As soon as the elevator stopped and the doors opened, Jill burst through again, following the trail of nurses running to her right. A heart monitor was beeping so loudly that Jill lost her train of thought. She was almost running on autopilot as it was by this point, raising her badge over her head.
“Detective Andersen, BPD!” she tried to shout over the shrill beeping. “Step aside! Police!”
A few of the stragglers had heard her and stepped aside. As Jill grew closer to the source of the commotion, the beeping grew louder. It was so loud by this point that it pierced through Jill's ears, and she physically recoiled at the sensation. She had to push her way past the two nurses standing in the doorway, flashing her badge again when the nurse to her left shot her a nasty glare.
By the time Jill burst into the room, the beeping had grown constant. She saw an ER tech with defibrillator paddles in his hands, resting his right knee on Colonel Downs' bed.
“Clear!” the nurse shouted.
The ER tech pressed the paddles into Downs' chest.
His body bounced off the bed.
The beeping remained constant.
Paddles rubbed together. The nurse, her hair so red it looked like it was on fire, twisted another nob.
“Clear!”
Zap.
Bounce.
Nothing.
“Shit!” the nurse shouted, yanking on the nob one more time.
“Clear!”
Zap.
Bounce.
Beep.
...Beep.
Jill held her breath, waiting for the next beep. Then the one after that. Then yet another after that, until eventually the beeping became more rhythmic. The nurse and ER tech both sighed in relief, and as the lanky ER tech replaced the paddles, he kissed the nurse on the top of her head. He gave Jill a nod before slipping out of the room, and many of the nurses who had sprinted to Colonel Downs' room had dispersed. Three uniformed officers were standing in the doorway with their guns drawn.
“Stand down,” Jill ordered before glancing at the nurse. “What happened?”
“Twenty minutes ago, his heart rate spiked,” the nurse, whose name tag read Lee, explained. “It doubled, and then it tripled. When we came in, he was convulsing so violently that we had to restrain him. Which... was when he started foaming at the mouth.”
Jill finally glanced at Colonel Downs' face, noting both how pale he was and the white film that now lined his lips.
“He went into cardiac arrest,” Nurse Lee continued, “and that's when you got here.”
“How did it happen?”
“We don't know,” the nurse answered with an apologetic frown.
“Who all has been in this room?”
Nurse Lee shook her head. “Just whichever nurse has been on-call. You can check the logs, if you'd like.”
Jill nodded and glanced over her shoulder. None of the uniformed officers appeared to be skeptical of the nurse's story. “Security cam footage, too.”
“Of course,” Nurse Lee agreed before leaving the room.
Standing by the colonel's side, and trying to suppress the memory of when she was last laid up in a hospital bed, Jill fished her phone out of her pocket again. “It's me,” she responded when Captain Richards answered. “Colonel Downs is still alive. They're saying it was cardiac arrest, but I'm thinking it was something else. I'm gonna hang around here, see what I can find. Get those four back in Interrogation; something tells me I need to have another chat with them.”
Hanging up, Jill studied the man in the hospital bed. She didn't know what it was about hospitals, but they always made people seem smaller and weaker than they really were. Not that Jeff Downs was the most physically imposing person in the world to begin with, but unconscious in that bed, having just been resuscitated, he looked a far cry from the man who was fourth in line to take over at the Bishop.
Still, he had been key to breaking this case open -- twice -- so Jill owed it to him to solve it. But that wasn't all she owed him.
“I’ve decided,” she said, grabbing the rail on the side of Downs' bed. “I wanna take the Sergeant's exam.”
CHAPTER 28
Jorge Santos’ Towson area apartment wasn’t the largest piece of real estate in the greater Baltimore area, but it was quiet and clean and just the sanctuary Ramon needed after a rough day at the precinct. Then again, every day at the Seventh was rough anymore; Ramon couldn’t remember the last time he had left the Homicide floor and not felt the beginnings of a stress headache teasing his temples. The current case was especially vexing -- to say nothing of the homicide that wasn’t even in Ramon’s jurisdiction. Not that he could do anything about that, aside from offering a meal and a place to stay to the teenager who had been left behind in the wake of her grandfather’s murder.
