Behind the Badge Read online

  Mitch grabbed the collar of Gomez's jacket, hauling him back to his feet before punching him in the jaw. Her fingers throbbed in protest, but the blood oozing from Gomez's bottom lip more than made up for it.

  Not that Mitch enjoyed getting physical like this. Truth was, this was far too common an occurrence for her. She hated fearing for her safety every day. Not that she was alone in that, living in northwest Baltimore, but the torment Mitch faced was beyond anything most others felt. Most in the area were concerned with poverty, violence, drugs... Mitch feared for all of that and her very existence.

  One bright side? She was pretty good at handling herself.

  “Fight me like a man!” Gomez screamed.

  Mitch side-stepped when Gomez's left fist swung at her. “When you gonna get it through yo' head I ain't no man?”

  “Naw,” Gomez argued, straightening his posture and holding up his fists. “You ain't. So I guess you won't mind if I rip that dick right offa ya.”

  Grabbing Gomez's wrist, the friend named Andre shook his head. “That's enough, bruh... back the fuck off!”

  Gomez punched Andre in the mouth, watching him drop to the pavement right as a gunshot rang out from behind the church. Everyone's head turned at the sudden bang, which still echoed in Mitch's ears as she registered the origin of the sound.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Without a second thought, Mitch sprinted up Ruxton, leaving Gomez and his boys on their own. Her heartbeat matched the hard thud of her boots against the sidewalk, and Mitch nearly banged her shoulder against one of the street lights. She could see someone else running away from behind the church, but by the time she reached the back of the facility, the person was gone.

  Her eyes then locked on the body crumpled on the ground in a heap. Dread built in Mitch's gut, churning like acid, as she grew closer and the body came into clearer view. The gray hair, the faded khaki jacket... she knew who this was on the ground, but Mitch didn't want to admit it.

  Once she got to the body, Mitch dropped to her knees. Even in her panicked state, she knew not to touch the body. Either that, or she refused to touch the body because that would make it more real. This had to be a dream. It had to be. She dug her fingers into the damp pavement and leaned over to look over the old man's face. The sight of her grandfather, Arthur, lying lifeless near the dumpster made Mitch shudder. The bleeding wound in his chest almost made her vomit.

  Mitch's grandfather had just been murdered.

  The scream she let out could be heard several blocks away.

  CHAPTER 7

  By the time Ramon made his way to the James Tabernacle Apostolic Holiness Church, having to weave his way through downtown traffic and re-program the squad car's GPS unit, the pavement directly behind the church had been roped off and several uniformed officers were standing station. Aside from the uniforms and two plain-clothed detectives, the area was scarce; even as he had made his way up Ruxton, Ramon had noticed the pointed stares that had been thrown his way. His car was unmarked, but it was still obviously a cop car, and its presence certainly wasn't welcome.

  Ironic, considering this was outside his precinct's jurisdiction. Truth be told, in Ramon's brief time as a Baltimore resident, this was the first time he had been to the northwest part of the city. He was just a couple streets over from the campus of Coppin State University, one of the two historically-black colleges within the greater Baltimore area. In many ways, this particular section of the city reminded Ramon of his native Inglewood back in southern California. It had been a rough place to grow up, and he could still recall the look of relief on Jorge's face when Ramon told him he had gotten the job in Baltimore and they were moving east.

  Jorge loved living near Towson, and Ramon fell in love with downtown as soon as he laid eyes on it. His apartment with Juanita had a nice view of downtown -- on a clear night, he could see the lights from Camden Yards -- but Ramon was looking forward to moving in with his fiancé. They were a few months from being married, so now seemed as good a time as any to move in together -- especially with Jorge nearing the end of his curriculum.

  Ramon's phone chirped as he emerged from his car. A text from Jorge, with a picture of some sofa he had found and the question What do you think?

  He couldn't hide the smirk as he texted back Blood red? Really?

  Pocketing his phone, Ramon squinted. The body had already been bagged by the medical examiners on-scene, and they were loading the bag into the back of their van when Ramon approached and fished the badge from his belt. “I'm looking for a Detective Paulson?”

