Behind the Badge

by J. D. Cunegan

  Finally, Paul's hands unclenched. “So what do I do?”

  “Play another strategy.” A rueful smile crept onto Richards' face. “And I think I know just the one.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Present day...

  “Come on,” Ramon said, folding his arms over his chest. “Paulson? Look, the guy's a douche, but... sniper?”

  “It fits,” Detective Stevens explained as he slipped into Captain Richards' office, where Jill, Ramon, Watson, and now Stevens had all congregated. The blinds were still down in Richards' office, because as sensitive as this latest information was, they didn't want people on the outside catching wind. Media leaks were one concern, but considering they were once again dealing with cops who were abusing their authority, there was no telling who was on what side. Even those they thought they knew at the Seventh were suspicious at the moment.

  “I vaguely remember Dad saying something about Paulson being in the military once,” Jill said.

  “Army Rangers.” Stevens handed the manila folder to Jill. “Recorded six sniper kills during the first Iraq War. Briefly transitioned to being an MP, and once he got out, fuckwad decided to become a cop.”

  “Okay, so he's got the background.” Ramon peaked over his partner's shoulder, studying the file that was heavily redacted. Half the text on the page was hidden behind black bars, and Ramon's innate curiosity made him wonder what was underneath all that black. Probably horrible atrocities the United States government didn't want to admit to -- and that was the best-case scenario. “But how did he get the gun? Last I checked, Joe Schmoes can't just waltz into a Gun & Pawn and pick up a military-grade sniper rifle.”

  “Finding the weapon would be a nice start,” Watson added.

  “It would,” Richards agreed. “Which is why you're gonna get on that.”

  Tense laughter filled the office; Watson had fallen into one of the police force's oldest traditions -- the one that said the cop who came up with an idea was the one who would actually have to see it through. Not that anyone disagreed. Getting their hands on the weapon used to kill the district attorney would go a long way in helping them implicate Paulson.

  Ramon frowned. “That doesn't make any sense.”

  Jill playfully jabbed her elbow in her partner's ribs. “What happened to that whole gift horse-mouth thing?”

  “Yeah, but...” Ramon shook his head. “Army Rangers were the best of the best, right? Like, almost SEAL-level.” Off the other detectives' nods, he began to pace back and forth. “If Paulson was that good, and if he lasted as long as he has as a cop, in spite of his entire lack of charm? How would he be so sloppy as to leave us a trail leading right back to him?”

  Stevens shrugged. “Maybe he's just that arrogant.”

  “Or maybe,” Ramon pressed, “maybe it's a misdirect. Maybe we're being pointed at Paulson to take our attention off the real killer.”

  “Maybe.” Jill sighed. “But this is the trail we've got right now, so we'll go with it until something else comes up.”

  “I agree with Andersen,” the captain said, lowering himself into his chair. “Focus in on Paulson. I want updates in two hours.” As the detective began to file out of his office, Richards cleared his throat. “Andersen. A word?”

  Glancing over her shoulder in time to see Ramon shut the door behind him, Jill slipped her hands into her pockets before approaching Richards' desk. “Sir?”

  “There's something you need to know about Paulson,” he admitted. “Paul and I had a run-in with him back in the day.”

  “So... this is about more than Paulson just being a douche back then?”

  “A lot more. And if I had known he was the one needing the favor, Gutierrez, I would’ve never sent you.” Richards sank deeper into his chair, swiveling back and forth. Any memory involving his former partner was like acid in his stomach, but this was one of Richards' proudest memories. Because Paul had been at his finest working the Grainger case -- not in the sense of solving the murder and sending the killers where they deserved to go, but because he embodied what it meant to carry the shield when so many around him refused.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about Paulson, but your father and I had issues with him once before. You remember Carlos Grainger?” Off Jill’s nod, Richards continued: “He was in on it, along with Officer Brady.”

