Protective Behavior

by L A Witt

  “Not exactly. After he realized he couldn’t intimidate me or trip me up, I think he believed his best play with a fellow cop would be to go for camaraderie. He came off as honest, up-front, and determined.” Mark sipped his wine again. “Honestly, if I hadn’t known he was lying I absolutely might have bought what he was selling.”

  “Have you talked to his partner yet?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t even met him.” Mark smiled, but there was no humor in it. “I’ll need to schedule that soon, though. IA investigations are supposed to be carried out fast. I get a new message every day from the commissioner’s office reminding me that we need our cops out on the streets, not stuck behind desks or at home while we investigate their ‘entirely justified’ actions.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It really does.”

  He wasn’t eating the dinner that he’d brought over, he wasn’t making eye contact, and at the rate he was going through his wine the bottle would be empty before he even tasted it. “Do you know what you need?” I asked him, grabbing my remote control and turning on the television.

  He glanced from me to the screen and back, his expression pained. “Please don’t say football.”

  “Not football,” I agreed. “You need some pure, unadulterated escapism.” I went to the right streaming service and scrolled through their offerings until I found—yessss. “Have you seen this yet?”

  “This?” He screwed up his nose a little, not really in what looked like distaste, more like confusion. “Is this the show with the angels and demons and the end of the world?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Isn’t it… for children?”

  “Are you kidding? Kids wouldn’t get even half the jokes.” I reached in front of him and handed over his plate. “Just make it through the first episode with me, and if you don’t like it we’ll stop there.”

  “Well.” He looked from me to the TV, then relaxed back against the couch. “Okay. One episode.”

  “Thank you.” I got it started and grabbed my own plate—it wouldn’t do to let the pizza get cold.

  By the time we got through the sixth and final episode, the bottle was empty, the pizza was gone, and Mark was mildly pissed that there wasn’t a second season. “It’s not really an ending,” he insisted. “There are still too many loose ends. Fiction isn’t supposed to be like real life, it’s supposed to do better than that.”

  “I’m sure they’ll do another season,” I said, hiding a yawn behind my hand. “And when they do, we can binge that too.”

  “Oh.” Mark checked his watch—it was so him that he didn’t just reach for his phone, that he wore an actual watch that seemed old but well-cared for—then looked at me, chagrined. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late. Do you have work tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t go in until ten.” It was close to midnight now, but that was still more than enough time to sleep. “I’ll be fine. What about you?” I kind of wished we’d shared another bottle of wine—it would have given me an excuse to offer him my bed. Or, no, the couch, because we weren’t sleeping together, damn it.

  “I’m working too, but I don’t need more than six hours of sleep a night.”

  Jesus. I hadn’t been able to function on so little sleep since residency, and even then it was iffy. “You put me to shame.”

  “I’m not performing potentially lifesaving procedures on people in the ED, Ryan. I think you deserve a solid night’s sleep.” Mark paused, then reached out and took my hand. “Thanks for this. I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”

  “Oh, trust me, it was good for me too.” Damn it, fucking brain-to-mouth filter. “I mean, I was glad to have your company,” I added in the world’s most pathetic backtrack. “We could… do it again soon?” Please?

  Mark smiled, and this time I knew it was genuine. “I’d like that.”

  I refused his offer of help cleaning up and walked him to the door, watching him put his shoes and coat back on with just a little bit of regret. “Thanks again for coming over,” I said quietly. “Drive safe, okay?”

  “I will,” Mark promised. He paused, his lips parted like he was about to speak, or maybe something more, before he blinked and shook his head a little. “I’ll keep you updated, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “Good night.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, good night.” He walked away, and I watched him go for a few long moments before finally shutting the door and heading straight for my bedroom. I needed to shower. I needed to sleep. And thanks to Mark, I might even forego the nightmares this time.

  I slept so well that I actually slept late, and had to race to make it into work on time. It was a relatively normal morning for the ED, which was to say that we had numerous chronic cases come in, a few incidences of chest pain or suspected stroke, and one little boy who’d sprained his wrist falling off some monkey bars. I had more to do calming his mother down than I did splinting the kid’s arm. He took it like a trooper, left with a bunch of stickers on his Paw Patrol shirt, and then it was time for lunch.

  I had a standing lunch date with Prasun on Fridays, as long as neither of us had an emergency. He’d become one of my first friends after I moved to the city, and despite changes in work shifts and personal circumstances—he’d been married and divorced twice in the past ten years—we still found the time to get together and shoot the shit.

  Usually when we met up at the café down the street it was a pretty lighthearted affair, but as soon as I walked in and saw Prasun I knew something was wrong. He looked antsy, his hands clenching and unclenching on the tabletop, his eyes darting around the room and through the windows like he was waiting for something to happen. When he saw me, he didn’t look relieved, just worried.

  Usually I’d go up to the counter and order lunch first, but today I went straight to our table and sat down. “What’s going on? You’re acting all nervous.”

  “Has Officer DeMarco been stalking you?” he demanded.

  My spine went rigid. “No, not… Wait, has he been stalking you?”

