Behind the Badge

by J. D. Cunegan

  “Go ahead,” he said with a wry smile. “Blow my brains out. The whole city will see it.”

  “Give me a reason,” one of the cops over Simmons’ left shoulder chimed in.

  Traffic on Pratt had come to a complete stop. Several motorists and passengers were hanging out of their vehicles, recording the standoff with their camera phones. The footage would undoubtedly wind up on social media and on the evening news, with some sensationalist headline about violent protestors attacking the cops. Never mind the fact that the police were the ones dressed up for a riot, while the protestors were wearing ordinary street clothes. But such was the reality of police-community relations in this city.

  “I’m not gonna ask again,” Simmons said.

  “And I’m still not gonna comply.”

  Before any of the cops could react, a streak of black burst onto the scene from their right. By the time it registered for Simmons just what was going on, he saw a black leather-clad figure standing between himself and the protestors. His gun was now pointed at her chest, and when Simmons looked up, all he could see was a sea of brown hair and a silver metal plate on the left side of her face, framing a glowing red eye.

  His eyes widened and his teeth clenched even more. “Step aside, freak.”

  “You seem a bit overdressed,” Jill said, her fists clenched. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I was still in Fallujah.”

  “We have to be prepared in case things get out of hand,” the cop whose vest read Thomas argued.

  “Funny,” Jill said, looking over her shoulder. “Seems to me these people were just protesting before you all showed up with your Department of Defense hand-me-downs.”

  Simmons stepped forward, pressing the barrel of his gun in the spot where her collarbones met. She glanced down at the gray hunk of metal digging into the leather, quirking her right eyebrow and fighting the urge to shake her head.

  “You’re no better,” Simmons growled. “Playing dress-up like you know right from wrong. Who made you the fucking hero?”

  Jill shrugged. “I did.”

  “Really.” Simmons cocked his head to the side. “If we all pulled the trigger right now, what would happen? Would you fall to the ground and bleed out, or would the bullets go bouncing everywhere?”

  Deciding she didn’t care to find out the answer, Jill slapped the gun out of Simmons’ hand before catching it out of the air. She ducked into a crouch as she emptied the clip, glancing over her shoulder. “Run!”

  The protestors, aside from Vincent, did just that. They scrambled for safety as the riot cops all converged around Jill. They had holstered their guns and reached for their batons again, and when Thomas swung his, Jill blocked the blow with her right elbow.

  Thomas never saw the following punch coming. His nose -- and the face shield protecting it -- broke and he fell face-first onto the grass.

  Simmons swept Jill’s legs out from underneath her, but as she went down, she swung her right leg out so the sole of her combat boot caught him in the temple. His helmet came off, and Simmons staggered a bit, but he kept his footing. Two other riot cops tackled Jill to the ground, their batons smacking against her back before she gathered before strength to elbow them both in the chin. Once they were stunned, Jill grabbed them both by the back of the head and smashed their faces together. Their face shields shattered and teeth fell loose as they slumped to the ground unconscious.

  Back on her feet, Jill took a baton across her left cheek, the force of the blow almost making her lose her footing. She ducked the next blow, spitting out a mouthful of blood before slamming her fist into the cop’s elbow. The bone snapped and he screamed himself hoarse. Jill caught the baton before it fell to the ground, spinning on her heels.

  One of the two remaining cops charged at Jill, but her momentum caused the baton to smack right into the cop’s throat. He crumpled to his knees, gagging and coughing as both hands wrapped around his neck.

  Which left only Simmons.

  “You’re good,” he admitted, twirling his own baton in his grasp. “But you have no idea what you’re messing with.”

  “Corrupt cops,” Jill fired back without hesitation.

  Tossing his shield aside with a snarl, Simmons raised the baton over his head and motioned to Jill to approach him with his free hand. She did as asked, ducking the clenched fist that swung at her temple. She answered with a punch to Simmons’ gut, which doubled him over and left him coughing. Jill then pressed the heel of her boot against the back of Simmons’ head and shoved him face-first into the grass.