  Jill frowned and lowered herself onto the couch, resting her elbows on her knees and staring at her hands. She remembered meeting Officer Brady once as a child, finding him a bright, if not entirely too eager, officer. Paul had barely talked about Brady, but what he had said had been positive. And though Paul had often complained about Paulson to Janice, in the quiet of the night when he though the children were asleep, Jill was having trouble picturing Brady and Paulson as killers.

  Then again, if Paulson was their sniper...

  “One night, when your father was close to making an arrest, Brady and Paulson came after him.” Richards sat up again. “No back channels, no threats from downtown. Just good old-fashioned, middle-of-the-night violence. They beat your father and held him at gunpoint.”

  Jill could taste the bile in the back of her throat, her lips curling in disgust. She never had any idea someone had done that to her father. Even knowing what she now knew about him, Jill still thought of Paul as the hero cop the rest of the city practically worshiped. He had solved more than his share of homicides, even brought in three serials in his day. The mayor had given him a key to the city for one of them, and from what Jill could remember, he was as stubborn and ruthless on the trail as she was. No matter what became of him, Jill was determined not to let go of who he was before.

  “We had the proof. We even had what amounted to a confession. But we got stonewalled.” Richards shrugged. “Brady and Paulson were transferred to another precinct. Brady eventually left altogether. Paul and I lost our shot at making Sergeant, and Carlos Grainger's murder was never solved.”

  She hadn't thought much of it at the time, but in hindsight, Jill thought her father's behavior during that time made more sense. He had started coming home later than usual, sleep had been harder to come by, and every so often, Jill would wake in the morning and catch a whiff of alcohol when her father would lean in to kiss her cheek. He never took his frustrations out on Janice or the kids, but it had been clear something was up. At the time, Jill figured it was nothing more than a rough patch at work.

  But now?

  “I think that was the beginning of the end for your father,” Richards added. “Not because of the Sergeant thing. Paul really didn't give a shit about that. But... getting his first true taste of the seedy underbelly of being a cop? Not being able to solve a case not because there wasn't any evidence, but because he was turned away over and over again, by his own people? He couldn't take that.”

  Jill shook her head. “Then I guess it's up to me to make sure he goes down this time.”

  “Don't turn this into some vendetta, Jill,” Richards cautioned. “Don't set out to finish what your father started.”

  “At best, Paulson's a shitty detective,” Jill countered, pushing herself off the couch. “At worst, he's a murderer. That alone is reason enough to go after him.”

  ◊◊◊

  Police etiquette often meant that “interrogations” involving other cops were conducted in visually-pleasing conference rooms and not in dingy, poorly-lit interrogation rooms that sometimes had foul odors. It was considered a courtesy, and to give the impression that the interrogating officer or detective was merely undergoing a formality and that there was nothing to what they were doing. Jill had extended that olive branch to Officer Carter when this investigation first started, and he turned out to be the ring leader of the cabal of officers that killed a teenager in cold blood.

  So when it came time for Jill to question Paulson, she ignored etiquette entirely and asked Officer Sorenson to throw Paulson into Interrogation One. Sorenson nearly took Jill literally in her request, too, having pushed Paulson hard into the
seat -- so hard, in fact, Paulson wondered if he now had a bruised tailbone. The only courtesy Jill extended the homicide detective from the Fourth was to not put the cuffs on him. She didn't even want to give Paulson that luxury, but for the time being, her sense of charity won out. Not that the gesture was appreciated when she slipped into the interrogation room.

  “The fuck is this?!” Paulson's voice boomed, drowning out the click of the door shutting. “The hell do you think you're doing?”

  “This is an interrogation room, Detective,” she shot back, not caring enough to hide her disdain. “What do you think?”

  “You are as bullheaded as your father,” Paulson spat in the most predictable move Jill could've imagined. Paulson was certainly not the first person to throw Paul in her face like that, and he certainly wouldn't be the last -- especially now that everyone knew what a monster her father wound up being.

  The best thing Jill could do was ignore the crack. So she did.

  “You and I have something in common, Joshua,” she mused, taking her seat across from Paulson and flipping open her leather-bound notepad.

