“This is what happens when you push back again the Blue Wall,” Downs said with a certain wistfulness to his tone. “You're not the first Andersen to come up against it, either.”
Jill and Watson exchanged a look. “Sir?”
“I dunno if you remember Carlos Grainger.” When Jill shook her head, Downs continued: “16-year-old black kid, murdered by two cops. Your dad and your captain were on the case. Got stonewalled at every turn... and it wasn't political, like it is today. Back then, cops wanted you to stop pokin' around where it wasn't your business, they'd handle it themselves.”
“You mean other cops got violent with my dad?”
“Officers Paulson and Brady,” Downs said with a nod. “They made your dad's life hell. At least, til Paulson got reassigned and Brady moved down to Mississippi and took a security job there. But that wasn't all. Don't you ever wonder why your father never moved up in the department?”
“I always figured being a serial killer wasn't great for career advancement.” The crease in Jill’s brow deepened, and she shook her head. “Wait, Paulson? Joshua Paulson?”
Watson jotted the name down in his legal pad with a frown, but otherwise had no reaction.
“Nah, this was before that. Before the Grainger case, before Josh and his buddy, your father was a shoo-in for Sergeant. He had to take the exam like everyone else, but everyone downtown thought it was nothing more than a formality.”
“But then the Grainger case happened,” Watson said.
“And they pulled down the ladder before Paul had a chance to climb it.”
Jill frowned. “But Dan advanced. Why not blackball him?”
“They did at first.” Downs coughed and winced. “Ironically, it was arresting your father that shot him all the way up to captain.”
Watson removed his glasses and squinted. “So... investigate one cop for murder, get blackballed. Arrest another for murder and get a promotion?”
“Trust me, Detective,” Downs said, “I've been barking up that tree for almost twenty years. At the end of the day, it boils down to what matters most. Do your job, or do your duty.”
CHAPTER 40
If Ramona Parish was being honest with herself, she wanted nothing more than to simply draft a press release detailing the charges being brought down on the four officers suspected of Devin Buckner's murder, send it out to all of the relevant news outlets, and be done with it. A press conference, as far as she was concerned, was a waste of her time. She already knew how this was going to go: she would announce the charges, the jackals would climb all over themselves, desperate to have their question heard, she would dominate the news cycle for the next several hours, and field phone calls from the mayor's office for the next few days.
It was enough to make her want a vacation.
This was by far the least favorite part of her job. Ramona enjoyed playing her part in helping her hometown become safer, more just. It was a slow, often frustrating process, but she could see the progress they were making. But the public side of the job, the part where she had to stand in front of a bed of microphones and explain to the city what she was doing and why... wasn't that what PR directors were for?
“Today is an important day,” she began, ignoring the flashbulbs that were already popping. “Not necessarily a good day, but a pivotal day in helping this city heal and move forward. I would like to commend the Seventh Precinct of the Baltimore Police Department and its Homicide unit in their tireless efforts in building a case against our four suspects. Their dedication to not only their badges, but this city, is to be celebrated. Captain Richards is a dear friend of mine, and he shares in that sense of pride.
“Officers Nolan Carter, Kayla Stevenson, Scott Harper, and Freddie McPhee have been officially charged in the death of Devin Buckner,” she continued. “First-degree murder, kidnapping, reckless endangerment, assault of a minor... my office will pursue life sentences for all four suspects, without the possibility of parole. What these four individuals did is despicable and has no place in a civilized society. We must prove, to this city and to the rest of the Baltimore Police Department, that this is unacceptable behavior. The police are here to protect us, to serve this city. They are our finest, and these four officers are a disgrace to the profession.”
Hushed murmurs filled the scrum huddled on the steps leading up to City Hall. Ramona grabbed the lectern with both hands, steadying herself with a deep breath. She knew how futile what she was about to say was, but she had to say it anyway. “I will not be taking questions, and my office will have no further comment at this time.”
No sooner did the words leave Ramona's mouth than the rush of questions came out.
What does the mayor think of all this?
Have you received any blowback from the Commissioner's office?
Why no charges in the Colonel Downs case?
Where is Detective Andersen?
The questions stopped, though, when the sound of gunfire pierced through the morning air. Ramona, who had already turned her back to the gaggle of reporters, didn't have the chance to turn around before a bullet lodged into the back of her head. She dropped face-first onto the concrete with a thud that was drowned out by gasps and shrieks of horror from the assembled media. Half of the reporters cowered on their knees, while other reporters joined the photographers and TV camera crews in scattering for cover.
Three uniformed officers drew their weapons and stared skyward as one dropped to a knee to attend to Ramona. Nothing out of the ordinary could be seen from the rooftops, and by the time the officers placed their guns back in their holsters, the officer on his knees looked up and shook his head. His fingers were on the side of Ramona's neck, but they felt nothing.
A pool of dark red oozed onto the concrete. Most of the reporters had dispersed. The only one left was Stanley Erikson, who was hiding in the mouth of a nearby alley, scribbling into his notepad.
Unfortunately, the charges against the officers were no longer the day’s leading story.
