Behind the Badge

by J. D. Cunegan

  “Drop it!” the redhead pleaded. “Just... just drop it!”

  “You really wanna pull that trigger?” Jill asked. “You really think you'll hit me?”

  “I am a trained police officer!”

  Jill pointed at the three men on the ground with her sword. “So are they.”

  In a move of pure desperation, Stevenson closed the distance until the barrel of her gun pressed into Jill's back. In a blur, though, Jill spun around and dislodged the weapon from Stevenson's grasp, snapping her wrist in the process. Stevenson dropped to her knees with a loud grunt, cradling her arm against her chest. With the heel of her boot, Jill pushed Stevenson onto her back before fishing a small flip phone from the inside of her boot.

  “Hey. I found them. Behind Ruth's Chris.” She smirked. “Yeah, well... let's make sure they don't disappear again.”

  Before Jill could turn around to leave the alley, the sound of footsteps against the pavement caught her ear. Glancing over her shoulder, strands of hair spilling out over her back, Jill stuffed the phone back into her boot before reaching for the katana strapped to her back. The shuffling returned, mingled with the gust of wind that had just kicked up.

  “I know you’re there,” she announced, careful not to step on the unconscious cops at her feet. “So let’s save us both the trouble and show yourself.”

  Jill wasn’t sure who she had expected, but the sight of a male figure clad head-to-toe in black was not it. He was a couple inches taller than her, a dark mask accentuating his look. He was lean but toned, and the form-fitting, Kevlar-enforced suit did a good job of showing his muscle definition. Each step he took was with a purpose, and his head cocked to the side when he focused his gaze on Jill.

  Her heart leapt into her throat, and for a moment, Jill’s hand faltered on her weapon. But she regained her composure and cradled the blade in both hands.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “You’re better off not knowing,” the figure answered, his voice digitally altered.

  “These friends of yours?” Jill nodded once in the direction of the police officers on the ground. The redhead had regained consciousness, but all she could do at this point was writhe in paid while clutching her broken wrist against her chest.

  “They have served their purpose.”

  “And what was that?” Jill approached the masked figure, noting how for every step forward she took, he took one backward. His arms raised and his hands clenched into fists, which made Jill tighten the grip on her blade.

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  Clenching her jaw, Jill fought the urge to roll her eyes. She really hated vagaries and generics. “Why don’t you spell it out for me?”

  Instead of answering, the man charged at Jill, lunging with a cocked right fist that Jill narrowly avoided. He was quicker than she had anticipated, and she used her katana to parry the blow as she sidestepped. Sparks flew from the masked figure’s armored wristpad, and he ducked to sweep Jill’s legs out from under her.

  By the time Jill’s back hit the pavement, the man was on her, straddling her midsection and pinning her arms above her head. Jill kept the grip of her sword tight, but she couldn’t shake herself out of the man’s grasp. Even through gritted teeth, using every ounce of her considerable strength, the figure wouldn’t budge. He appeared to be her equal.

  “So,” the man teased, “you’re Bounty. I have heard so much about you.”

  “Nice to have a fan,” she spat through gritted teeth.

  Finally getting the leverage she needed, Jill tossed the masked figure to the side, twisting to her left and socking the man across the chin with her right foot. She rolled back into a defensive crouch, twirling the blade in her right hand as the figure jumped back to his feet, cocking his neck to the side until an audible pop sounded.

  Jill cringed; it was the same sound her knuckles made whenever she cracked them. It was funny when she did it to get a rise out of Ramon… but now that she heard it while fighting an unknown assailant, the chill that ran down her spine was ice cold.

  “What are you?” she whispered.

  The masked man was on her again in an instant. His elbow collided with her chin, hard enough to send her staggering back and almost dropping her weapon. She recovered in time to duck the fist aimed at her forehead, though, making sure the heel of her combat boot connected with the man’s stomach. He doubled over and cradled an arm against himself, and Jill gave him a left uppercut that sent him reeling.

