Behind the Badge Read online

  Jill shook the man's hand when he stood, noting that he was four inches taller than her and as bald as they came. “Well, I don't mean any disrespect, Colonel, but visits from the Bishop aren't usually cause for good news.”

  “Understood,” Downs said with a genial smile.

  If nothing else, he didn't appear to be angry. Still, suits from the Bishop L. Robinson Sr. Police Administration Building didn’t normally poke their heads into individual precincts unless something major was going down. Briefly, the red block letters scrawled onto Jill's white board flashed into her brain again, and she wondered if this was going to confirm what she suspected. The last thing she wanted was for a case to pit her against someone else who wore the badge -- ethical dilemmas aside, that hit too close to home for her.

  “I believe I have information that might help you with your case,” Downs began, returning to his seat and grabbing black leather briefcase. He pulled a series of video surveillance stills from the briefcase, handing them to Jill. “You're looking at one of the vans that used to be a part of our fleet. The rear compartment had been modified to allow for use in tactical situations.”

  “Used to be,” Richards said, folding his arms over his chest.

  “We took the vehicle out of BPD rotation a year ago after a series of expensive repairs,” Downs explained. “That van has been... well, there's no delicate way to put this, but... does the name Pedro Mendoza mean anything to you?”

  Jill and her captain exchanged a look. Prior to Buckner, Pedro Mendoza had been the latest victim of the alleged rough rides that had been part of the city's lore over the years. Pedro had died two weeks after suffering spinal cord injuries in one of those rides, and his death had triggered a groundswell of protests and the already simmering unrest between the city's African-American population and the police came to a proverbial boil. It got so bad at one point that the Baltimore Orioles had two of their games at Camden Yards postponed, and they even played a game in front of a completely empty stadium. Nothing more surreal than a walkoff grand slam in front of an empty ballpark.

  “You're saying this was the van used?” Richards asked.

  “We believe so.” Downs pulled a pair of glasses from the inside pocket of his suit coat, carefully unfolding and placing them on the bridge of his nose. “We were never able to press charges because the investigation got caught up in apathy and red tape. The Ninth Precinct wasn't putting much effort into it and there was no pressure from higher up.”

  “And why was that?” Jill asked with a quirked brow.

  “The Commissioner's priority was quelling the protests,” Downs explained. “I tried to keep the wheels spinning, but once the uprisings caught everyone's attention... Detective Andersen, I trust you're familiar with the legend of Sisyphus?”

  Now that Downs mentioned it, this did feel an awful lot like pushing a boulder up a mountain, only to have it fall back near the tipping point. She had more than her share of cases that felt like they would never be solved, and as much as she hoped this wouldn’t be one of them, her gut told her otherwise. Jill turned her attention back to the glossy photos in her hand. Other than the official BPD insignia on the sides and across the hood, it looked just like the van they had seen earlier that day on the surveillance video. “Please tell me there was a name to go with this van. A department, an officer in charge of maintenance... something.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” Downs stood again, pulling a small index card from his pocket. “Nolan Carter, currently works Narcotics over at the Fourth.”

  Richards removed his glasses. “Did we ever look into him?”

  “Looked, yes.” Downs sighed. “Investigated, no. He's got over a decade on the force and his record is exemplary.”

  “So we just looked the other way,” Jill muttered with a roll of her eyes.

  “Despite my best efforts,” Downs said with a sheepish grin and a shrug of his shoulders. “My guess is, Carter has someone at the Bishop who makes sure his record’s squeaky clean. Makes him easy to gloss over when we hear rumors of stuff like this.”

  Richards frowned. “Why would a Narcotics cop need a tactical van?”

  “Best as our records indicate?” Another shrug from Downs. “Undercover work. Last year, Carter had spent six weeks working undercover at the Inner Harbor, trying to track several shipments of Colombian crack cocaine. We disrupted two shipments, but never could trace the source.”