  “That shiny hunk of metal on our belts.” Paulson shrugged with his arms folded over his chest. “So?”

  “Not that.” A knowing smile crept onto Jill's face, and she did little to hide it. She had no time or patience for people like Joshua Paulson, and she didn't much care if he knew it. “We both served in the Army and fought in Iraq.”

  “No shit?” Paulson made a tsk sound. “You don't strike me as the military type, Detective.”

  Jill had never struck anyone as the military type. In fact, her enlistment out of high school caught everyone off-guard, because at no point had Jill ever mentioned wanting to serve. In point of fact, she had been an outspoken advocate against the war she wound up fighting in, but on the heels of her father's sentencing and her mother's suicide, the Army gave Jill something she sorely needed: a way out.

  She always bristled whenever people called her a hero for her service. Jill had never done anything of particular note while in Iraq -- unless one counted her watching her squad mates being killed and maimed -- and how could she be considered a hero if her entire reason for joining the Army centered around cowardice? Would they still call her a hero if they knew she had enlisted only as a way to run away from her problems?

  To say nothing of the fact that it didn't work. Even on the other side of the world, the disintegration of her family burned a hole in her gut.

  “Why?” Jill asked. “Cause I never killed anyone with a sniper rifle?”

  “You think I popped the DA,” Paulson said with all the emotion of a man reading off items on a grocery list.

  “I think the evidence points us in that direction,” Jill said, producing a photograph of Ramona Parish laying face-down on Juanita's slab, the bullet hole clear as day. She then pulled another slip of paper from the folder on the inside of her notepad: a photocopy of the Facebook post threatening the lives of Parish and, by extension, anyone else who got in the way. “We traced this post to an IP address registered in your name. We know you have experience with sniper rifles, given your military background... and frankly, Detective, your history suggests you're not all that friendly toward those who would hold cops accountable.”

  “Hold us accountable for what?” Paulson bit back. “Doing our jobs?”

  “Last I checked, murder wasn't in the job description.” Jill set down her pen, making a mental note at how Paulson never looked at the autopsy photo. “See, we know all about you. Not just your file, either. Our captain remembers you going all the way back to the Carlos Grainger case. Funny how that case never went anywhere after you and your boy Brady puffed your chests.”

  “Oh, you are really reaching, Detective.” Paulson smirked. “Maybe I was wrong. You're not half the cop Paul used to be.”

  “Is that your defense?” Jill arched a brow. “That I suck as a cop?”

  “Why would I shoot the DA?”

  “You have a history of supporting police brutality,” Jill explained. “And Ms. Parish was gunned down after publicly announcing that four police officers have been charged with murder. Motive's clear as day.”

  “But why I would I do it in broad daylight on live TV?”

  “Because you had a point to make.” Jill grabbed her pen again and pointed it at Paulson. “Hard to make a point when no one's watching.”

  Paulson laughed and shook his head before leaning back in his chair and resting his hands on the back of his head. “That is quite the story, Detective. Good luck getting anyone to buy it.”

  “Where’s Brady these days?” Jill asked.

  The change in subject did little to rattle Paulson; if anything, he just rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his chest. “Last I heard, Sam Brady was working private security down in Biloxi.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  Another shrug. “I dunno, five years ago? We don’t exactly exchange Christmas cards.”

  Grabbing her pen again, Jill jotted down Brady’s full name and the city Paulson gave her. She assumed whatever he told her was a lie, but she would be derelict in her duty if she didn’t follow up. Maybe Brady had moved to Mississippi. Maybe he’d found God. Or maybe he was as insufferable as his former partner. Maybe old habits died hard.

  Jill studied Paulson for what felt like minutes. A pipe in the ceiling creaked, age and pressure creating a ghastly sound that, over the years, had made more than one suspect jump. It almost gave the interrogation room a haunted quality, especially when the fluorescent lights above flickered at random. Jill wished she could use that to her advantage, but something told her Paulson’s precinct was in as bad a shape as the Seventh. For all she knew, he had faux-haunted interrogation rooms, too.