  Jill locked eyes with Vincent, who had stood his ground the entire time -- and honestly, had shown more bravery and heroism than any of the six police officers who had been strutting around with their toys. He smiled sheepishly at her, almost like someone would in the presence of their favorite celebrity. Jill, in spite of the hatred and anger currently burning a hole in her gut, returned the smile before turning her attention back to Simmons.

  “Been thinking a lot lately,” she said, taking perverse pleasure in the muffled sounds of Simmons struggling to get up. “About what it means to be a hero. We like to call athletes heroes. War vets. Cops.

  “But you know? I’m not seeing many heroes lately. Just a bunch of punks who think they’re heroes cause they got some shiny piece of metal.”

  Simmons managed to turn so his face wasn’t smashed into the grass and the dirt anymore. His nostrils flared and his teeth gnashed together. “Fuck you…”

  “That badge doesn’t make you a hero.” Jill crouched to a knee, grabbing Simmons by a tuft of his dark hair and yanking until he yelped in pain. “You don’t deserve your badge.”

  Throwing Simmons’ face back into the ground again, Jill stood upright and brushed off her hands. She gave Vincent another small smile before wandering toward the Inner Harbor. She stepped over two of the unconscious riot cops, her boot crunching against bits of broken plexiglass. Her lip throbbed, and Jill could feel blood oozing down her chin. But the hurt in the pit of her stomach was far worse, the realization that she had spent most of this case fighting people who were supposed to be on her side. Throwing down with the officers who killed Devin, and now these riot cops… this was not why Jill donned the leather.

  But if it had come to beating up cops… what was she doing?

  “Hey, uh… Bounty?”

  The sound of Vincent’s voice stopped Jill in her tracks. She turned to look at him full-on, noting the burgundy hoodie draped over a black t-shirt with Barack Obama and Martin Luther King Jr.’s faces emblazoned on it. His beard was full and unkempt, but the smile on his face was a far cry from the pain in his voice she had heard before the commotion with the cops started.

  “Listen, thanks.” He scratched the back of his head before stuffing his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “Not just for stickin’ up for the protest, but… I dunno, everything.”

  Jill frowned a little and cocked her head to the side.

  “It’s just nice, you know? Knowin’ someone in this town gives enough of a damn to do somethin’.”

  Not trusting her words at the moment, Jill ducked her head and nodded once. Her fists unfurled, but the tension still had her shoulders hunched. The katana felt heavy on her back, and Jill reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had stuck to her cheek.

  “You be careful,” she finally managed to say.

  “You too,” Vincent replied with a nod. “This town needs all the heroes it can get.”

  Jill watched Vincent grab his bullhorn and walk off in the direction of Camden Yards. The wind picked up off the bay, whipping her hair over her face, and Jill had to look down at the ground when a swell of emotion snuck up on her. Clearly, she had done what was right, and someone appreciated her for it.

  But… when the sound of one of the riot cops regaining consciousness registered, Jill shuddered. She was fighting badges -- actual knockdown, drag-out fights with people who swore to protect this city.

  And if her lif
e had come to that…

  The phone tucked into Jill’s left boot chimed, snapping her out of her momentary funk. Fishing for the device, Jill managed a rueful smile when she read the message.

  Paulson back in the box -- wanna make another run?

  CHAPTER 52

  They had left Paulson in the interrogation room for so long that he had fallen asleep in the interim. Not that he had been thrilled to be thrown back into this room. The first interrogation had been enough of a hassle, and having to go through the experience again was enough to make Paulson's eyelids heavy. So when Detective Stevens slammed the door shut, it woke Paulson with a start. It took a few moments for the fog to lift from his eyes, and by the time he saw the male detective snarling across from him, Paulson rolled his eyes.

  So Andersen had apparently been playing the good cop.

  “Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” Stevens practically growled, “you wanna guess what we found in your storage unit in Bethesda?”

  Paulson shrugged and went to rub the sleep out of his eyes -- which was when he remembered that he was still handcuffed. “I dunno, my baseball card collection?”

