Chapter 2: Should I Ask Who You Are

(For mature audiences)

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

A female officer exits the viewing room wearing a discomforting expression. Nervous about the situation and feeling no control over life. Probably aching from my mental direction of explosive outcomes. None of us are quite sure what to deduce. This person, desperately trying to keep their identity secret, can be ready to let vengeance loose at the flick of a switch. Rook could be right about the pen and won’t hear that from me.

She reports to Terrell, “Hasn’t moved or said a word. Rolled audio to entry and they only sat down. No words, no message to whom.”

Terrell addresses me, “Harris, time to do what I pay you for. Take the rookie inside. Find out who they are and what they want. If you conclude there being no threat of any kind, detain them. Clear?

“Yeah. Clear.”

“Showtime boys.”

Terrell enters the cheaply constructed wooden door with the tech and female officer. Shut behind them. New meat is observant, meaning he’s eager to prove himself. Terrell would’ve given warning about an internal investigation, be it nonverbal sign or otherwise. Gung ho, know-it-all detectives fresh off the assembly line don’t last long. I need to be on my toes with what’s said and done.

I ask, “What’d you say your name was again?”

“Rogers.”

“We don’t have time for full Q&A profiles. You’re dressed up real pretty, shirt tucked, so we’ll skip the ‘top graduating officer in Ottawa’ speech. That’s good for you but this is the real shit. Be quiet, let me do the talking, and we’ll be done in time for breakfast. We don’t use academy scenario day camp curriculum because that will turn things hostile real fast.” I pat his shoulder, “It is every ass we need to watch out for right now, not pass or fail, this could be live or die.”

“I understand.”

Terrell’s head pokes out the wooden door, expressing attitude, “What’s the hold up? Get your asses in there.”

He closes the door. I open the securely sturdy one. Foul odor of sweat and cheap fragrances escape. Not to blame solely on our current occupant. At least I don’t think so. It is hot in here and they got over three hours of it in a black hoody and a sack. This room’s designed as discomfort zone. Often leaving perps for long periods to bleed truths out; alternatively, we cut cameras and get our rocks off on the table. Neither of which are unattended situations. How many people saw this and just went to another room to handle business before Terrell caught wind? I enter first.

Facing the two-way mirror is our hooded trespasser. I briefly glance at myself. The door closes behind me. No flinch, no shift. I create a short profile. Baggy clothing. Size nine or ten boots. Potentially male. Concealed hands welcome the criminal side of discomfort. Underneath, both are loosely placed on their knees, cloth gloved, and unarmed. Identity maintained. Why hide from us? Rogers is awaiting my next move from the door. Observing. I drag the metal chair back, intentionally being loud while taking the seat. Rogers does the same without fuss.

I ask, “Comfortable?”

The hooded person remains silent and motionless. Hearing my words. Callous for any sarcasm; they mean business and I need to switch tactics.

I inquire, “Should I ask who you are? Considerin’ you’ve done so well at hidin’ your identity.”

A dry answer seeps out the sack fibers, “No.”

Can’t draw a vocal conclusion. Too soft and saddened. Their American English is well-spoken, compared to most that end up pronouncing “naw” like the Blacks or “nah” like the Irish. A purposeful mask? It could be a woman or just a young man, disguising to maintain the cloak and dagger act. Maybe Terrell can pick up on it better from beyond the glass. I gotta spark conversation.

I shoot for a form of identification by further persuasion, “I can better hear and understand you without the hood. I can assure that we’re safe–”

The same plain tone interrupts, “Why don’t we skip to the part where you ask why I’m here?”

“Okay… Why are you here?”

“Protection.”

“Restraining orders are a courthouse thing.”

“I need WITSEC.”

“Listen, that’s not just an offered service. That’s reserved for high profile witnesses to high profile cases. An officer could just as easily apprehend whoever you’ve been threatened by, and in most cases, it’s just a threat. Sneaking into a police precinct isn’t the way to handle this.”

The exact tone repeats, “I need WITSEC.”

I play ball, “Who’re you running from?”

“Quinntella Wallace.”

No shock here. New York has heard of her, and not for positive doings. She managed to climb many criminal ladders fairly quick by pushing competition off. Strictly crazed aggression by any means unnecessary. Biggest street names are stricken with fear and caution, not excluding most officers. Absolutely nothing is beneath doing for Quinntella Wallace and her band of psychopaths. A recent shootout with officers this morning increased popularity in robbery homicide. Rogers’ rhythmic foot taps distract my thought and stops when I look at him.

Hoping for a response of desperation, I state, “People who never even met Quinntella Wallace demand protection from her. I doubt you have anything to contribute to an apprehension so there’s nothin’ I can do.”

I receive the normal low tone of secrecy, “Bank job on Trude Street.”

“Won’t get you anything. She never wore a mask during the robbery and left footage. Cameras caught her clear as day. You’ll need more than what we already know to earn protection, now if you ple–”

“How about the money?”

“…Are you sayin’ you have it?”