  “I don’t fucking know what else to call it,” Prasun spat. “I’ve seen that guy every day since Danny and I brought that gunshot victim in. The first time, he wanted to come inside my apartment—he was watching my fucking apartment! I told him no, not without a warrant, and he accused me of being in a gang! He said he’d be back with a warrant and I’d be sorry for not letting him in voluntarily. He hasn’t done that yet, but ever since then…” Prasun ran a trembling hand through his thick black hair. “I just see him, all over the place. I see him in places he’s got no business being, even when I’m working, and he just watches me. Not all the time, but…” He exhaled heavily. “Rutuja’s mom is dropping her off tonight to spend the weekend with me. How am I supposed to explain the scary guy who stares at us whenever we go out? What if he gets a warrant and busts into my place while she’s there? She’s seven, man.”

  Oh. Oh, shit. “I ran into Officer Russel a few days ago,” I said distantly, still turning everything over in my head. “Outside a funeral home. It… wasn’t good. Nothing like what’s happening to you,” I clarified, “but he was definitely interested in things that were none of his business.”

  “This is fucked up, right?” Prasun asked. “It’s not just me? This is genuinely fucked up?”

  “Yeah. Definitely.”

  “Should I complain to the cops, do you think? Hunt down this guy’s captain?” Prasun looked a little lost. “Will they even care?”

  “Don’t do that.” The last thing he needed was to be the focus of more police attention, given what Mark might be bringing to bear on Officers Russel and DeMarco. “I’ve got a friend in Internal Affairs. I’ll tell him about it.”

  “Okay.” He sounded relieved. “Thanks, Ryan. I hate to throw this in your lap, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure of what to do either. Mark already had a lot to deal with, and here I was
about to dump some more work on him. But I didn’t know where else I could turn, and I trusted Mark.

  I tried to call him after lunch, but it didn’t go through. Weird. Maybe it’s bugged. Maybe they’re monitoring your calls, waiting for you to slip up. Maybe my cell coverage was imperfect and I was being hopelessly paranoid, too. Either way, I wasn’t going to be able to relax until I talked to Mark in person.

  Chapter 11

  Mark

  I was used to the snail’s pace of investigations. Contrary to what television had people believe, investigations didn’t wrap up in forty-five minutes, including DNA testing and a courtroom trial. In my department, things crawled even more slowly because cops were like steel traps when it came to even discussing other cops, regardless of whether they were throwing them under the bus.

  So I didn’t expect anything to be tied up with a neat little bow by five o’clock.

  But goddammit, I was impatient this time. There was a grieving family who deserved justice for their murdered son. There was a cop who could end up back on the streets—gun, badge, and all—despite having blood on his hands and most likely being a sociopathic racist. I wasn’t going to sleep well until the family had closure and Officer Russel was in maximum security.

  And I was worried because this entire situation was obviously taking a toll on Ryan. Last night, he’d made a valiant effort to appear calm and unaffected, but he’d obviously never tried hiding anything from someone who got paid to pick up on tells.

  Looking exhausted came with the territory in his line of work, same as it did in mine, but last night I’d wondered several times how he was still holding himself upright. His smile had still been adorable, but half-hearted. When he’d laughed, it didn’t sound like he felt it. In fact, more than once during Good Omens, he hadn’t responded at all to a particularly funny line. Each time, I’d glanced over to find him staring at something else with unfocused eyes, his mind obviously a million miles away.

  As if I needed any more reasons to hustle with this case—it was hurting Ryan.

  Can I retire after this one? Fuck, no, still too young.

  And I really did like my job most of the time. Cases like this, though… Fuck.

  Sitting at my desk, my handful of notes spread out in front of me, I drummed my nails irritably. I needed JJ to make contact. I’d asked a couple of trusted detectives to check in with some confidential informants in case they knew anything about him, but so far… nothing. I had nothing except a skin-crawling interview with my suspect, and a recording of the incident that would be damning for literally anyone except a decorated white cop whose white partner backed him up after shooting a black man. Plus the recording would never make it in front of a jury—the defense attorneys would have it thrown out so fast our heads would spin.

  I needed an eyewitness testimony. I needed a recording that had been obtained through proper channels and subject to the proper evidence chain of custody. I needed bulletproof evidence and testimony that would convince a jury of a white cop’s peers that what the defense called shooting a belligerent thug in self-defense was actually the cold-blooded murder of an innocent black man. Quite possibly not for the first time by this cop. And while we were at it, maybe we could get a jury who wouldn’t buy the defense claiming that the only reason I’d pushed this case was because I had an ax to grind.

  I needed a miracle, and right now, I didn’t have jack shit.

  But then, an hour or so later, my desk phone rang with an unfamiliar number.

  “Internal Affairs, this is Detective Thibedeau,” I said blandly.

  There was a beat of silence, followed by a tentative, “Marty Fredericks’s mom gave me your number. She said you’re looking into the cop who shot him.”

  My spine straightened and my pulse jumped. “I am, yes.”

  A few more seconds of silence. “She said you want to talk to me.”

  I swallowed, holding very, very still as if the caller were a bird who might be startled away if I moved suddenly. “Are you JJ?”