  Huffing an exhausted breath, Jill turned to grab the phone in her boot again. She dialed the same number she had called before the mystery assailant appeared, and when the call connected, Jill glanced over her shoulder again…

  …only to see that the masked figure was gone.

  “Hello? Hello…?”

  Jill’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “Jill?”

  She hung up the phone and shook her head. “What the hell…?”

  CHAPTER 33

  Two hours before, someone from Tech had swung by the Homicide floor with a black USB drive, dropping it off at Detective Watson's desk before slinking back to whatever hide-y hole those in Tech spent their time in. Tech was one of the few departments within the precinct that didn't frequently engage officers and detectives face-to-face; the majority of correspondence with that department came via email or phone calls or video conferencing. Getting someone from Tech to stay still long enough for an actual conversation was something of a Herculean effort.

  But given what was on the USB drive, Watson was glad he wouldn't have to make small talk for a few minutes. The data loaded onto the tiny black stick was the information the entire Homicide unit had been waiting for ever since they had found the van -- with the help of a certain leather-clad vigilante -- and the sooner they loaded it and parsed it, the sooner they could finally throw the proverbial book at the bastards sitting in Interrogation One and Two.

  The van, despite no longer being in the police department's possession, still had a GPS transponder underneath the steering column -- sort of a black box. Much to the detectives' surprise and delight, it was still functioning. A sleepless night for all involved later, Detective Watson was uploading that information onto his workstation, staring with increasingly wide eyes as an overhead map of downtown Baltimore came up on his screen and a green line began illuminating the route the vehicle had taken the morning Devin Buckner died.

  “Earl!” Watson called out before Detective Stevens came out of the break room with a fresh mug in his grasp. “We got the route.”

  Stevens hitched up his pants as he stood over Watson's shoulder, making a tsk sound as his eyes wandered over the monitor. His mustache and cowboy boots were as much a staple of his as those overcoats were for Detective Gutierrez.

  “We sure the van wasn't drunk?” he asked before taking his first sip and hissing at how hot the beverage still was. The pot must've been pretty fresh, which wasn't surprising given how almost no one had gone home and the clock on the wall was approaching five in the morning.

  “The route's different from the one they used on Buckner,” Watson explained, trailing the green line with the tip of his pen. “This one has a lot of sharp turns and high-speed stretches of road.”

  Stevens gave out something vaguely resembling a snort. “Don’t all of ‘em?”

  “I'll see if I can pull the Mendoza file, see how the routes connect.”

  “Good luck with that,” Stevens muttered with a shake of his head. “The department likes to pretend Pedro Mendoza never happened.”

  “Well, let's make sure that doesn't happen,” Watson said as he stood from his chair and approached the whiteboard next to Jill's desk, uncapping the red marker and staring back at his monitor. Rather than trying to recreate the map on the dry-erase board, Watson instead jotted down names of streets he recognized along the route. “Let's see... hopping onto 83... exit on... yikes, that's a busy off-ramp...”

  “Police-issued gun
, van the police used to use,” Stevens said, partly to himself. “Is it just me, or are these little fucks not too bright?”

  “Probably more hubris than anything,” Watson theorized in between mumbling street names under his breath. His hand was a blur working over the board. “They never bothered covering anything up because they never thought anyone would come after them.”

  “Sad part is?” Stevens took another swig of coffee. “Before Devin Buckner, they were probably right.”

  “According to Tech, the 'black box' was wiped before Buckner's death. There were only two routes recorded.” Watson capped the marker. “Buckner and the colonel.”

  “Well, the van hadn't been used in a year,” Stevens offered. “I bet they wiped the data when they took the van outta commission.”

  “Which means I'm gonna call over and see if they still have those records.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Watson glanced over Stevens' shoulder in the direction of the interrogation rooms. “You gonna go in there and shake down the wannabes?”