  A tall, lanky man with light brown hair cropped into a buzz cut and a disheveled tie around his neck turned away from the uniform he had been speaking with, an unlit cigarette clutched between his fingers. His narrowed his gaze before seeing the Hispanic man standing before him with a badge in his hand, at which point his eyes returned to their normal state.

  “Ah, you must be Detective Gutierrez,” he said, slapping Ramon on the back. “Thanks for coming out. I know you're probably busy --”

  “Working a homicide of my own,” Ramon pointed out. “I dunno what you want from me, Detective. This isn't my jurisdiction.”

  “Believe me, I know,” Paulson began with a shake of his head, hard wrinkles outlining his eyes. “Real fucked-up thing that happened to that boy. We're just glad your captain owes ours a favor.” Off Ramon's confused glare, Paulson hastily added: “No no no... we don't want you to work this case. We just need you to talk to someone.”

  Ramon frowned. “I don't follow.”

  “We got a witness who won't talk.”

  “Still not following.”

  “Alright, the eyewit's exact words were I ain't talkin' to no honkies.” Paulson's lips curled into a sneer as he spat the last word, shaking his head again and placing the cigarette between his lips. Fishing for a lighter with one hand, he tossed the thumb of his other hand over his shoulder at the person sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, shoulders hunched. “Bad enough everyone in this part of town clams up when we roll in, but this little shit insisted on talking with someone who ain't white.”

  “And there's no one from your precinct who fits that bill?” Ramon asked.

  “You kiddin' me?” Paulson finally pulled out his lighter, striking up a flame before lighting his cigarette and taking a long first drag. “Captain Maroney ain't fillin' no goddamn quotas.”

  Fighting the urge to roll his eyes -- and infinitely grateful that he didn't wind up in Maroney's precinct -- Ramon stuffed both hands into the pockets of his overcoat. It wasn't the tan one everyone at the Seventh teased him over; he had sprung for a black one several months ago to celebrate an unexpected bump in pay. Pay raises were almost impossible to come by in publicly-funded jobs anymore, but Ramon had gotten one.

  “Look, just talk to the prick,” Paulson added. “Get 'im to say something useful and you'll be on your way.”

  Ramon's eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “This, uh... prick got a name?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Paulson said with a shrug, again sucking on his cigarette.

  “No wonder no one trusts cops around here,” Ramon muttered under his breath as he approached the person hunched over on the sidewalk. He was trying his best not to look like a cop; even though he was plain-clothed, Ramon knew cops had a certain body language to them that some people could spot. Considering the distrust that was coming off the locals in waves, something told Ramon they would be able to spot a cop from a mile away, uniform or no. Despite Detective Paulson's attitude, he wanted this witness to feel as comfortable as possible. Someone in the BPD had to give a damn about this.

  Ramon lowered himself onto the sidewalk, taking a moment to study the witness seated to his left. Shoulder-length dreadlocks were blond at the roots, changing to purple midway down. Their septum was pierced, a small silver ring poking out from the sea of hair. Tear streaks were prominent on their cheeks. For several minutes, they sat in silence; the witness didn't pay Ramon any min
d, and he took a few moments to gather his bearings. He was out of his element here.

  “My name's Ramon Gutierrez,” he introduced. “I work Homicide downtown.”

  Dark eyes finally turned to take in the detective, and Ramon saw the other person's shoulders relax somewhat. “Name's Mitch.”

  “That bastard over there with the cigarette tells me you won't talk to him,” Ramon added with a sideways grin.

  “Cause he's an asshole.”

  “You're right, he is.” Ramon turned to look Mitch in the eye. “But I try really hard not to be. They tell me you're a witness to a murder?”

  “Kinda,” Mitch said with a shrug, averting her gaze again. “They killed my Grampy.”

