Behind the Badge

by J. D. Cunegan

  The tide was going out at the moment, which carried the vehicle further out into the water as it slowly began to sink. Most of the rear compartment was submerged by the time the masked figure stood upright again. Tourists and other onlookers stood with their mouths hung open, several of them fishing out their phones to snap pictures or take videos. This was definitely going to go viral, and before long, Baltimore authorities would want to know what happened to the four prisoners and one of their SWAT vans. But with any luck, the masked figure would be long gone by then.

  The masked man fished a flip phone out of their pocket, bringing the device to their ear.

  “It's done.”

  CHAPTER 45

  David Gregor hung up the phone with a smile, pouring himself another glass of bourbon as he sat at the bar on the far end of his fortieth-story penthouse suite. His plan had worked to perfection, just as he had predicted. While the four police officers wouldn't face traditional justice, the simple truth was they never would have even if they had survived long enough to face trial. Such was the reality of this town, and practically every other town in this country. If those who killed indiscriminately because of race, hiding behind their state-granted authority, could escape the law, then other means of justice had to intervene.

  For once, it had done just that.

  The public outcry could honestly go either way. Sure, the four officers in question were morally repugnant individuals who hid their prejudice behind authority, but the general public didn't take kindly to killing cops. When the protests broke out last year, people were more upset over the cops having to wear riot gear than the fact that many of the violent outbreaks started because a cop had acted against a protestor.

  Then again, with everything the police had done over the years in this city -- and with the memory of the protests following Pedro Mendoza's murder still so fresh in everyone's minds -- what other choice was there? Carter and his crew were clearly never going to spend the rest of their lives behind bars. Chances were, they would have even been allowed to keep their jobs. The only way to make them pay was to take them out.

  It was a line the police department would never cross. Even Bounty, whose very existence flew in the face of the law and societal conventions, would never cross that line. She was ruthless, but she wasn't heartless. It was up to someone like David Gregor to clean up the messes the rest of Baltimore would just as soon ignore. The irony didn't escape him, given his past and some of the things he had done over the years. But the last thing Gregor wanted was to watch his native Baltimore burn.

  Downing the drink in one swallow, Gregor hissed when he reached for the bottle again. He could drink to celebrate just as easily as for any other reason, and if ever there was a cause for celebration, it was the fact that Devin Buckner's killers had met their fate. Maybe not the fate they were supposed to endure, but imperfect justice was always better than no justice at all.

  Perhaps there could even be ancillary benefits to this. If other cops who had designs on using their badges to fulfill their own prejudiced vendettas saw what had happened to Carter and his cabal, then maybe they would think twice. Not because of any professional repercussions, but if they knew there was a chance someone would exact vengeance on them...

  Which was ironic, in a way, because now it meant the city had two vigilantes on its hands: the proverbial angel of darkness in Bounty, and this other mysterious figure who wasn't afraid to pile up the bodies if it meant the karmic scales were brought into balance. With any luck, Gregor would have to turn to the second vigilante only sparingly, to the point where no one even noticed them. Then again, this new vigilante had made quite the scene in broad daylight… Gregor fully expected an investigation into the SWAT van that nosedived into the Chesapeake Bay. He also expected that investigation to go nowhere.

  He also understood that this vigilante answered to him -- for now, anyway. And so far, Gregor’s plan was going off without a hitch. He had Detective Andersen on his side, begrudgingly so, and the cops responsible for the death of a teenager had been dealt with. All things considered, the debut of the new vigilante had been a success.

  The vigilante had also succeeded in sowing chaos among the case. Springing the four officers free, lulling them into thinking there was a mysterious benefactor in their corner… only to watch as they were again brought down and hauled back into the bowels of the Baltimore Police Department. Gregor had hoped against hope that the system would work, but when it became clear to him that wouldn’t be the case, he understood he had to resort to something a little more drastic.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” a female voice called in from the other room before Lori Taylor emerged, placing her dark hair up into a bun and straightening her emerald green skirt.

  “I always do,” Gregor said with a smile, his hand resting on Lori’s hip as she reached up straighten the knot in his tie.

  “Do you?” Lori cocked her head to the side; there was mirth in her smirk and a lightness in her gaze, but the question still weighed down on the room. “Seems to me you’re chasing after windmills.”

  “Nolan Carter has been taken care of,” Gregor explained, lifting his chin to give Lori more room to work on his tie. The aroma of her perfume tickled his nose, and Gregor suppressed the smile at the memory of them tangled with each other under the covers that morning. She was skilled in so many delightful ways, but Gregor couldn’t afford to think on them at the moment -- not with a busy schedule ahead.

  “In such a needlessly convoluted way,” she countered. “And in the process of doing so, you put yourself on the BPD’s radar. They have evidence linking you to money laundering.”

  “And they haven’t come for me yet.” Gregor flashed the self-assured grin that only those closest to him ever got to see, the hand that had been on Lori’s hip now caressing the side of her neck. “They know better than to come at me.”