Ramon shed his coat with a smile as he entered the kitchen, before promptly pulling both his badge and his service piece from his belt and placing them on a side table beside a stack of mail that threatened to topple over. Bills that just so happened to be due right around payday, people responding to the RSVP for the upcoming wedding, and who knew what else was sitting in that pile, and Ramon couldn’t find the energy to care about it at the moment.
“Nothing I like more than coming home to the smell of dinner already cooking.” Ramon came up to Jorge from behind, planting a kiss on his fiancé’s cheek. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Plateada con quinoa,” Jorge answered with a smile. “Papi’s favorite recipe.”
“This’ll be your first real meal of the day,” Mitch said with a sideways grin, shedding her own coat. She kept her distance from the pair, still feeling out of place in someone else’s home and realizing she still hadn’t yet been properly introduced to Ramon’s fiancé.
Both men glanced over their shoulder with a smile before Ramon stepped back and slipped his hand into Jorge’s. “Babe, this is Mitch. Mitch, this is Jorge.”
“Welcome.” Jorge shook Mitch’s hand with a soft grin. “I’m sorry to hear about your grandfather.”
“Thanks.” The grin on Mitch’s face fell, but with a clear of her throat, she straightened her shoulders and nodded toward the steaming skillet. “So what’s that… plate of queen or whatever it was you said?”
Jorge chuckled and turned down the heat. “Plateada con quinoa,” he emphasized his accent as he said it, channeling his late father Francisco. “It’s a cut of beef cooked with quinoa, onions, garlic, and a little bit of white wine.”
Ramon arched a brow.
“Okay, maybe more than a little.”
“Smells really good.” Mitch approached the stove, watching the wine sauce bubbling and steam rising toward the ceiling. Her mouth watered and stomach gurgled; thankfully for Mitch, the sizzling of the meat being cooked masked the sound.
“Want something to drink?” Ramon asked, popping open the fridge and grabbing two bottles of beer. “Water? Soda?”
“Water’s fine,” Mitch said, taking the seat at the dining table along the far wall. Jorge placed a large, crystal bowl in the center, a pile of chopped lettuce and other assorted vegetables shaped like a mountain, drizzled in a dressing that looked similar to the white wine sauce on the skillet.
Ramon tossed a bottle of water Mitch’s way before taking the open seat to her left, twisting open his beer and taking a long first swig. “In a couple years, you’re gonna learn the joy of sitting back with a cold beer after a long day.”
Mitch suppressed a smirk through her first sip of water. “Unless I find a beer that tastes like something other than watered-down piss, I doubt it.”
Jorge came to the table with three empty plates, placing them on the wooden surface before ruffling his hands through Ramon’s hair. “You’re lucky you catch killers for a living; otherwise, I’d give you hell for not helping set the table.”
“I’m entertaining our guest,” Ramon argued with a sideways grin.
Grinning through another sip, Mitch capped her bottle and set it aside.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Little more than four years,” Jorge said, bringing the skillet to the table and placing a hunk of steak on each. He scooped some of the wine sauce onto each filet before returning the skillet to the burner, turning off the heat, and opening his own beer.
“Jorge came with me when I got the detective gig here,” Ramon added, scooping some of the salad onto his plate. “I was a uniform in L.A., and we jumped at the chance to come east.”
“No,” Jorge countered, “I jumped at the chance to get out of Inglewood. Being with you was just a bonus.”
“See what I put up with every night?”
Mitch couldn’t help laugh around her first bite of steak, eagerly cutting herself a second piece once the flavor registered. She hurriedly ate a third bite and took a swig of water before nodding in Jorge’s direction. “This is amazing.”