  Ramon couldn't help the tug he felt on his heart, shaking his head. That made Paulson's attitude even worse, treating someone who had just lost a loved one like that. He glanced over his shoulder, fighting back the sneer when he saw Paulson pacing back and forth, too busy smoking another cigarette to bother doing anything else. “I'm sorry to hear that, Mitch. Did you see who did it?”

  “Naw.” Mitch swiped at her eye. “I just heard the gunshot and when I got here, he was dead.”

  The cop in Ramon wanted to break out the notepad and pen tucked into his pocket, but he didn't want to risk Mitch clamming up on him. So Ramon risked trusting his memory -- a tricky proposition at times -- and kept his hands in his pockets. “So you were nearby when it happened?”

  “I was on my way to the church to see him.” Mitch shook her head. “Grampy was the preacher here. He's the only family I got.”

  “No parents?”

  “Daddy died in Iraq,” Mitch explained in a heartbreakingly matter-of-fact tone. “Mama's doin' twenty for distribution.”

  “Only child?”

  Mitch nodded.

  “You lucked out,” Ramon teased. “I got an older sister and let me tell you, she hogged everything when we were kids.”

  Mitch huffed a laugh and shook her head before dabbing at her eyes again. “Grampy was the only one who looked out for me,” she explained. “People give me shit a lot. They don't understand me, they don't like me. But Grampy? He did everything he could for me.”

  “You ever feel like you're in danger?”

  “All the time,” Mitch admitted. “It's not easy, bein' female when everyone looks at you like you're not. It's bad enough bein' black around here sometimes, but bein' trans too?” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Let's just say I've learned to handle myself.”

  “I'm sorry you've had to deal with that,” Ramon said. He knew, on some level, what that felt like -- having come out as gay to family and friends when he was still in high school. His friends back then had been supportive, his family far less so. But everyone else at school... Ramon had no idea people that young could be that vicious, but it was one of the hardest lessons he had ever learned. In fact, he had been treated far better in the testosterone-soaked world of police work than he had been in school.

  The sound of Paulson clearing his throat made Ramon roll his eyes. Patience was clearly not this guy's strong suit -- and frankly, Ramon thought that meant he was in the wrong line of work. This wasn't Law & Order; cases weren't wrapped up neatly with a bow in an hour. Fishing one of his cards out of the pocket on the inside of his overcoat, Ramon handed it to Mitch. “Listen, I need to get back to my precinct,” he said. “But please, if you need something, call me. Even if it's just to talk.”

  Though hesitant, Mitch took the card with a nod. She sniffled when Ramon gathered himself up and got back onto his feet, before pocketing the card and pushing herself off the edge of the sidewalk.

  “So?” Paulson asked with an edge to his voice as Ramon approached.

  “So,” Ramon repeated. “How about a little empathy? Mitch just lost her grandfather.”

  “Her?” Paulson's face scrunched in confusion and disgust. “Oh, don't tell me that little shit's jumped on the I can be whatever gender I want bandwagon.”

  “Here's what I'm telling you: do your goddamn job.” Ramon stepped into Paulson's face, ignoring the stench of cigarette smoke and fighting back the urge to grab the other detective by his collar. The last thing Ramon needed was to be reported to downtown. “You whine about people here not trusting you, not cooperating? Maybe you should start giving them a reason to.”

  Ramon pushed his way past Paulson before the other detective could react, and their shoulders bumped.

  CHAPTER 8

  “You know,” Juanita Gutierrez said as she painstakingly worked to extract the tweezers that she had embedded in what was left of the side of Devin Buckner's head, “it's a good thing everyone already knows about us. Otherwise, you hovering around in here watching me work on this body would be weird.”

  Time was, the morgue was the last place Earl Stevens would ever willingly set foot in. But he had grown used to the constant stench of ammonia and decayed flesh -- it was a smell so strong that no amount of industrial-strength cleaner would ever completely mask it. But while the morgue had the dead bodies and the refrigerated jars holding God knew what, it was also where Juanita spent the majority of her time. And in the interest of expediency when it came to working cases, Stevens figured it was only right for him to be unofficially stationed at the morgue when she had updates to provide.

  Or maybe he just liked the way she looked in her scrubs.

