Chapter 1: A Regular Night

(For mature audiences)

(This version isn’t finalized. All writings are from its origin and unedited.)

Compared to hot streets boiling over, entering the precinct always carries a chilled feel. Mostly the literal cold of night that comes for us graveyard shifters. Decrease in adrenaline is one positive. A haven from near-relentless violence brewing outside; back-alley drug deals, a major spike in robberies, gangs doing us favors by killing each other. Reminiscent of harsh Detroit tales experienced in my mid-twenties.

This, and other precincts, are often rented by wealthy crime lords. I do stake claim over my fair share of profit. Doesn’t bring shame to say: “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” New York doesn’t give ethical reasons not to. My badge drowned in mud over a year ago. Never harbored a thought of washing it off. We pull a good load of arrests from small-time garbage with small-time product so top dollar fish could operate in peace for a while. My favorite event is returning for paperwork during a late shift.

Another benefit to keeping cold is showing respect to big-titted hookers and prostitutes. Half the raunchy bunch deserve to be kept in a cell; however, we occasionally bust prime pieces worthy of extra attention. Dependent on ownership, we can ship them with a smack on the ass or give an option to fuck their way free. Pimps expect the latter to earn them both passes. What better way to flash my muddy badge to colleagues than pushing a smokin’ hot hooker out of interrogation as she pulls up her thong or wipes her mouth? A job well done in my book. I slip past reception, nodding allies beyond the counter. Greetings handed and returned.

Around a bend and past a couple of office doors lead to the precinct’s heart. Busy night. Civilians and criminals are seated alongside each officer’s desk like motorcycles and sidecars, pleading cases. Visitors cuffed to chairs will likely be on grave too. Punks who fail to realize when services are being rendered on their behalf. It simmers to two options: squabble in a cell for one night, or step on the wrong toes outside and get skillfully buried up to their eyelids in the middle of nowhere, praying for a final sunrise and a hiker to find them before the cusp of reserved air created depletes. Some very impressive shit. Loafers prefer that permanent solution. Pretending an investigation carries a different weight of paperwork I don’t fancy. If we can’t keep them convinced how bad that side could hurt business, why do we need kickbacks anymore? Can’t have that happen.

My desk is at the back. Every dark blue uniform crosses sight. Keeping cool, I admire tonight’s partially dressed appetizers on the benches. Newbies purposely attempt increasing appeal, while regulars know due time will approach. Big breasted bimbos missing bras catch my third eye first, rather than high-class whores with full length gowns and pearls; attractive to upper class. Every young and middle-aged man is drawn to excessive reveal. Fully dressed cater to elderly wealth. Whichever senator they’re screwing will work magic within the hour to get that relief.

All desks are matched in row formation. Last night’s handful of paperwork is next to my computer, and a few unfamiliar folders were crowned. Before captain shoves his head up my ass, I get to work while everyone else’s wheels rotate elsewhere. My zone quiets the station to near whispers and ringing landlines. Not a quarter way through recap files, Richard hovers overhead. A fellow detective minding my work. We ran eight official arrests as partners and often collaborate on miscellaneous assignments of our own. He watches my back a little more than I watch his. Why does that sometimes make me feel like I can’t trust him? Debt. His excitement level appears tamed. There is likely nothing of value on his personal docket tonight.

While writing, I briefly peek up at my fair-skinned friend, “Just a regular night huh?”

His sigh releases a deep New York tone colliding with my Detroit, “A regular night. Now, I’m not sayin’ I fill enough of these out the correct way myself, but from my perspective, this looks late. Forgot your classwork?”

“Obviously. Don’t you got some paperwork yourself?”

He leans against my desk, facing left of me, “Cap’n can kiss my ass as much as you kiss his.”

“By doin’ my job?”

“Yep. Nice, puckered set of lips to reach his ass from way back here.”

Richard is looking in the left corner where Captain Terrell’s door rests every day. A tainted black badge with numbers only legible by touch. Keeping workflow to make it look as if we’re only protecting and serving is his job. And for him to give any shit about an officer not doing their job is for them to truly not be doing their job. Every ignore order comes from people that pay him and we get a decent fraction. Small-timers climbing to be kingpins pay us; actual kingpin money pays Cap. He’s generous enough to let us pocket majority during stings and only turn in an incriminating, minimal amount. Inner makings of a great boss, and people like Richard forget that.

I respond sarcastically, “Some of us understand that a job still has to be done. Without these reports, one of the scumbags from I.A. would be down here asking questions. I got a nice house to pay for and I’d rather not fuck that–”

Staring distant, he interrupts, “Yeah, yeah. So what ya think about Holly?”

Go figure… I glance at the hardened brunette who carries a shimmering badge. Not my type, physically. Sometimes I feel bad, since she’d lose an internal war of good cop, bad cop against us. A lane she learned to stay in the hard way.

Honesty springs forward, “I think she’s great. Smart. So far outta your league that she’s on another sport.”

“Ah, fuck off, smart-ass. Another league is another sport. I’m thinkin’ of askin’ her out.”

My focus constantly veers on and off the conversation, “Didn’t you ask her out already? She didn’t go for it.”

“Yeah, but this time, I’ll be a gentleman about it and shit. I think that’s what she likes.”

My chuckle distracts me, “Good luck, man. I gotta finish my paperwork.”

Richard’s chest holds a puff, before proudly strolling to a second officer for another informal vote to raise confidence. Scoping Holly the entire way. Most of us end up with incompatible partners. Personally, I think it’s an inside call. To feel where officers’ heads are so my kind know who to avoid. The result is inconclusive. My partner was recently killed during a raid. Twelve gauge to the chest nearly created two of him. Parties present on scene would know it was my fault. I never liked the guy, so when nonverbally instructed by a sergeant to nudge him in front of an open door, I smiled.