  Jill nodded, making a mental note to take a closer look at Carter and anyone else within the department who may have worked with him. Narcotics had the highest volume of cops on the take, from several different corrupt sources, and she was suspicious that Carter’s inability to find a source for the drugs was more likely a case of looking the other way.

  She needed the proof, but in Jill’s experience, if there was enough anecdotal evidence that a cop was sticking his hand in a bunch of dirty pies… well, maybe there was something to it.

  “Unfortunately, I have to get back to the Bishop. Meeting with the Commissioner in twenty.” The two men shook hands when Downs rose from his seat. “Daniel, always a pleasure.”

  Turning to open the door to the captain's office, which overlooked the rest of the bullpen, Downs stopped and turned to Jill. “I sincerely hope everything Dan's told me about you is true, Detective.”

  Jill turned to Dan with a furrowed brow as the door shut again. “What the hell was that?”

  Richards gave a dismissive wave. “Don't mind Jeff. Guy's seen too much NYPD Blue.” He lowered himself into his chair again with a sigh, grabbing the navy blue mug at his desk and grimacing when he noticed it was empty.

  “Cap.” Jill shook her head. “If this is the van...”

  “I know. I'm right there with you.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Your job.” Setting the mug back down, Richards paused to glance at the old photograph he still kept on his desk of himself and Paul, back when they were both still detectives. Paul's haircut was dreadful, and Richards looked like a damn kid clean-shaven like that, but they were happy. It was a reminder of when all was right in Daniel Richards' professional world. “Keep doing what you do best. I'll handle the jackals if it comes to that.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Hitori Watson had stared at the low-resolution video for so long that his eyes were starting to burn. Not even a lengthy coffee break and half a bottle of eye drops could make the redness go away, yet he persisted. Now that they had something resembling a lead, he was determined to chase it until it went somewhere. The fact that he was working without his partner, who had to recuse herself from the case because she was related to the victim, made him all the more determined. This wasn't just one cop looking out for another, or having a partner's back. Whitney Blankenship was Watson's best friend, and the best thing he could think to do for her right now was to help catch the scum who killed her nephew.

  So far, nothing on the surveillance footage linked the van used in Devin Buckner's killing to the van Colonel Downs had alerted them to. But Watson had put in a call a half hour ago for traffic cam footage within a nine-block radius of the scene of the murder, expanding the search from the original three-block area. Their current footage didn't give a clear shot of the van's license plate; the hope was they would find a better view and be able to track it that way. Various complaints from motorists who had called to report the van could also be helpful in piecing together Devin Buckner’s final moments.

  “Any luck?” Detective Stevens asked as soon as he stepped off the elevator.

  “Not yet,” Watson said with a sigh, returning to his desk and grabbing the pen sitting atop a stack of papers that had been neglected for the better part of a week. “Waiting for more traffic cam footage. Where are we on the bullet?”

  “It's a .380,” Stevens explained, plopping himself into the chair beside Watson's desk. A few months ago, the chair would've squeaked under Stevens' weight, but now it made no noise when he lowered himself into the seat. “Bal
listics is goin' over it now, hope we get a gun match by the end of the day.”

  “Fucking 17-year-old kid,” Watson muttered. He hardly ever cursed, unlike so many of his colleagues, but if any situation warranted an f-bomb...

  Before Stevens could say anything, the phone on Watson's desk rang. He rolled his eyes before grabbing the receiver. “Watson.”

  “Good afternoon, Detective,” a digitally-altered voice greeted.

  Watson frowned, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder before locking eyes on Stevens. The other detective bolted from the chair, rushing to his desk before grabbing his own phone to call for a trace on Watson's line. “Who is this?” Watson asked.

  “That would be telling,” the voice mocked. “What good is this voice distorter if I tell you who I am?”

  “Fair point,” Watson conceded. “What do you want?”

  “The van is a match, and I know where it is.”

