Behind the Badge (22 page)

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?”

“So what if I did?” Another shrug. “You know how long ago that was?”

Jill almost bit back with
justice doesn't have an expiration date
, but as soon as the thought entered her mind, she blanched at just how
cheesy
that was. If Jill was going to start saying stuff like that, she might as well buy herself a pair of sunglasses to take off in the process of saying such nonsense.

CSI: Baltimore
, here she came.

“Again, establishing a pattern.” Now standing behind Paulson, and relishing in the confused look on his face because
how did she move that fast…
Jill allowed herself the tiniest of grins before resting her left fist in her right palm and cracking her knuckles. The flinch she got out of Paulson had been the exact response she wanted.

“Not really for the BPD. It's well known they've looked the other way when it comes to police brutality for decades. Pretty sure that's true in a lot of other places, too. But
you
, Mr. Paulson?” She refused to use the moniker of
detective
anymore. “You've been building up to this for years, haven't you?”

Before Paulson could react, Jill was in her seat again. For the first time, he got a look at her face that wasn't obstructed by strands of brown hair. Though the metal half of her face was still on full display, a tiny flicker escaping from her infrared eye on occasion, Paulson's eyes narrowed. The woman seated before him felt familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. It nagged at his subconscious, like a kitten trying to swat at a dangling thread that was just out of reach.

“Even ignoring your questionable behavior as an officer and detective,” she continued. “Good job getting the Bishop to gloss over that, by the way. Who needs red tape when you can just call one of the higher-ups you’re tight with and they can just make it all go away? But see... this even goes back to your war days. Tell me something, Joshua, why'd you enlist?”

The first time Paulson opened his mouth, his forehead scrunched in a potent mixture of confusion and anger, no words formed. So he closed his mouth and sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat in the process. His hands clasped together and rested on the table. “To serve the country I'm proud to call home.”

“And does
serving your country
involve killing civilians?” Jill arched her human brow.

“What?” Paulson spat as much as he spoke, poking at the table with his right middle finger. “Look,
freak
! Every monster I gunned down deserved it!”

“So your argument is that a woman in northwest Kuwait who was eight months pregnant deserved it?” Man, the file Captain Richards kept on Detective Paulson from back in the day had held some disgusting stuff in it. “That the three-year-old tugging on her hand as they wandered home deserved to have their head blown off?”

“Couldn't get Saddam,” Paulson said with all the indifference of a man who had been asked to take out the garbage. “They were the next best thing.”

“Innocent people,” Jill said with an anger to her tone.

“No such thing,” Paulson argued. “Just like there's no such thing as innocent in this city. Especially that Grainger kid, especially that damn preacher, and
damn sure especially
that Buckner kid!”

No sooner did the word
kid
escape Paulson's mouth, the edge of the table went airborne and clocked him in the chin. Paulson fell onto his ass, covering his face. Blood poured out from between his fingers as the table toppled over and his chair had skidded to the wall. Paulson looked up, blinking the stars out of his eyes in time to see Jill hovering over him, jaw clenched and fists cocked. She reached down and grabbed the detective by his collar, and Paulson chuckled before her elbow slammed into his nose.

Bone cracked. Blood spilled to the floor. Jill then dropped Paulson to the floor before approaching the door to the interrogation room and locking it. When Jill approached again, Paulson stammered and backpedaled to the far wall, his eyes wide and his nose gushing red. He stole a glance at the two-way mirror, his mouth hung open. “But...” he gaped, struggling to speak as blood filled his mouth. “Th-the cameras...”

“Are disabled,” she growled before pressing the heel of her left boot against Paulson's throat.

Paulson grit his teeth, which were now stained red, grabbing Jill's ankle with both hands. He tugged as hard as he could, but to no avail. “Y-you wouldn't...”

“Answer my questions and you won't have to find out,” she promised, even as there was incessant banging on the door.

Paulson kept his grip on Jill's boot, but his hands stopped struggling. Turning to the side to spit out the blood in his mouth, the detective sighed. His shoulders dropped and the anger disappeared from his eyes, replaced with the resignation of a man who knew he was at the end of his rope. The BPD would likely never touch him, but it was clear to him now that the vigilante was real and as driven as even the most annoying cop.

“Fine,” he snarled before spitting out more blood.

“Did you and Brady kill Carlos Grainger?”

“Yes.”

“Did you attack the detective working the case when he got too close to the truth?”

Paulson's eyes flickered upward. “Yes.”

The boot applied pressure to Paulson's neck. Not enough to cut off his air supply, but enough to make him think he was about to be choked. If nothing else, the panic that would elicit was worth it.

“Did you kill that preacher?”

“No.” Paulson sniffled and shook his head. “But I know who did. And nothing you or any of your cop buddies can say will make me spill.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you don’t scare me. I’ve been at this for a long time, and you’re not the first self-righteous goody-goody to get on my case.” A knowing smile crept onto Paulson’s face, as if the proverbial light bulb had just gone off. “How
is
Paul, anyway?”

The implication nearly made Jill double over, and she couldn’t help but wonder how someone she had
just
met already knew who she was -- even when she was dressed up as her alter ego. Perhaps her secret wasn’t as well-guarded as she thought, and every time someone else knew her secret, Jill fought the urge to march down to the local TV station and just… tell the world.

What a story
that
would be.

“You can ask him yourself after they fry your ass for assassinating an elected official,” Jill managed once she regained her composure.

Before Paulson could respond, a gunshot rang out and the door to Interrogation One swung open. By the time Jill glanced over her shoulder, she saw Detectives Stevens and Watson with their weapons drawn and trained at her back. Turning back to Paulson with a glare, she put her hands up before slowly turning around to face the two detectives.

“Your timing is impeccable,” she muttered. “He was in the process of confessing.”

“Not that we can do anything about that,” Stevens groused as he holstered his piece. Watson did the same before fishing out a pair of handcuffs and stepping behind Jill. He tugged on her right arm before tucking the hand behind her back and slapping the cuffs over her wrist. He repeated the motion with Jill's left arm until she was secure in the cuffs before leading her out of the room.

Stevens knelt beside Paulson once the commotion was over, another
tsk
sound coming out as he shook his head.

“Looks like your case just went down the shitter,” Paulson said with a chuckle. He was insufferably defiant, even with a broken nose and being soaked in his own blood.

“Maybe,” Stevens said as he yanked the other detective back to his feet. “But it was fun watching her beat on you. Ask me, you deserve a lot worse.”

◊◊◊

Once Hitori Watson got Jill to the Holding area, but before leading her into one of the cells, he took the cuffs off and pocketed them with a shake of his head. “That was a pretty stupid thing you did in there, Andersen. You’re lucky the cameras were off.”