His life was worth getting his cut. On top of being a goodie-two-shoes, a price paid for wandering in the wrong backyard. My goal used to be aligned with my late partner; help keep streets drug-free, protect the innocent, stop gang activity. Then my eyes were gradually opened to what was really going on. Vague segments of insight passed from cop to cop on how to play along. Richard kept me balancing the crooked line. Our world is swim with piranhas or get eaten by them. The end of my lifetime won’t be as chum.

Creeping on thirty-four and my plan is retiring on illegal collections sooner than later. Fuck being sergeant. When millionaire status is broken, I’m quitting for the white picket fence and boring wife everyone yaps about. Reach isn’t just over the horizon but not having patience won’t turn into more patience. Paperwork lasts long. Drowsy feelings settle and calling quits for tonight is borderlines the horizon. It’s getting hot.

Long term low profile is the incentive that sticks out this torture. Recalling case file after case file makes me see clearer about scumbags I arrest or show vigilante justice on. A smirk drifts in. Many bruised knuckles can attest to a few uncivil arrests. Based on battered faces, denial would be a lie. Our word is law. Cops who were tired of getting taken and started taking are still part of the overall, unsolvable problem regardless.

A gruffly voice from behind shatters my concentration, “Who’s fuckin’ playing games with me?!”

A very serious Captain Terrell storms out the rear hall. His old, steaming red face looks over every officer. Scanning for an answer as we all stare clueless. Shouts from him are usually directed at someone, especially inside briefing, but rarely all of us in the pen. Our attentions are gathered. Even criminals sit silent and curious.

Bad timing for a joke blurts to mock our in-house shrink, “Captain, people can only play games with you if you give them the joystick.”

He immediately commands, “Shut the fuck up, Harris!”

Quick submission, “Got it, Cap.”

I lightly resume paperwork while listening to his next question, “Which asshole thought it would be funny to leave a perp unattended in the interrogation room with a sack over their head?!” Silence is still cast over everyone, “Nobody gonna speak up?!”

A calmer voice chimes input, “Captain, check this out.”

Leaving a perp to sweat for an hour isn’t abnormal, but a sack over their head? I nose in further to seek resolution to which jackass will take the heat. Our precinct tech lead is showing relevant information on a laptop. Someone foreign to me is standing with them; some black guy. One of us?  Dark blue suit pants, tucked in polo shirt. No way. Standard issue Glock and badge on his hip puts an affiliation unknown from my angle. Best bet? On night shift? Either I.A. or rookie. Neither a welcomed addition. We never know what side of the field new faces play on, and typically, get advanced warning to put our game faces on.

Terrell speaks to me, “Off your ass. Let’s go.”

Mouthing off foolishly again would be stupid. I obey quickly along behind the small crew. Just tempted and gathering up nerve to walk out, I created more work on top of finishing paperwork later too. My favorite time on the clock has become a hit shit show. Who would put a sack over someone’s head and leave them in interrogation? Why call me and not the cop responsible? Did the perp suffocate? Prank gone wrong? Terrell’s gonna end a career for this. For now, it’s mine. We navigate the hall he came from.

Terrell speaks, “You’re on point with our new guy; new to us, not the force.”

My shoulders shrug, though no one can see, “On point with what? Just take the bag off, kick the fucker out, and book ’em.”

“He or she is not a perp that was brought in.” Terrell gives a head signal to the laptop carrying tech, “This could be a more delicate situation.”

The tech bunches close while walking so rookie and I can view surveillance footage. Little past eight o’clock; two hours before my arrival. Corner camera at the main double doors show someone with a black hat entering. Black hoody, dark blue jeans. Head intentionally tucked away from the camera. Baggy clothing hiding gender very well. Each body part covered except a small piece of neck lining. Inconclusive if they’re Hispanic or African American.

The tech taps a key. Different camera angle. Follow pass the greeter counter. Another angle. Straight into the bullpen, cutting ahead of an obviously distracted officer to take appearance of their apprehended perp. Bold son of a bitch. The officer stops. The person continues to this very hall. Purpose steps dissuades all suspicion and not once seeking curiosity. Around the same left bend we’re about to make. Next hall and enter a broom closet. Officers pass. Moments later, exiting with a black sack in hand and crosses into interrogation.

Final tap. Camera inside shows them take a seat, and hat still on, places that sack overhead. Bases covered too accurately to be identified. This person has been here before. I work here nightly and don’t know my way pass cameras like that. Best guess would be obvious: a criminal. Why sneak in? Does they wanna talk? We’ve done fucked up things to a lot of bad people. Some good folks as well. None needing to pull this particular move to target one officer. Anybody could be sitting in that room for several reasons with all of us on the chopping block.

I suggest, “Captain, from the look of things, we should evacuate and call bomb squad to tackle this.”

Hand under his chin, Rookie declines, “No. If this person wanted to bomb the station, why wait so long? Middle of the pen is a perfect spot.”

I ask, “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Detective Rogers.”

I quickly respond with a quip, “Detective, okay good, just wanted to make sure you weren’t a Captain.”

Terrell calmly interrupts, “You may be training your next potential partner so play nice in there. Show him how things are properly done. All suggestions stay buttoned inside. Don’t want any bickering. Understood?”

I answer with enthusiastic reluctance, “Understood.”

Rogers answers, “Yes Captain.”

Pissing off Terrell is one mistake never intentionally made. Not to be confused with claiming he’s an overly sensitive guy. His hands can pull anyone under him right off their high horse and buried six feet deep in a day. Missing cop is extreme, but it’s been done multiple times. Many more “in the line of duty” cases. We halt at the viewing room, where mystery guest has been patiently waiting. Hopefully dead from suffocation. I might not be so lucky.