  “That's good,” Watson said as he motioned in a circular pattern with his finger, signaling that he was trying to draw this out. “I trust, then, that you're calling to give us the location so we can check it out for ourselves?”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” the voice cautioned, an edge in its tone piercing through the digitization. “You will not solve this murder.”

  Watson sat up a little straighter, grabbing the receiver again. He saw Stevens mouth the words keep him talking. “Is that a prediction or a threat?”

  “That little punk deserved what he got. And so will anyone else who meddles.”

  The line went dead with a click before Watson could respond. The receiver was still pressed against his ear when Stevens cursed under his breath and slammed his own phone down. They hadn't been able to get an accurate trace before the call disconnected, and Watson immediately bolted from his chair and approached the murder board, uncapping the red pen and jotting down the words mystery caller - threat?

  “Whoever that was better hope we don't find him,” Stevens warned as he approached the board. “Otherwise, I might hafta beat the guy with his own limbs.” As he said that, Stevens' mobile buzzed against his hip. Swiping the device from its holster, the detective gave a tsk noise before answering.

  “Stevens... yeah?” His angry scowl morphed into a self-satisfied grin. “No shit? Thanks a lot, J. Drinks are on me when this is all over.”

  As soon as Stevens hung up and pocketed his phone, he grabbed the marker from Watson and scribbled onto the dry-erase board in his own brand of chicken scratch. But whereas Stevens had to type his police reports on account of his illegible handwriting, what he jotted on the board this time needed no translation: Sig Sauer P230.

  CHAPTER 11

  Though official details regarding Devin Buckner’s murder were scarce, word had spread enough through the city that more socially-conscious residents were already making their voices heard. Television crews were camped out on Pratt Street, near the mouth of the Inner Harbor, where a handful of protestors had gathered. It was the same spot at which Occupy Wall Street protestors had set up tents two years earlier, but now it was occupied by those holding up signs mourning the 17-year-old boy and asking for police to be held accountable. One sign even harkened back to an old NWA rap track that referred to the police in a less-than-polite manner. Unsurprisingly, the TV crew was focused on that sign and little else.

  A young man in shoulder-length dreads and a faded Ravens hoodie addressed the throng, speaking into the bullhorn clutched in his right hand. “When will this stop?!” he all but pleaded, a chorus of amen and preach shouted from his audience. “When will we finally see justice in this godforsaken city?!”

  As he spoke, the self-appointed leader of the group side-eyed the WTZ camera that had been thrust in his face. He lowered the bullhorn and took a step back, his lips curling into a sneer inside his thin black goatee. “Man, get that shit out my face!”

  The cameraman never moved, as oblivious to the order as the traffic crawling along Pratt Street. At this point, several of the protestors had taken notice, shouting expletives and hurling orders of their own at the cameraman. “You’re not welcome here!” one of the women shouted.

  “You’re as bad as the cops!” yelled an elderly man hunched over his cane.

  The grassy patch in front of the Port of Baltimore had often been a prime spot for social gatherings of this nature, with the Inner Harbor a picturesque backdrop to cries for equality and justice and mercy. Those cries were often ignored, if not outright mocked, and that as much as anything stoked the tensions that plagued this city. Pedro Mendoza’s murder a little over a year ago had been no different.

  At that point, a demonstration on this small field had erupted into a full-blown riot once police had arrived and escalated the situation. Prior to the cops’ arrival, the protestors had merely been exercising their First Amendment rights. It wasn’t until the riot gear and police dogs showed up that things got out of hand.

  Now that the TV crews had shown up, it was only a matter of time before the police showed up again. The man with the bullhorn, whose name was Leo, rolled his eyes. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone from the BPD showed up, and as much as he hoped things wouldn’t build up any further, he had no faith that they wouldn’t.

  “I said get that shit out my face,” he repeated in a softer tone, stepping away from the cameraman and using his bullhorn to block his face. But the cameraman matched Leo step-for-step. One of the protestors emerged from the crowd with a scowl on his face, his black and orange Orioles cap tilted to the right.