“I took it after we stole it from the bank.”

“We? You were part of the heist crew?”

“Yes.”

Who ripped off Trude Street bank and the heist results are public knowledge. Two dead hostages and one dead money truck driver during. Many officers injured and killed in the two-block firefight escape after. A small S.W.A.T detail were on retainer by Danielle Melligan; bank owner and wealthy older bitch with powerful friends. Quinntella managed approximately three and a half million between herself, two masked accomplices, and a second vehicle. Two crew in the morgue and one half mill bag was recovered, raising split and knocking value. Danielle would pay handsomely to know we’ve got an incoming location on those funds. My night is looking up.

I simplify the robber’s words, “You are willing to turn in the money instead of running. Why would you do that? Three mill can bounce you between more than one country, whenever, without issue.”

The robber states, “You get away from rival gangs; you get away from crooked police officers and an on-site S.W.A.T. team at a bank; you don’t get away from Quinntella Wallace. I have been with her for years and no one has ever gotten away from Quinntella Wallace. Especially not thieves.”

“How exactly did you swipe three and a half million from under her nose?”

“Three million. She trusted me and I wanted out. She’s a sociopath. Sticking around for too long would only get me killed anyway. I have names, dates, locations, and the money nearby. My return request is protection with any federal agency outside New York state.”

“It’ll be a while for authorization. And guarantee or not, you don’t get to just leave this police station, if we don’t play ball with your demands.”

“We’ll see about that. When Quinntella hears from anywhere that I’m here with that money, she will come. This hood is not just for my safety, it’s for all of yours too.”

Her balls are greatly exaggerated. Three million cash ready to be handed over with a package deal of locations and accomplices; fuck an early Christmas, it’s gonna be Christmas all year. One given guarantee is Captain Terrell’s childish ear to ear grin watching. I’d love to hear his spiel on the situation. Danielle paid for the on-site team, which having that information, backs this accomplice’s story. We’d recovered a five hundred thousand dollar duffel bag and are about to be handed five extra of equal value.

I state, “I need to step out and go over your statement with the friendly people behind the glass. Then go from there.”

Silence. Only reply I receive, while rising from the metal chair. I exit with the rookie, whose name I already forgot, on my tail. The usual sense of smell and cool temperature returns. Before we get a chance to enter the observation room, Terrell steps out.

I immediately ask, “You believe any of that shit?”

He steps back inside and returns a question as we follow, “Can you give me a reason not to?”

“None. Just askin’.”

The rookie speaks, “Protection before presenting the money or information, you think there’s really a connection to Quinntella Wallace sir?”

Terrell answers, “Hard to tell. I’m leaning toward the idea. Mention of S.W.A.T. and accurate count on the stolen money does have me ready to fall off the fence. We need perspective details about the robbery. A play by play. Only then do we consider moving forward with protection offers.”

The rookie asks, “Any call on the perp being male or female?”

“Can’t pick up much from the low pitch. I vote female. Belonging to Wallace’s group, I doubt soft-spoken men are allowed around.”

I ask, “We could rip the hood off and call it square? It could be Wallace herself under there.”

“Don’t overestimate her stupidity. Masking their identity means the information could be valuable. That crazy bitch terrorized my streets for too long. Dig deeper. If this person was there, they’d have no problem matching story with footage. It checks out, background check the info and talk to the FEDs, cash goes back to its rightful owner. We got the only potential chance to cripple her operation; I should not have to stress how you cannot fuck this up…” Meaning diminishes, “Oh and good job. Now get back in there.”

Ordered to the smelly room again. Too little time to appreciate the finer stench of life. The clothed statue of a disloyal robber remains; as if we’re not talking to a person at all, but a breathing mannequin with a cell phone strapped to it. Wallace off the streets would be a step in many right directions for allied criminals. She’s stepped over New York’s worst and just keeps trampling like a child in muddy water after a rainy day. When finally imprisoned, dead inside of a week can be an argument-free arrangement.

I take the same seat and deliver good and bad news in unison, “We won’t be able to grant protection without additional information from your end.”

The soft voice asks, “Regarding?”

“Take us through the bank job. Every detail from beginning entry to getaway.”

“You have the tapes. Why are you wasting my time?”

“To make sure you’re not wasting ours. Everyone in their right and wrong mind knows Quinntella hit that bank. We need to corroborate your story versus what we have on tape before deciding whether you’re telling the truth or–”

The robber concludes, “–full of shit. I get it.”

“Then?”

“Locations and cash come after WITSEC protection has been signed. Do we have an understanding?”

The request is not hard; out-of-state specifics will be. Hunted by Wallace is a tough prescription to fill. Able to do what and when to whom keeps everyone distant. Stepping on toes is a different reaction when standing on dynamite shoes. Lowlifes in the boroughs refuse to pay cuts to us and each other, by claiming partnership under that reputable umbrella. It’ll soon close when we collect on the largest bounty for ending her. An early retirement for Terrell and a massive paycheck for me.

I approve, “Fair trade. Let’s hear it.”