  “Try military-grade sniper rifle, dipshit.” Stevens slapped a slip of paper onto the ratty table, which Paulson didn't bother to look at. “Ballistics is going over that thing with as fine tooth a comb as they've got, and if I were a bettin' man? I'd say it's got your DNA all over it.”

  “Well, it was in my storage unit,” Paulson pointed out. “So that makes sense.”

  “They're also comparing your weapon to the slug we pulled outta the DA's head.” Stevens smacked the cover of his notepad once he shut it, pushing himself out of the chair with such force that the legs scraped against the concrete floor. Paulson flinched at the sound before immediately regaining his composure. A reaction was exactly what the cops wanted. “Real sick sack o' shit to blow a DA's head open like that.”

  Paulson didn't say anything, instead resting his hands together on the surface of the table. At the wrong angle, the overhead light shone off the cuffs and right into the cop's eyes. So he cocked his head to the right, keeping the reflected light out of his line of sight, and he threw as smug a grin as he could Stevens' way. Not only was he not going to answer any questions, he was going to be as difficult about it as possible. Stevens struck him as a cop with a short fuse, and if Paulson could trip that fuse...

  “How's that investigation you're workin' on?” Stevens asked out of the blue. “You know, that preacher?”

  Paulson shrugged and tossed his head back with an exasperated sigh. “No new leads. No one's talking.”

  “See, I don't believe that.” Stevens made a tsk sound and shook his head. “Then again, one of our detectives found the murder weapon in a dumpster on the other side of the campus of Coppin State, and it just so happens to match the gun registered in your name. Ballistics is goin' over that one, too.”

  “You're working my case?!” Paulson yelled.

  “Why not?” Stevens shrugged. “You ain't doin' shit with it. Guessin' you couldn't be bothered. Too busy.”

  “Fuck you,” Paulson spat.

  “Naw, I'm good on that front.” Stevens seated himself again, grabbing the pen sitting next to his notepad. The phone in Stevens' pocket chimed, and when he saw what was on the screen, a devilish smile crept onto his face. “So why kill the preacher?”

  Any anger left on Paulson's face disappeared and was replaced by confusion. He blinked and a deep crease formed on his brow. “What?”

  “Ballistics matched your service piece to that preacher shot in your jurisdiction. So... again I ask: why kill the preacher? Don't think God takes kindly to that sorta thing.”

  Paulson lowered his arms and turned his head, lips clamped shut as he stared at his own reflection in the two-way mirror.

  Stevens fought back the smirk threatening to spill from his lips. Instead, he hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his faded Wranglers, chewing on his lower lip and he studied the piece of shit seated across from him.

  “Sam Brady,” Stevens finally said. “Where might he be?”

  “I already told the bitch about him,” Paulson muttered, still staring at the mirror.

  “And now I want you to tell me.”

  Paulson snarled and shook his head. “I'm not saying another word without a lawyer.”

  “I bet you ain't.” Stevens rose from his chair, tucking his notepad under his left arm and pocketing his pen. He stole a sideways glance toward the two-way mirror before hitching up his pants and making another tsk sound. He approached the door, pulling it open before glancing over his shoulder and turning off the lights. “Be seein' ya 'round, Sparky.”

  When the door shut, the room was bathed in pitch black. Surprise turned into fear, but before Paulson could calm his mind enough to form a coherent thought, a small slit of red appeared before him. The small bulb pulsated and flickered, and as it grew closer, Paulson finally registered that he wasn't alone in Interrogation One. How the second presence had slipped in after Stevens walked out, Paulson didn't know, but his heart stopped when he heard the sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath.

  “Good morning, Joshua,” a female voice growled.

  CHAPTER 53

  Paulson gripped the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. A bead of sweat trickled down over his temple before rolling down his cheek. His pupils dilated in fear, and Paulson swallowed back the dread. He saw the tip of a katana sword emerge from the shadow, a singular red dot glowing and pulsating in the darkness. His head shook on its own; he never paid the rumors or the stories any mind, because as far as Paulson was concerned, the vigilante was nothing but an urban legend.

