Behind the Badge (21 page)

CHAPTER 50

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Daniel Richards paid little mind to the nightly news. Having WJZ on in time for the 11:00 news was as much a habit as anything else, but seldom did Richards pay the anchors any mind. Their make-up was a little too obvious in this era of high definition, and they read their scripts with either far too much vigor or as if they were in dire need of a battery change. In truth, Richards watched most nights just to make sure Jill didn't wind up on the airwaves. The ritual had started the moment Jill revealed to him that she was the costumed vigilante known as Bounty, and thus far, Richards' second-worst fear hadn't yet come true.

But when the graphic showed up over the male anchor's left shoulder -- a hastily thrown together image of a shadow above the sprawled-out words
Vigilante at the Inner Harbor
-- Richards' heart skipped a beat. He reached for the remote with such haste that he accidentally knocked the trophy he kept by his side off the desk. It had once celebrated his team winning the annual Cops vs. Firefighters charity softball game, but now it lay on the floor in three pieces.

Richards took his TV off mute.

“
It would appear
,” the anchor began with a studious glare into the camera, “
that Bounty is not alone. Eyewitness accounts near Pier 5 on the Inner Harbor this afternoon have told WJZ that a masked vigilante took control of a Baltimore Police Department SWAT vehicle, driving it into the water and emerging from the driver's side just moments before splashdown.
”

With a ragged sigh, and expecting his phone to be ringing off the hook at any moment, Richards leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“
While the BPD has yet to confirm this information, reports from multiple sources tell WJZ that the van was carrying the four police officers officially charged in the murder of 17-year-old Devin Buckner. Our own Bernard Escobar is in front of City Hall with the rest of the story.
”

The camera cut to a thin-built Hispanic man who wore a brown suit that looked a size and a half too large, a black-and-purple umbrella resting on his left shoulder as he spoke into the microphone clutched in his right hand. “
Tom, it has been a rough week for Baltimore Police, and it has gotten even worse with the news that the four officers charged in Devin Buckner's murder might have just been plunged into the Chesapeake Bay. Officials aren't offering many details, but here is what we know as of now: at roughly 3:30 p.m. earlier this afternoon, witnesses at Pier 5 said they spotted a SWAT vehicle careening through the pier out of control and at a high rate of speed. Just before the van fell into the water, witnesses say the driver's side door swung open and a black-clad figure barrel-rolled out.

“
The van sank into the water almost immediately, and outgoing tides pushed the vehicle further away from the pier. The BPD has sent a dive team out to retrieve the van, and the FBI has offered its assistance. Tom?
”

The anchor returned on-screen. “
Bernard, what do we know about this masked figure?
”

“
Other than the fact that it wasn't Bounty, not much
,” the reporter answered with a shake of his head as the monitor went to a split screen. “
Witnesses say this particular individual had a male frame, and their black outfit included a mask that obscured even their eyes. The BPD has no comment at this point, and they have not offered anything more in the way of specifics regarding this individual
.”

“
What
do
we know at this point?
” the anchor asked.

“
Only what we've already shared with our viewers
,” Bernard answered. “
Several TV crews and a gaggle of newspaper writers have gathered here in front of City Hall awaiting an update, and I'm told Deputy Commissioner Baldwin will provide a statement at midnight, but at this point, we're all just playing the waiting game. Tom?
”

“
Thank you, Bernard.
” The anchor gazed seriously into the camera again. “
This evening, Detective Joshua Paulson, out of the Narcotics division, is being held in police custody and being questioned in the assassination of District Attorney Ramona Parish. A police spokesperson would not go into more detail, but sources have told Eyewitness News that Paulson is the lead suspect in the case.
”

Richards turned off the TV in disgust, tossing his remote across the office and scrubbing both hands over his face. The stubble on his cheeks was patchy, the result of not having used a razor in three days, and the hairs on his mustache were threatening to curl as they grew past his upper lip. He removed his glasses, trying to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes before spinning in his chair and reaching for the bottle of whiskey behind his desk. The bullpen was empty at this late hour, aside from the janitorial staff, so Richards had no qualms with pouring himself two fingers of the amber liquid before downing it in one gulp.