  “Most of them.” Lori gave Gregor a pointed stare.

  “And she’s being taken care of.”

  “How so?” Lori arched a brow. “By convincing her you’re on her side on this? What was the point of that, exactly?”

  Gregor gave a nonchalant shrug, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on Lori’s forehead before turning to gaze out the full-length window that gave him a perfect view of Baltimore’s skyline. “Dealing with Andersen is like playing a game of chess. I’m always a few steps ahead of her.”

  “How so?”

  “By convincing her I’m on her side on the Buckner case, I’m keeping her off my back. Even with the money laundering, she’s not gonna come after me because she’s too busy watching her own back. Police brutality cases are more professional survival than anything else.”

  Lori pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. To keep Gregor right where she wanted him, she wrapped her arms lightly around his neck and let her head tilt to the side. She was studying him, like she always did, because he was so endlessly fascinating to her. David Gregor was a man of contradictions, and she found them simultaneously intriguing and frustrating.

  “There’s something else when it comes to her,” she said.

  “There is.” Gregor flashed a knowing smile, his arms wrapping around Lori’s waist before he brought her body flush against his. It was a sensation he would never get over, the way her contours meshed so perfectly into his, and Gregor suddenly found himself not caring whether he made his flight to Paris.

  “You gonna tell me what’s so special about that girl?” Lori cocked her head to the side, her eyelids fluttering. “Or am I gonna have to go after her?”

  “It’s personal when it comes to her.”

  “I gathered that much.” Lori played with Gregor’s collar, chewing on her lower lip as the mirth dipped from her eyes. “What’d she do to you?”

  “Other way around, baby girl.” Gregor flashed a toothy grin, one that always left Lori with a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I daresay she wants to see me burn.”

  “So your response to th
at is to string her along, make you think there’s been a truce?”

  “Right up until I snatch the rug out from under her.” Snatching his smartphone from the surface of the bar, Gregor dialed a lengthy number before placing the device to his left ear. He downed one last drink before the call connected, clearing his throat.

  “Baltimore Department of Corrections.”

  “Yes, hello,” Gregor greeted in a proper tone. “My name is Calvin Bernard, and I’m an attorney representing a prisoner by the name of Joel Freeman.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Gregor was placed on hold, mercifully without the music filtering through the device, taking the time to pour himself and down yet another drink. He was in a celebratory mood, and this bourbon was the best stuff he could find anywhere.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Our records indicate that Inmate Freeman is scheduled to be transferred to a federal facility next week.”

  “Well, then I’m afraid your records are out-of-date,” Gregor explained with a hint of exasperation. “I just left a hearing in which the rest of his sentence was commuted. My client is now a free man.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m staring at the judge’s order right now.” Gregor smiled to himself, because the only thing he was staring at was a glass full of ice cubes. “Perhaps your records haven’t yet updated to reflect this change?”

  “Give me just a moment, Mr. Bernard.”

  The sound of fingers dancing on a keyboard filled the receiver, until the friendly, yet standoffish, female voice returned. “Sir, the order just popped up on Inmate Freeman’s file. I apologize for the delay.”

  “That’s quite alright, miss.”

  “Will you be here to pick up Mr. Freeman upon his release?”

  “No.” The smile on Gregor’s face grew and he gave Lori a sideways glance. “But I have arranged transport. My colleague, Ms. Taylor, will be there to pick him up.”

  Hanging up and pocketing his phone before the woman could respond, Gregor grabbed his blood-red suit coat and slung it over his shoulder. His flight to Paris was set to take off in a couple hours; he had an important meeting with a renewable energy corporation based in France to discuss a potential merger that would bring in another fifteen billion dollars annually. If this deal went through, both France and the U.S. would benefit. More than anything, though, Gregor was just glad to have the Devin Buckner mess wrapped up before leaving.

  “Andersen’s relentless,” he explained. “Unless you give her a good reason not to, she’ll poke around in your affairs until you wind up behind bars. She’s not just a cop, Lori… she’s the embodiment of the whole ideal of truth and justice, and frankly, I’m tired of having her on my ass.”

  Lori folded her arms over her chest. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning… you go pick up Mr. Freeman while I’m taking care of business in Paris. When I get back, I’ll explain everything.”

  Lori shook her head. “Whatever you’ve got planned, she’ll have the entire police force in her corner.”

  “No, she won’t.” Another knowing smile crept onto Gregor’s face after he leaned in for one last, lingering kiss. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  As he slipped out of his penthouse, Gregor pulled out his phone once again. There was one more call to make before heading off to France.

  CHAPTER 46

  Stanley Erikson's desk was little more than a sea of yellow legal pad paper, loose sheets strewn about the surface along with a stack of pads and far more empty coffee cups than he could count. Other than the computer monitor and the mouse to his right, there was nothing visible on Stanley's desk. Even the wedding photo he kept next to his computer had been swallowed up by weeks, if not months, of notes, theories, speculation... all of it revolving around Bounty.