CHAPTER 41
“Listen up!” Jill called out at the top of her lungs so everyone in the bullpen could hear her. “Everyone in the BPD with a military background, specifically as a sniper, I want their names and files on my desk twenty minutes ago!” At her desk, Jill tossed a small stack of manila folders onto the blotter and scanned the dimly-lit room. Detectives Watson and Gutierrez were working the phones while several uniformed officers rushed back and forth from office to office. Detective Stevens bolted from his chair and grabbed a sheet of paper as soon as it emerged from the printer in the corner.
“Got something!” His booming voice carried far better than Jill's ever could. “Look what was posted on Facebook.”
Jill snatched the paper from her colleague's hand, scanning the post before feeling her heart leap into her throat and a pit open up in her stomach.
“The jackals have taken over, and we can no longer abide,” she read. “Four of our brethren are being unjustifiably held hostage by the very people who claim to protect this city, and we must do whatever is necessary to ensure their rescue. Make no mistake: they are hostages, prisoners of a war that we have no choice but to fight. I ask you, my fellow brothers, to raise your arms in support of the persecuted, and let no one stand in your way. Our enemies carry badges, but they are not us. Their allies talk a big game, but they are helpless against our might and our moral certitude. District Attorney Ramona Parish is among the worst of the sinners, and we must see to it that her bastardized form of 'justice' never sees the light of day. You know what to do, my brothers. The only verdict is vengeance, a vendetta.”
Watson blanched. “V For Vendetta? Seriously? Does this jackoff not remember what that was about?”
Jill pinched the bridge of her nose. “Overthrowing an oppressive and tyrannical government… which is exactly what they think we are.”
“The profile that posted that is anonymous,” Stevens explained. “Well, as anonymous as you can get on Facebook. No name, no pics
, email address linked to the profile bounces back every email. Tech's tearing through the back end right now, scrubbing for an IP address.”
“Good.” Jill slapped the letter onto the white board and held it in place with a magnet. “An IP address gives us a name. We get a name, we nail the bastard who killed the DA.”
Just as Jill left her desk to give Captain Richards an update, the elevators doors opened as she saw Brian wheel his way into the bullpen. His tie was loose around his neck, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and his eyes were as red as she had seen them in years. As per usual, Brian hadn't shaved in a few days, but there was something about the way he sat in his wheelchair now that tugged at Jill. She changed course and dropped to a knee when her brother was right in front of her, pulling him into a hug and closing her eyes.
“We're working on it,” she whispered.
“I know,” Brian choked out, his arms slipping around his sister's shoulders. “There's no one I'd rather have working this.”
Reluctantly pulling out of the hug, Jill tried to smile at Brian, but it wound up looking more like a grimace. “Why weren't you there?”
“I was making a run at Downs,” Brian admitted. “For all the good it did.”
“Hey.” Jill squeezed her brother's shoulder. “I'm glad you weren't there.”
“Detective,” Captain Richards called out from over Jill's shoulder. She stood and turned to face Richards, whose face visibly brightened for a moment when he saw Brian in the bullpen. But the reason for Brian's visit soon registered the captain's mind, and his smile fell. Still, he approached Brian and extended his right arm. “Good to see you, Brian. Just... not like this.”
“You too, Captain,” Brian agreed with a shake of Richards' hand. “Any way I can help?”
◊◊◊
Once the Andersens were situated in Captain Richards' office, the blinds on the door were lowered and those over the window overlooking the bullpen were closed. Richards did the same to the blinds over the window overlooking the rest of downtown, and when the captain reached his seat, he unplugged the office phone and shoved his department-issued smartphone into the drawer. Jill saw the SIM card sitting on the edge of his desk, fighting the urge to arch a brow. Fortunately for her, the smart aleck in her brother decided to show up.
“Never knew you to be the paranoid type, Cap.”
“Case like this, I have no choice.” Richards lowered himself into his leather swivel chair with a sigh, removing his glasses and rubbing his hands over his face. He looked as exhausted as everyone else felt. It wasn't just the long hours with this case -- it was the implications and the fact that their job had led to a public official's death and the near-death of another.
“Had Ramona been receiving threats lately?” Jill asked.
Brian shook his head. “If she had, she never said anything to me. I can check with our clerk; any flagged correspondence would've gone to him.”
Richards picked up his glasses and placed them back onto his face. “Stevens retrieved an anonymous Facebook post that went up forty-five minutes before the shooting. It explicitly calls for those of us investigating those four officers to be punished, and it mentioned Ramona by name.”
“Tech's working to get an IP address,” Jill added.
“Fuck,” Brian hissed under his breath, sinking into his wheelchair and placing his head in his hands. Jill ran the palm of her left hand over his upper back.
Jill had been fortunate to this point, in the sense that the vast majority of the cases she worked had been black-and-white. Someone killed someone else, and she was tasked with finding out who. Even when they fished Dr. Roberts' body out of the bay, even when they found Vernon Delaney charred beyond recognition in an alley, the cases themselves were still simply a matter of finding the killer. Her personal baggage with each case never changed that. But this... every night, when Jill watched the news, she looked on in horror as her supposed brethren in other cities were shooting and killing unarmed citizens for no reason.