  But Paulson never noticed. In fact, it appeared that the only thing affecting him at the moment was boredom. He stared at a random spot on the table, chewing on his bottom lip and shaking his head with a disbelieving smirk. Bringing him down was going to be so much fun.

  “You think you're untouchable.” Jill nodded once before pushing herself out of her chair and crossing to the other side of the table. “But see, here's the thing: no one's untouchable. Find enough evidence, build a strong enough case, you can bring anyone down.”

  Paulson scoffed. “This your way of threatening me?”

  “Not a threat. More like a warning.” Jill shrugged and crossed over to the door, turning the knob. “For all you know, I could be the least of your concerns.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Officers Carter, Stevenson, McPhee, and Harper had all been thrown into the back of a SWAT van -- because it was the only vehicle handy that could fit all four of them as they were transferred from the Seventh Precinct's holding cell to the general prison population. A judge had unexpectedly denied bail, which meant the four of them would remain behind bars until their trial started. The DA's office, operating as best as it could even in the aftermath of Ramona Parish's assassination, was working to have said trial expedited, but they weren't optimistic.

  All four prisoners had their hands bound together at the wrists by thick metal shackles, rusted chains connecting the shackles to the floor. Carter smirked when the door to the back of the van slammed shut, shaking his head. Stevenson wore an expressionless gaze, while both Harper and McPhee stared straight ahead with murderous scowls etched onto their foreheads.

  The engine roared to life, a low, throaty sound that was immediately drowned out by the skidding of tires. The SWAT van veered into traffic, but the violence of the maneuver didn't match the vehicle's behavior once it was on the road. It was a short ride from the precinct to Baltimore Central Booking and Intake, which could be seen -- along with the Baltimore City Detention Center -- off the Jones Falls Expressway. Yet the van never got fast enough to be running along that stretch of highway.

  Carter and Stevenson locked eyes, and off her confused glare, he simply nodded. McPhee and Harper never broke their intent stares, cont
ent to take the ride wherever it was going and little else. A window was set above Carter and Stevenson's heads, but it was small and the metal railing in front of it obstructed the vision of anyone trying to peek outside. Yet a salt-tinged breeze filtered through the rusted metal, hinting that perhaps the van was approaching the Inner Harbor as opposed to the detention center.

  After taking an almost ninety-degree right off Pratt and onto Presidents Street, the van picked up speed. It ran a red light in the process, swerving out of the way of a navy blue SUV that almost didn't slam on the brakes in time. Once the SWAT van righted itself, the vehicle took another right onto the Eastern Avenue Bridge. A roundabout called Pier 5 was just ahead, with the Columbus Center to the right. From the windshield, the USCGC Taney could be seen. Now a museum, the Taney was notable as the last ship floating after the attack on Pearl Harbor -- even though, through nothing more than pure chance, the Taney had been docked at nearby Honolulu Harbor.

  Shops and hotels flanked the Pier 5 loop on the left. As the van skidded along the pavement, beginning the series of left-handed turns to take the loop, it veered suddenly to the right halfway through the loop, launching over the partition separating the street and the brick-laid pier overlooking the water. The commotion caused several tourists to scatter, huddling together underneath one of the awnings as the van sped past. Chunks of brick and concrete were along for the ride, becoming dislodged and skidding along the pavement. The four prisoners jostled against each other in the back, the tires roaming over the bricks obviously not laid down for motor vehicles.

  The National Aquarium near the end of Pier 4 rose high to the right, with the van careening toward the water. A grove of trees to the left signaled the end of the pier, which cut off at a point to the left beyond a circular atrium. The van continued to pick up speed, and just as it reached the trees, the driver's side door of the vehicle swung open and a masked figure leapt out. The person in question dropped into a roll before propping themselves up on their left knee, just in time to see the SWAT van sail off the edge of the pier and splash hood-first into the Chesapeake Bay.