“Papi never steered me wrong.” Jorge and Ramon locked hands as they ate, which drew a raised eyebrow from Mitch.
“Are you two always like this?”
“Guilty as charged.” Ramon’s smile was cheeky before he set down his fork and took another swig of beer. “We’ve pretty much gotten over thinking what people think of us.”
“You ever been in love?” When Mitch shook her head, Jorge smiled. “You’ll understand when you are.”
Silence fell upon the three as they ate their respective dinners. Mitch was the first to clean off her plate, having devoured the steak with little effort and followed through with scooping out a second helping of the salad. It was the most well-rounded meal she’d had in weeks; everything lately had come in a brown paper bag, and she was getting tired of it. She shook her braids out of her face as she ate, reminding herself at random intervals to slow down and actually chew.
“You from Baltimore?” Jorge asked, scooping out some more of the salad onto his plate.
“Born and raised,” Mitch answered in between bites and washing it down by emptying her bottle. “Never even been anywhere to visit.”
“What do you want to do in life?” Ramon asked. “Given that any thought?”
“A little.” Mitch shrugged. “Been wantin’ to go to college. Grampy was helpin’ me fill out forms for money. Applied to Coppin State, got in…”
Jorge nodded. “Just a matter of aid.”
Ramon downed the rest of his beer. “What were you gonna study?”
“Psychology.” Mitch’s shoulders straightened. “I wanna be a therapist, you know? Maybe… I dunno, maybe help people strugglin’ with their identities, stuff like that.”
The smile on Jorge’s face grew and raised his beer bottle in salute. “I’m just about finished with my Master’s in Counseling. I’m hoping to one day open a practice that’ll be accessible to low-income and at-risk youth. Often, they desperately need services they can’t afford or don’t even know about, and I wanna change that.”
“Grampy always made sure I did good in school,” Mitch said, lowering her gaze and setting the fork down on her plate. “Made sure I kept goin’, made sure I did all my homework. Cursed out a teacher or two.”
Ramon raised an eyebrow. “A preacher cursing out a teacher.”
A wry smile crept onto Mitch’s face. “He said God would understand. He said God would look down upon him with a smile because he fighting the righteous fight.”
Jorge polished off his beer. “Your grandfather sounds like one hell of a man.”
“He was.” A wistful smile spread across Mitch’s face. “He was the one who started calling me Mitch, when I was real little. My given name is Terrance David Mitchell, but I guess I never really responded to my first name. My folks tried everything… Terrance, David… Dave… nothing. But one day Grampy was all ‘Hey, Mitch!’ and I crawled right to him.”
“I bet that went over well at home.”
“It was a’ight.” Mitch took another bite of salad. “School was harder. Other kids weren’t real big on respectin’ me.” Mitch took her last bite. “It’s funny; people find out who I am and think I should have a girl-soundin’ name, but… I dunno, Mitch just fits.”
“No argument here,” Jorge said before standing to start the process of cleaning off the table. “You know, if you still wanna go to school, I can help you with finding aid.”
Mitch blinked with a frown. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” Jorge glanced at Mitch and gave a knowing smile. “Lemme guess, the Financial Aid people told you there wasn’t anything.”
Mitch nodded.
“Let’s just say I know people who know things.” Jorge’s smile widened. “There’s plenty of scholarship money available for people who want to get into counseling, and there’s money for minority students. You just gotta know who to ask.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Mitch said, almost as if the response was automatic, pre-programmed. Then, her shoulders slumped a little. “Thank you.”
“And feel free to stay in the spare room as long as you need,” Ramon added. “And once Jorge moves in with me, we’ll have a room there too. If you need it.”
Mitch frowned. “You two don’t live together?”
“Well, with Ramon working downtown and me here at Towson, that would’ve been a hell of a commute,” Jorge explained. “Besides, Ramon’s been living with his sister so they could share costs… but since her raise, I think Juanita’s been looking for a place of her own.”