  “Yeah. That’s me.”

  I closed my eyes and exhaled, mouthing a silent, oh thank God. “You’re exactly the man I’ve been looking for.”

  “Yeah? So what do you want to know?”

  “I want to know what you saw and heard.” I paused, choosing my words and tone carefully. “And before he died, Martin said you had a recording. Of the incident.”

  Barely whispering, JJ said, “On my phone. Yeah. Got the whole thing.”

  “I need that recording.” I tapped my finger on my desk. “Is there any chance we can talk? In person?”

  “Uh.” He paused. “Listen, I want to help bust those fuckers who took out my best friend. But if they see me talkin’ to other cops? I’m fucked, man.”

  I gnawed my lip. Officer Russel knew my face, too. If he saw JJ talking to me in particular, that could be disastrous. I had to play this carefully. “JJ, I know you don’t trust cops right now. Nobody blames you for that. But I think I know how I can get you down here without anyone believing you’re helping me.”

  “You can?”

  “Yes. I need you to listen very carefully…”

  Detective Andreas Ruffner and I were not known for being each other’s biggest fans. We’d come to a truce after my attempt to out him as a dirty cop had led to him outing half the force as dirty cops, and me hiring his daughter full-time had helped to smooth things over between us. But no one would accuse us of being best friends. Ditto with me and Andreas’s partner-slash-husband, Detective Darren Corliss.

  And, given my position in the department, very few people were particularly gleeful about interacting with me anyway.

  So I highly doubted that anyone suspected we were working together when Andreas and Darren took a handcuffed JJ into an interrogation room in the Twenty-first Precinct, and I stormed in and started yelling.

  “Detective Ruffner, I need to talk to you,” I demanded, banging on the door. “Now.”

  He opened it and glared at me. “You mind? We’re trying to talk to a suspect.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I need to talk about. Get the hell out here.”

  Andreas rolled his eyes. “Darren, you got this?”

  “I got it.”

  Andreas stepped out and shut the door behind him. “You trying to sabotage my case here? Huh? I’ve been after this guy for weeks, and you—”

  “And you don’t bother getting a warrant to search his place,” I threw back, ticking the points off on my fingers. “You rough the guy up enough that I’m getting complaints before you even get back here. You’re—”

  “Oh, that’s bullshit!”

  We shouted over the top of each other, which definitely didn’t go unnoticed. Heads turned. Conversations stopped.

  And right on cue, Captain Hamilton stepped into the fray. “Both of you, shut up,” he barked. When we did, he gestured sharply toward his office. “Ruffner, go cool your heels in my office.”

  “What?” Andreas protested. “Captain, I’ve got—”

  “You’ve got five seconds to do as you’re told before we start discussing early retirement again.”

  Andreas muttered something, then stalked past us toward the stairs.

  Hamilton opened his mouth to speak, but I gestured sharply at the room where Darren was still with JJ. “I’m getting a statement from him, and then we’re cutting him loose. We are not keeping him here while you talk some sense into…” I waved a hand at Andreas’s back.

  The captain released one of those long-suffering sighs that Andreas pretty regularly brought out of everyone. “Fine. But stop by my office on your way out. I’d like to handle this without IA getting officially involved, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah,” I huffed. “We’ll see about that.” I didn’t wait for a response, pulled open the interrogation room door, and stepped inside.

  Fortunately, in the past few months, a consultant had recommended changing the precinct’s interrogation rooms to something more conduciv
e to conversations. No more distracting two-way mirror. No more table to hide body language. Just a couple of chairs and a smaller table for tape recorders, drinks, or files. It was bare at the moment.

  Darren was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. JJ sat in one of the chairs, sweat beading on his creased forehead. He was probably in his mid-twenties, with thick braids banded together behind his neck and tucked into the hood of his green sweatshirt.

  “Sorry about the noise.” I extended my hand. “I’m Mark. Detective Thibedeau.”

  JJ tentatively shook my hand. “And people bought it? That these assholes arrested me for no reason and roughed my ass up?”

  I nodded. “Detective Ruffner’s got an undeserved reputation for being a dirty cop, and there isn’t a cop in town who doesn’t know he and I have butted heads in the past.” I waved a hand toward the door. “They won’t suspect a thing.”

  JJ chewed his lip, but nodded slowly.

  Darren shifted his weight. “I’ll go keep an eye on the cameras. Make sure no one else gets their hands on this tape.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Darren turned to JJ. “You all right? Need a coffee or anything?”

  JJ shook his head. “Naw, man. I’m good. And, um. Thanks. For getting me in here without people thinking…”

  Darren flashed him a quick smile. “We’re here to help.” To me, he said, “You need anything else, text me.”

  “Will do.”

  He left, and after the door was shut, I pulled up the other chair. I sat a comfortable distance from JJ—this wasn’t an interrogation, so I wasn’t trying to get in his space and make him nervous.

  “Thanks for coming in,” I said, voice low so eavesdroppers wouldn’t catch anything I said.

  Just as quietly, he replied, “Thanks for not making it look like I’m working with the cops.”

  I nodded and pulled a notepad from my pocket. “Do you have the recording with you?”