  Oh, how wrong he was.

  “Oh, come on,” the voice mocked. “Surely, you've got something to say.”

  “You,” Paulson began, stopping to swallow again when his voice cracked. “You're… you’re real.”

  “Flesh and metal,” she said, and Paulson gasped when the black leather-clad female form finally emerged. Half of her face was encased in silver, surrounding the red eye that throbbed. He watched with wide eyes as the woman twirled the sword in her hand, and his eyes followed when she began to stalk around the interrogation table as if she were circling her prey. Because that was what Paulson was, right? All alone in this dungeon of a room with that... whatever the hell she was?

  A sickening warmth spread down Paulson’s left leg. He began to shake, his eyes wide and unblinking. The vigilante, whatever she actually was, appeared to be the thing of nightmares… a nightly angel of vengeance made flesh. And she had paid him a visit, in the one place he thought was safest of all -- inside a police station. Paulson had never been the religious sort, but for the first time since setting foot in Iraq, he mumbled a small prayer.

  Not that he had done anything to deserve divine help.

  With that realization, fear turned into anger and briefly flashed on Paulson's face. The BPD was in cahoots with the vigilante. It was ironic in a sense; most of the time police officers were caught running afoul of the law, it was because they were stealing or harming others. This time, cops were breaking the law under the pretense of justice. Paulson had heard what Bounty's supporters had to say, grit his teeth every time someone insinuated that she was more of a hero than those who had badges. It was disgusting, but the revulsion was tempered with Bounty staring right at him.

  “This the part where you shake me down in ways the cops can't?” he asked, cringing when his voice again threatened to give out.

  “Depends on how forthcoming you are,” Jill said as she lowered herself into the seat across from Paulson. She set the katana flat on the table, taking her time to study the finely-crafted blade. Its curvature was exquisite, unlike anything Jill had seen before. She hoped to never have to use the blade to cut into human flesh -- it would be a shame to sully a family heirloom like that. If nothing else, it was a reminder of what it meant to do right, what it meant to stand for something larger than oneself.


  “So you're interrogating me?” Paulson asked with a hint of disbelief.

  “Would you rather I beat you to a pulp?”

  “Would make suing the department a lot easier.”

  “Oh, I'm sure you'd like that.” Jill ran the palm of her hand over the length of the blade, relishing in the way the edge felt against the leather surface of her glove. “A chance to paint yourself as the victim and a financial windfall at the end?” She shook her head and grabbed the hilt, her gaze finally lifting from the weapon to the man sitting across from her. “I met a very interesting person last night.”

  The wiseass in Paulson threatened to come out, but the fear of the moment was enough for the aging detective to keep his mouth shut. Dreadful certainty rumbled in the pit of his stomach, and Paulson hoped beyond hope the vigilante wouldn’t mention the name he was expecting to hear.

  “Did you know your buddy Brady’s back in town?” Jill cocked her head to the side. “Seems real intent on getting you outta here. He’s a good friend, isn’t he? Willing to spring his friend outta jail?”

  To Jill’s delight, Paulson still wasn’t talking. He wasn’t doing much of anything, outside of quaking in his own boots and focusing more on the blade in Jill’s hands than on her.

  “You and Sam go way back, don’t you?” The knowing smile on Jill’s face grew. “So let's take a little trip down Memory Lane, shall we? Tell me about Carlos Grainger.”

  If Paulson was trying to keep from rolling his eyes, he failed. Sinking lower into his chair, he glanced skyward and clasped his hands together.

  “Honestly, Grainger's not the one who interests me,” she added off Paulson's annoyance. “I'm more concerned with your involvement.”

  “Bitch, I got no clue what you're talking about.”

  “If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that...” Jill pushed herself out of her chair and slung the blade over her shoulder to place it back in its sheath. “Lawyers would call this establishing a pattern. Because let's face it, Paulson, this isn't the first time you've stuck your nose in on a police brutality case. And you got pretty physical with one of the cops investigating Grainger's murder, didn't you?”