He hissed as the glass slammed against the desk. Richards stared out the window overlooking the city, shaking his head and biting his lower lip.

Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse...

Chapter 51

As soon as the sun began to rise, bathing downtown Baltimore in its refreshing light, protestors began to congregate on the grassy area off to the side of Pratt Street. The four officers winding up in the bay the day before had done little to sate the protestors’ anger; for them, it wasn’t simply a case of those four officers answering for their crime. It was also the fact that the city’s political elite still had Devin Buckner’s blood on their hands. Vigilante justice was good enough for some, but for others, justice wasn’t final until those calling the shots were also held to account.

Signs calling for Commissioner Saunders’ resignation waved for a nearby news helicopter to capture on camera. Protestors chanted at the top of their lungs, their voices carrying into the cars creeping along Pratt as fast as the off-synch traffic lights would allow. The ringleader, his mouth pressed to a bullhorn, raised his right fist into the air, his voice straining as he repeatedly called for the mayor to resign as well.

“Not just for Devin Buckner!” he cried out. “And not just for all of the others killed at the hands of the police! Ramona Parish deserves justice, too!”

“Amen!” one of the voices in the crowd called out.

“She was on our side! So they put a bullet in her head!”

“Preach!”

“All we ask is for justice to be served!” The man with the bullhorn slammed his free fist against his chest. “All we ask is those who took an oath to protect us pay a price when they fail to live up to that oath!”

“
Black lives matter!
” the crowd began to chant. “
Black lives matter! Black lives matter!
”

Another voice cut through the chanting, muffled by its own bullhorn and startling the protestors into silence. “
Back away and disperse at once. Repeat: back away and disperse at once!
”

The man leading the cheers lowered his bullhorn and squinted into the thick lenses of his black-rimmed glasses. Six police officers decked out in riot gear were marching onto the grass, carrying clear shields and black batons. Handguns were clearly displayed on their hips, and all six officers wore stony gazes, their eyes practically hidden under their helmets and behind their visors.

“What is this?” the protest leader asked. “We have a right to be here.”

“But you do not have the right to cause a scene.”

“First Amendment, bruh,” one of the other protestors argued. “We ain’t hurtin’ nobody. You can’t harass us.”

“Citizen complaints,” the lead cop in riot gear, who had the name
Simmons
etched into his black vest, countered. “When people feel threatened, we’re obliged to respond.”

“Bullshit,” the protest leader bit back, setting his bullhorn down on the ground before standing up as straight as he could. Several of the protestors surrounding him had pulled out their phones to record the confrontation. “Ain’t no one call nuthin’ in… y’all just wanna keep us quiet.”

Simmons’ fingers flexed against the baton in his right hand. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “You should show some respect, boy.”

The young man’s eyes widened at the word
boy
, but -- thanks in part to the hand resting on his left shoulder -- his hands did not ball into fists and he stood perfectly still. Instead, his lips curled into a sneer and he shook his head. “Y’all don’t deserve no respect.”

“Put your hands in the air,” Simmons ordered. “All of you.”

A couple of the protestors near the back of the gathering put their hands up in the air, but the protest leader and the group immediately surrounding him did nothing. In fact, the young man took a step toward Simmons, holding his hands up in front of himself to show he wasn’t a threat. Two of the women behind him gasped when one of the policemen reached for the gun on his hip and drew the weapon.

“You arrestin’ us?” the young man asked. “What for?”

“I said, hands in the air!” Simmons yelled over the young man’s shoulder.

“No!” came a yell from the crowd.

“Son, don’t make me draw my weapon…”

“I wish you would!” the young man challenged. “Vincent Wiggins got nuthin’ to hide!”

“Sir,” Simmons warned, “step back!”

Instead, Vincent stepped forward. “Fuck. You.”

All six cops in riot gear sheathed their batons and drew their guns instead. Simmons cocked his weapon and set his jaw, pointing the barrel of his BPD-issued firearm right at Vincent’s forehead. Vincent stood his ground, chin held high, even as some of the protestors behind him gasped and cowered together. The blades of the news chopper whirred overhead, and Vincent stole a glance skyward.

“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 life 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?