“A place where she and Detective Stevens can do whatever the hell they want without me being in the way,” Ramon added, with an exaggerated look of disgust on his face.
“You guys really don’t have to do this,” Mitch repeated. Such unsolicited kindness was foreign to her, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Detective Gutierrez wasn’t even in the jurisdiction where her grandfather had been murdered, yet he was looking out for Mitch -- along with his fiancé, whom Mitch had never met until almost an hour ago. Mitch was so used to being on her guard and mistrusting others on pure instinct that this was unnerving in its own way.
“It’s bad enough you’re getting screwed on the murder investigation,” Ramon said, taking Mitch’s plate and empty water bottle. “I can’t just leave you be to fend for yourself at what’s probably the lowest point in your life.”
“But you’ve got your own murder to solve.”
“I can’t speak for Paulson,” Ramon added, taking his seat again, “but I became a cop to help people. Sometimes, helping them means finding out who killed their loved ones. Sometimes, it means getting them out of hairy situations alive. Right now, that means trying to help you stay on your feet.”
Mitch nodded and looked down at her hands, which were clasped together in her lap. She brought one up to her face, finger swiping at her eye. She was really trying not to cry in front of these two. Really, she didn’t feel like crying anymore period, because it felt like it was all she had done whenever she had a moment to herself anymore. But the kindness of these two relative strangers overwhelmed her, and they reminded Mitch so much of her grandfather that she couldn’t help the tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered as Ramon squeezed her shoulder.
CHAPTER 29
No sooner did Daniel Richards hang up the phone and grab the keys that would open the cells in Holding than he heard the door to his office open. A woman roughly three inches taller than him barged into the office, shutting the door behind her so hard that the blinds smacked against the glass. The noise caught the attention of the detectives in the bullpen, and when they all looked up, Richards waved them off. There was a reason he tried to keep the blinds closed as often as possible. He didn't feel the need to stare out at those under his command from his office.
“Can I help you?” he asked with an arched brow.
“Lori Taylor,” the woman, with black hair done up in a tight ponytail, introduced without extending her hand. “Legal counsel for the Baltimore Police Department.”
Richards pursed his lips and pocketed his keys. He supposed he should ha
ve seen this coming, mentally chastising himself for the fact that he was surprised. If the department as a whole was lawyering up -- and making a show of it in one of the precincts -- the captain couldn't help but shake his head and roll his eyes. He did manage to fight back a smirk when he saw Lori's eyes narrow.
“You are to release the four officers currently in your custody,” she ordered. “You have no cause to hold them any longer.”
“What makes you say that?” Richards narrowed his gaze and removed his glasses. “We have photographic evidence of Officer Carter accepting bribes. We have a confession that these officers killed Devin Buckner. We have countless eyewitnesses to the incident with the van last night. All due respect, Ms. Taylor, but we have a shitload of cause.”
“If you had anything to charge them with, you would've done it by now.”
“Look,” Richards began, “I realize you have a job to do. But they're still suspects in this case. We will likely have to interrogate them again.”
“So you will talk to them at a time of their choosing, in my presence,” Lori shot back. “And it won't be in an interrogation room.”
“Do you have any idea what they're accused of doing?” Richards asked. “Do you even know that in addition to murder, Officer Carter is facing money laundering charges?”
“I am.” Lori squinted again. “And believe me when I say the DA's office will be hearing from me very shortly.”
“You do what you need to do.” Richards walked past the lawyer, fishing the keys out of his pocket again before opening the door to his office. “But get in the way of my people and their investigation at your own peril.”
“Is that a threat?” Lori asked, keeping pace with Richards as he made his way into the labyrinth known as Holding. Her heels against the hardwood floor echoed in the dimly-lit hall.
“You underestimate my people.”
“So I've heard.” Lori caught up with Richards before pushing her way in front of him and interrupting his progress. “So eager to do their job, they don't know what that job actually is.”
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