  “Any weirder than the weight I've lost?” Stevens cracked. He had dropped a good twenty pounds in recent months, a concerted effort to stop hitting the drive-through every time he was on a long, stressful case. Fewer cheeseburgers and more bottles of water had Stevens in the best shape he had been since his football-playing days at Nebraska, and it had actually alleviated some of the pain in his knees. They still popped sometimes when he would bolt out of his chair, but he had better range of motion and more energy than he’d had in years.

  “No, see, I like that,” Juanita quipped, grunting when she finally pulled the slug out of the viscera. Examining the bullet under the magnifying glass, she was amazed at how intact it was. Given the condition of Devin's head, she figured the bullet would've fragmented or warped enough to render testing ineffective. “Pulling slugs outta teenagers? Not so much.”

  “Just think,” Stevens said, squeezing Juanita's shoulder, “that slug might tell us who the asswipes are that killed him.”

  “Such a way with words.” Juanita stole a quick peck on Stevens' cheek before turning her attention back to the bullet. “Looks like a .380.”

  Stevens leaned in, his chin resting on Juanita's shoulder. He smiled to himself, knowing she would be able to smell his aftershave. Normally, she would feign annoyance at that and playfully slap Stevens on the arm, but given a lot of the other smells in this dungeon of a lab, maybe his Old Spice was a welcome reprieve. “I'd say that's a good bet, Doc.”

  “Only problem is,” Juanita added, dropping the blood-stained bullet into a nearby metal tin before placing said tin in a clear evidence bag, “there are more than a dozen firearms that can fire this kind of bullet.”

  Stevens snorted. “Then I guess it's a good thing we've got a whole department that does nothing but figure out what bullets came outta what guns.”

  “You know...” Juanita turned off the backlight attached to the magnifying glass before removing her protective goggles and peeling off her latex gloves. “I'm kinda jealous that you all get to go out there and bring down the people who do shit like this. I get blood and guts and sobbing relatives who come in to confirm ID... and...”

  Stevens closed the distance, grabbing Juanita by her shoulders and pulling her into a hug. His chin rested on the top of her head as his broad arms wrapped around her and his hand started running up and down her back. “I know, J.”

  “I'm not gonna be able to sleep for days,” she admitted, her voice muffled against Stevens' starch-white dress shirt. “All I'm gonna see is Devin's head.”

  “That's how it is for all of us,” Stevens explained, giving Juanita
a squeeze when her fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt. “It's different when it's a kid, you know? Even after we arrest whoever did this, it's gonna haunt us.”

  “It's not fair,” she whispered.

  “No, it ain't.” Stevens gently pulled out of the hug, keeping his hands on Juanita's shoulders. “I had my way, we'd slap the cuffs on those bastards, drag 'em in here, make 'em look at what they did, and then haul them off to spend the rest of their worthless lives in jail.”

  “Just... promise me you'll get 'em.”

  “J, look who you're talking to.” Stevens thrust a thumb over his shoulder. “Not just me, either. Hi is as hard-nosed as they come. Your brother's too goddamn decent a person to let something like this go... and don't forget we got our very own superhero on the team. Those four bags of puke who killed that boy? They're not long for this world.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Juanita reached around to give Stevens a playful slap on his backside.

  “Ballistics,” he shot back with a quick kiss.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Jill stepped into Captain Richards' office, shutting the door behind her, she noticed a man she had never seen before seated in the leather sofa across from the captain’s desk. He wore a navy blue three-piece suit that looked like it cost more than what she made in a month, and he had probably the best posture Jill had ever seen. The last time she saw a back that straight from a seated position, it was in a diagram they had shown her when she was in school.

  “Sir?” Jill cocked her head in the direction of the mystery man; her best guess was he was paying a visit from downtown, and Jill braced herself for whatever bombshell the Bishop had sent this man to drop on them.

  “Andersen, I want you to meet Colonel Jeff Downs,” Richards introduced, rising from his chair and emerging from behind his desk. “He's paying us a visit from downtown.”