  “Listen to the man!”

  “Freedom of the press, asshole,” the cameraman said without once pulling his gaze from his viewfinder. “I have just as much a right to be here as you.”

  “That ‘freedom of the press’ thing’s real nice,” Leo said. “Means you can go back to your little cave and edit this shit to suit your agenda.”

  “No agenda here.” Again, the cameraman never stopped filming.

  “Oh, no?” The other man who had spoken up shook his head and made a tsk sound. “Then why don’t you come right out and say what we already know? Why the secrets? You can’t say somethin’ without the cops clearin’ it first?”

  “Justice for Devin Buckner!” several voices shouted.

  “I’ll call the cops,” the cameraman warned.

  Leo shrugged and set his bullhorn onto the ground before approaching the camera. “And what?” He jabbed at the lens with his finger. “You’ll tell them we’re out here exercising our right to free speech? Oh, I’m sorry, there’s a gathering of black people out here, so obviously we must be violent!”

  The cameraman said nothing and held his ground.

  Leo grabbed the camera with both hands, training the lens on his face. “We will not stand for this anymore! You hear me? Another one of us is dead on these streets, and we have had it! Didn’t we learn from the last time this happened? Wasn’t seeing this city burn enough to teach you people what happens when you mess with us? Or do y’all hate us so bad that you don’t care what happens, just so long as it’s our blood being spilled?”

  The chorus behind Leo intensified with every word, the crowd emerging in the frame with their signs and their vocal expressions of support.

  “We just wanna be left alone, man,” Leo continued, his face softening and a deep sadness forming in his eyes. “We just wanna live our lives, try to make things better for one another. But don’t get me wrong: this keeps up, we will not stand quietly. You leave us alone, we’ll leave you alone. Don’t test us.”

  ◊◊◊

  “You think they’ll listen?” Whitney Blankenship asked with a trace of hope in her voice as her father, Reginald, turned off the television.

  “Shit no!” he groused as he tossed the remote aside. “We’ve been sayin’ shit like that since the 1960s, ain’t made a damn bit of difference.”

  All Blankenship could do was stare at the television, taking in her distorted reflection against the now-bla
ck surface. Having lost Devin at such a young age was a tragedy in and of itself, but knowing how he died -- knowing that his name was now synonymous with so many others throughout the country -- was enough to turn her stomach. More than once since returning home, she had cursed BPD regulations for forcing her off the case, even though she was glad to know her colleagues were on it.

  “Ain’t shit gonna happen,” Reginald continued with a dismissive wave of his hand -- a hand that wore the championship ring he had won in 1989 with the San Francisco 49ers. “Cops won’t solve the case, cause they don’t care.”

  “You don’t know that,” Blankenship bit back with so much vehemence that it surprised even her. Her shoulders slumped and she gave her father an apologetic smile. “I mean… my team’s on the case. They’re good cops.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Reginald countered.

  “No, you don’t get it.” Blankenship stood and began pacing in front of the television. “Detective Andersen? She’s, like, the best cop I’ve ever worked with. Not cause she’s smarter than anyone or she notices things, but… she’s relentless. If I could hand-pick someone to work this case, it would be her.”

  “No, you don’t get it.” Reginald rose and grabbed his daughter by the shoulders, his expression softening. “I’m not saying your friends won’t solve the case. I’m saying they can’t.”

  Blankenship frowned in confusion.

  “Baby, what makes you think Downtown will let them?”

  “Be-” Blankenship blinked and faltered. “Because that’s their job. To catch killers.”

  “Even when those killers are wearing badges?”

  Her frown deepened. Blankenship hadn’t been a detective for long, and she still clung to some of that idealism she had coming out of the Academy. The job hadn’t yet jaded her the way it had many of the other veterans, but from the sound of it, that was exactly the attitude her father wanted her to have.