did the BPD have?

  More importantly, what hope did she have?

  Chapter 10

  David Gregor could almost always be seen wearing a crimson suit, complete with a white dress shirt and matching tie. It was his trademark look, so much so that a local business magazine once took to calling him the Great White -- constantly out for blood and willing to shed as much as necessary to get whatever he was after. They were speaking metaphorically, of course, but the moniker stuck and actually gave Gregor a hint of mythos to go with his no-nonsense demeanor. If he were being honest, Gregor enjoyed knowing people feared him before even meeting him. There was power there -- and in his suit.

  But today, standing in front of the Baltimore County Fire Memorial Shrine, Gregor was wearing a black suit, and his shirt was also black. News crews and writers had gathered to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the death of hometown firefighter Randy Pearson, who had lost his life trying to save a 5-year-old boy trapped in his bedroom as a gas fire ravaged his house. The boy survived. Randy did not.

  Gregor had taken a personal interest in the Pearsons’ story from the second the news broke. He helped establish the Randy Pearson Memorial Fund, which offered financial help to families of fallen firefighters throughout the county. Gregor Enterprises buildings and warehouses improved and renovated fire safety protocols and equipment. Cynics screamed about good PR. Others applauded common sense and decency.

  Gregor placed a bouquet of black roses at the shrine before straightening his tie and turning to the cameras. He was used to the constant media attention, the fact that there were almost always cameras in his face everywhere he turned. Just because he was used to it, though, didn’t mean he liked it. His white hair and goatee clashed with his suit, yet he refused to co
lor either. There was a certain vanity to his insistence, but such that it was. Black sunglasses hid his brown eyes.

  "As a Baltimore native," he spoke in a reserved tone, clearly choosing his words despite the note card of prepared remarks hidden in his blazer, "it pains me to see this city wracked by tragedy. It's even more upsetting when the fallen is one of our own. Randy grew up here, played lacrosse at Towson. His idea of a vacation was catching an Orioles game. His wife Amber told me last year that six months before the accident, Randy had an offer to work in Alexandria, Virginia. Hefty pay raise, too. But he declined, because it wasn't home."

  Someone in the scrum before Gregor coughed. Muffled cries and sobs could also be heard. One of the cameramen dabbed at his eyes.

  "A lot of people have asked why I've been so public in the aftermath of Randy's death," Gregor continued. "My father, Vladmir, was a firefighter. So was his father before him, in their native Russia. I understood as a child how to deal with the anxiety, the uncertainty. I lost a lot of sleep as a child, wondering if my father would come home. For the first fourteen years of my life, he did." Gregor adjusted his sunglasses. "Then, the night before I was to finish my freshman year of high school, he didn't."

  Gregor felt his phone buzz inside his blazer but ignored it.

  "My mother and I were lucky. Our family in Russia came from money, so they could help. But I know not every family is that fortunate. I know Randy's family wasn't that fortunate. Which is why today, I am announcing that Gregor Enterprises will double its contributions to the Randy Pearson Memorial Fund, and that my research division will begin looking into improving firefighter safety."

  The mass applauded and flashbulbs went off. Reporters practically climbed over each other, asking questions in unison, hoping for another quote or two from the billionaire. A short, bald man wearing wire-rim glasses weaved his way through the crowd, worry etched into his pale features as he approached Gregor.