The night news broke of Mike Brown's death in Missouri, it angered Jill to the point where she got physically ill. And that case seemed to open the proverbial flood gates; every other week, then every week, then every couple days... bodies were piling up, cops were getting off scot-free, and the debate over how to handle this issue -- or if it should even be handled at all -- did nothing but rile people up. Baltimore had more than its share of race-inspired police brutality over the years, and Jill still remembered with revulsion seeing her city destroyed by protests that were peaceful until her supposed colleagues had gotten involved.
But even those cases were on her periphery. This time, Jill was in the middle of it all, the proverbial ground zero, and she couldn't help but wonder what else was going to be ruined over this case. A man's career was over, a mother of two was dead, and four thugs who deserved to spend the rest of their lives rotting away in prison probably wouldn't ever get any further than Holding.
It was enough to make her sick all over again.
A soft rap on the door interrupted the somber mood in the office, and Jill looked up to see Ramon poking his head in. He nodded toward Brian before turning his attention back to Richards. “Tech just came back with an IP address,” he announced, handing a slip of paper to the captain. “You're not gonna believe this.”
As soon as Richards took the paper, he cursed. “You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me.”
Jill frowned. “Sir?”
“Joshua Paulson,” he read before slapping the paper onto his desk. “Detective out of the fuckin' Fourth.”
CHAPTER 42
Fifteen years ago...
Joshua Paulson flinched when the door to the break room slammed shut. He looked up to see Detectives Richards and Andersen staring at him, the focused glare on their faces freezing Paulson in place... so much so that he never stopped pouring his coffee, even as it overflowed his mug and sloshed down over his hand. It wasn't that fresh a pot; otherwise, Paulson’s hands would have suffered significant burns.
“Detectives,” he greeted, putting on a plastic smile as he set down the coffee pot and reached for a paper towel to wipe up his mess. “What can I do for you?”
“Cut the crap, Josh,” Paul spat, his hands curling into fists as he approached the counter. Though Paul felt anger like any other person, he wasn't usually this demonstrative about it. He always let his anger seep out in other ways, such as an increased focus on a case or more pointed questioning in the interrogation room. Seldom did Paul ever have outbursts, physical demonstrations of how angry he truly was. The fact that the anger was written all over his face right now told Paulson all he needed to know.
“Detective,” he began in a warning tone.
“You didn't think I'd recognize you from the other night?” Paul reached out and grabbed the other cop by his collar before Richards could react, yanking Paulson forward until their noses almost touched. Paul's teeth gritted together and his nostrils flared. “You and that punk Brady. You two killed Grainger, didn't you?” When Paulson opened his mouth without saying anything, Paul yanked even harder. “Didn't you?!”
“Th-that is a very serious accusation,” Paulson stammered, his voice not quite carrying as much authority as he had hoped.
“Damn right, it is,” Richards added from over Paul's shoulder. “But we believe we have substance to back it up.”
“Like what?” Paulson spat.
“Like your gun pressed against the back of my head, for starters,” Paul shot back, pushing Paulson up against the counter hard enough to send the coffee pot skidding off of its heating unit. The pot itself was almost empty, so the coffee that sloshed about never actually spilled anywhere. But the commotion caught the attention of those in the bullpen, and before Paul knew it, he had an audience peering at him through the blinds -- an audience that included Captain Franklin.
“So who cleans up your messes?” Paul yanked on the other cop's polo so hard that the fabric began to rip. “Who makes sure you and Brady
get off for the shit you do?”
“You are out of line!” Paulson protested.
Paul responded by socking Paulson in the face, breaking the cop's nose and sending him staggering back to the tables closest to the counter. Richards immediately grabbed his partner by the shoulder, pulling him away from Paulson before spinning him around and pushing him back against the wall. “The hell is wrong with you?!” Richards demanded. “You askin' for a reason to get kicked off this case?”
The door to the break room opened and Captain Franklin barged in, stepping in between Paul and Richards. His face was as red as the Coke machine in the far corner, and he jabbed a finger into Paul's chest. “Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't have your badge right now, Andersen!”
“Sir, Paulson and Brady killed Carlos Grainger.”
“I don't give a shit if they dug up Paul Revere's corpse and took a dump in his skull!” Franklin fired back. “You don't ever lay a hand on another cop!”
Paul shrugged. “Yet he can hold me at gunpoint while Brady intimidates me?”
“Take the rest of the day off,” Franklin ordered. “Go home. Spend some time with Janice and the kids, and you might still have a job in the morning.”
The captain turned to leave the break room before Paul could protest, and his shoulders slumped when the door slammed shut again. His hands were still curled into tight fists, though, and Paul was fuming in a way Richards didn't think he had ever seen. This time when he laid a hand on Paul's shoulder, it was in an attempt to bring him back from the ledge.
“Take a step back, man.” Richards shook his head.
“And let two murderers walk?” Paul shook his head. “Fuck that.”
“I'm not sayin' stop. What I'm sayin' is... you're not gonna bring those two down by threatening them. All you're doing is playing their game and drawing attention from the Bishop.”
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