  “Nah.” A rueful smile crept onto Stevens' face. “Gonna let Jill take a crack at 'em first.”

  ◊◊◊

  Nolan Carter and Kayla Stevenson were locked up in Interrogation One, with Scott Harper and Freddie McPhee sitting next to each other in Interrogation Two. Interrogating them all in one room together at the same time had gotten Jill nowhere, so she thought maybe splitting them up -- and letting simpletons Harper and McPhee stew while she tried to break the apparent brains behind the operation -- would net different results.

  Also different this time? Jill's attire when she barged into the interrogation room.

  Carter wasted no time, smirking and shaking his head. “Didn't know we had freaks on the payroll now.”

  Pausing to pull the sheath carrying her katana off her shoulder and leaning it against the door, Jill stood and studied the two cops seated across the room from her. Carter's t-shirt was stained in blood, both from the blow she landed on his chin and from the bullet he inadvertently took to the shoulder. Doctors had extracted the bullet and placed his arm in a sling, but more to Jill's interest, they turned the bullet over to Forensics to test if that bullet was the same caliber as the one Juanita had pulled out of their victim's head.

  Stevenson was also in two slings, between the broken elbow she had suffered the night before and now her broken wrist. The wrist was tightly wrapped, and if the look in her eyes was any indication, she had been given something for the pain. Jill silently cursed that fact, because she wanted these wastes of badges lucid.

  Jill cracked her knuckles. Because of the titanium lining her bones, the sound was different than for others. It was a terrible noise, one sometimes likened to nails on a chalkboard. Every time she did it in the presence of others, they bristled and recoiled. Carter and Stevenson were no different, and Carter curled within himself as his good hand came up to cup his ear.

  Jill smiled.

  “And I didn't know you were magicians.” Jill closed the distance to the table, examining the parts where paint had peeled off, where rust had built up on the corners. A blood stain on the far corner of the table was reminiscent of an interrogation her first year as a Detective, where rather than answer her questions, a suspect headbutted the table and knocked himself unconscious.

  “That was a pretty nice trick,” Stevenson muttered through clenched teeth. She still looked somewhat out of it, but Jill could see the anger in her eyes.

  Anger was good. She could work with anger.

  “So nice, I'd like to know how you did it.” Jill plunked herself into the chair across from the pair, tilting her head so the infrared light from her left eye shone right into Carter's eye. He squinted and recoiled. “I bet it was that friend of yours. You know, the one with the mask?” Jill shook her head. “But let's be honest, we all know you're not gonna tell me. I mean, if anyone blabs, it's probably gonna be the two brutes in the other room. They're not smart like you, right?”

  “Divide and conquer,” Carter said with a hint of boredom in his voice. “Please...”

  “You're right.” Jill pursed her black lips and tugged on her elbow-length gloves. “You know all the typical strategies for interrogation. But see, here's the funny thing... technically, this isn't an interrogation. You know why?”

  Stevenson rolled her eyes. “Cause you're not a cop?”

  “Exactly. But then again, you're not really cops, either. Least, not as far as I'm concerned.” This time, Jill blinded Stevenson with her infrared eye. “I'm not here to talk about your vanishing act from Holding. I'm not here to talk about Devin Buckner. I’m not here to talk about costumed freaks who corner me in alleys when I’m trying to do my job. Hell, I'm not even here to talk about how you kidnapped and tried to kill a high-ranking Baltimore police official.”

  “Then why are we here?” Stevenson spat.

  Jill's smile grew. “To talk about you.”

  As Carter and Stevenson exchanged a confused glance, Jill pushed herself out of the chair and wandered back to her weapon. She carefully pulled the katana from its sheath, taking a few moments to appreciate the beauty of its construction and study her reflection. It didn't matter how many times she had seen herself in the black leather and with the eyeplate on full display, the sight still gave her pause. It didn't unnerve her the way it used to, but every time Jill managed to catch sight of herself as Bounty, she made sure to take a few moments to remind herself... this was who she was, this was what she did.