  He heard what the others at the Sun said about him, the things they muttered under their breath when they thought he was out of earshot. How he was nothing more than a conspiracy nut at this point, how losing out on that Pulitzer five years ago had left him so jaded and desperate that he was chasing proverbial ghosts. A member of the photography staff had even called him Alexander Knox. The reference hadn't been lost on him, and Stanley was all too quick to remind said editor that crazy Mr. Knox had actually been right about Batman all along. The only problem was, Stanley didn’t have a Vicki Vale encouraging him and propping him up the whole time -- mostly because his wife Patricia also thought he was nuts.

  Thing was, Bounty’s existence was common knowledge; she had even addressed the city herself on more than one occasion. Stanley's editors weren't asking him to provide them with proof of her existence. This wasn't a case of sticking a camera on top of a building and letting it snap a few shots as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop. No, the higher-ups were desperate to find out who she actually was. It had become something of a pissing contest between the Sun and the Times... one that ratcheted up a month ago when the Washington Post decided it wanted to play ball. Congressional scandals apparently didn’t hold the appeal they used to.

  Everyone in the Baltimore-Washington corridor's journalism world was searching under every rock trying to figure out who Bounty was, and Stanley was under the distinct impression his job rode on whether he was the one to discover her secret. Every time the phone rang, Stanley hoped it was that hot tip.

  Every time, he was disappointed.

  The cursor on his computer’s word processing program mocked Stanley. He hated writing stories like this, but he had been tasked with penning the front page story, to go above the fold, detailing Ramona Parish's assassination. Because according to Stanley's editor, that was exactly what her death was. So now Stanley had to craft roughly a thousand words to describe a violent death people likely already saw on live television. Eyewitness accounts were pointless for that reason, and there was little reaction after the fact, because everyone scattered when the shot rang out and the cops weren't talking.

  Everyone knew what happened. Hell, chances were, video of the fateful moment had already gone viral. It was shocking and morbid, two things that would guarantee its quick spread across the internet. Never mind the fact that a person had just been killed. Never mind that two children were now without their mother and an elderly couple had to watch helplessly in their living room as their daughter had her brains blown out.

  When his smartphone went off this time, the bars of Don't Stop Believing far too loud for the newsroom, Stanley scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers rubbing against a week's worth of graying stubble. “Erikson,” he answered in a croaking voice, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. He had been staring at computer screens for too long.

  “Stanley Erikson,” a low, gravely voice greeted. “I believe I have some information you'll find most interesting.”

  Stanley rolled his eyes. “If this is about Bigfoot, I'm hanging up.”

  “I know who the vigilante is.”

  Another roll of the eyes, because this was far from the first time he had taken calls like this. The vast majority of them were people yanking his chain, playing practical jokes on him. A few of them were earnest people who thought they had the correct intel, but it turned out they didn't. Still, if Stanley ignored this caller and it turned out they had actual information that was actually viable... he tossed the pen in his free hand onto a stack of papers and sighed in frustration.

  “Just don't waste my time.”

  “Trust me, Mr. Erikson, this will be anything but. Bounty is a cop.”

  “A cop,” Erikson repeated with an arched brow, shaking his head. “You mean to tell me someone who already has a badge and a gun decided to become a costumed vigilante on top of that?”

  “That's exactly what I'm saying.” The voice went quiet for a moment, and if it weren't for the occasional static on the other end, Stanley would've thought the call had disconnected. “Andersen.”

  “Ander...” Stanley's voice trailed off, the true recognition of the nam
e sinking in. He sat up straighter in his chair. “Andersen. As in Jill?”

  “One and the same.”

  “You realize I have to vet this.” Stanley began jotting notes onto a scrap of paper, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to read what he wrote later. “I mean, for all I know, you're just some crackpot hiding behind a voice distorter pulling my leg.”

  “What if I provided proof?”

  Okay, now Stanley was interested. “Proof.”

  “I can tell you not just who Bounty is, but I can provide to you -- exclusively -- her entire origin story.”

  “What, you mean there's more than her former cop father who wound up being a serial killer?”

  “Mr. Erikson, you have no idea.”

  Chapter 47

  If Jill was being honest with herself, she hoped against hope that she would run into the other vigilante again. The stunt he had pulled -- in broad daylight, no less -- had shifted the city’s focus away from police brutality and started a whole new debate with regards to the role vigilantism played in the city. Only it wasn’t really a new debate; it was the same debate the city had already had ad nauseum with regards to her. But more than anything, that masked man was responsible for four dead bodies. Bodies that were still submerged somewhere in the Chesapeake Bay. As far as Jill was concerned, adding to the total of dead bodies wasn’t the way to solve anything.

  She understood there were many in the city who were fine with what the masked man did. For the first time since anyone could recall, cops who had killed an unarmed citizen because of the color of their skin had paid a price for it. It wasn’t a conviction or a firing or a jail sentence or anything socially acceptable, but the four officers in question would never hurt anyone ever again… and for some, that was enough.