  “Nolan Carter... to read your official file, you're the epitome of exemplary service.” Jill shook her head. “But let's be real here... official files can be doctored, altered… even destroyed, if you know the right people. Which is why no one downtown knows about the time a kilo of cocaine went missing from Evidence under you watch. Or the time a judge had to throw out a domestic abuse case because you decided to rough up the suspect. Or the fact that we have, on record, evidence of you receiving monthly payments from David Gregor… for what, I don’t know, but it can’t be anything good.”

  Jill approached the table again, pointing the blade right at Officer Carter. “Don't even get me started on what happened with the accuser in the domestic case. I've half a mind to chop your balls off right here and now for that.”

  “Threatening a police officer?” Stevenson asked with an arched brow, even as Carter recoiled, staring at the blade with wide eyes.

  “And you, Officer Stevenson.” Jill shook her head and twirled the weapon in her hand. “Lying under oath to make sure an innocent man went to jail for murder... looking the other way while your partner beat up suspects... you know, any other line of work, you'd be out on your ass and combing through the Classifieds before you knew what hit you.”

  “Things are different here,” the redhead spat.

  “But they shouldn't be.” Jill curled her lips into a disgusted sneer. “In fact... the standard you're held to should be higher than that.”

  Carter scoffed. “Take it up with downtown.”

  “I plan to.” Jill whirled to the other end of the table, standing behind the two suspects before dropping into a crouch and grabbing them both by their respective collars. She tugged with enough force that it got their attention -- and made Carter hiss in pain -- but not hard enough that she would do any actual damage. Ramon had told her that the camera and mics were off, but she wouldn't take that chance. “But I need to deal with the killers first.”

  “You don't get it,” Stevenson hissed.

  “What don't I get?”

  “Any of it,” Carter said with a one-shoulder shrug, clenching his jaw. Whatever had been dulling the pain in his shoulder was starting to fade, if the quiver in his lip and the sweat on his brow were any indication. “You can't seek justice for Devin Buckner, because his death? That was justice. Where I come from, potheads don’t belong on the street.”

  Jill clenched her jaw and seethed before releasing her grip on the two cops and bolting upright aga
in. “And where I come from, teenagers are allowed to make mistakes and go on with their lives.”

  Every instinct told Jill to reach out and teach Officer Carter a lesson with her fists, but getting violent in the interrogation room wouldn't make her any better than the very cops she was up against. Even if she wasn't acting as a cop at the moment, she still was one, and she needed to make sure her behavior as a vigilante didn't bleed over to the point that others would discover who she was.

  No, as tempting as pummeling Carter to the brink of unconsciousness was, it wasn't the way to go about this.

  “I hope whoever's protecting you is good at their job,” Jill warned before sheathing her katana and yanking the door open. “Because otherwise, you'll be answering to me. Again.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Scott Harper and Freddie McPhee both flinched when the door to Interrogation Two swung open and Jill stepped through. She found it both interesting and amusing that they were this skittish, especially since McPhee's body type matched the guy in the traffic cam footage who ultimately shot Devin Buckner in the head. How could he be cold enough to put a bullet in a 17-year-old's head, yet flinch at the sound of a door opening?

  Then again, McPhee had suffered a blow to the head not quite an hour ago, so chances were he was sensitive to sounds. Even the dim light above the rusted table was causing him to squint. Concussions were a hazard of sometimes hitting people in the head -- especially given Jill's reinforcements -- and she wondered if that meant she would have to lean on Harper to spill most of the information. He winced and doubled over himself; a medic had checked his sternum and didn't believe anything was broken, but a combat boot to the solar plexus was nobody's friend.

  “Gonna go out on a limb here and guess you two aren't the brains of the operation,” Jill quipped as she shut the door behind her.

  Harper sneered, rubbing his fingers over the spot on his chest where he had been kicked. “We ain't talkin' to you.”