(For mature audiences)
(This version isn’t finalized. All writings are from its origin and unedited.)
My knowledge of the bank robbery isn’t absolute because it isn’t my case to run; however, everyone knows Quinntella Wallace ran the job. Fatality count on each team were made public. Acknowledging the dead body found in traffic is an undisclosed play to the case. Same clothing as described, though still unidentified in another precinct morgue. Beaten so savagely his brain bounced out of his skull when thrown from the vehicle, according to the autopsy.
Details of the truck guard’s murder were also never disclosed. Being told to “fuck off,” Charlie appears to have been the lucky expendable that got away. Alpha and Bravo did not seem expendable, but I don’t bet Wallace is regretting that. Bravo’s testimony means shit without locations. Will the story’s results merge? I gotta chat with the Captain to see if reports and footage tie. My doubts are high.
I ask, “Anything else?”
The cloaked perp answers in the same stable tone, “Nothing.”
“I’ll have to take this up the chain. Sit tight and we’ll see if your carpet matches the drapes.”
I sit, briefly, waiting on an offended gesture or response from a woman hidden underneath, or chuckle from a man. No sun shines over my dim light of gender confusion. Why did I open my fuckin’ mouth outside? My very obedient partner rises alongside me, and we leave the room. He’s gotta be the unluckiest academic star pupil to nail a first day Wallace case. Theories usually stew behind that kind of unicorn; nepotism or I.A. plant. Notice would’ve phoned ahead to cover our own asses against later prosecution. I refuse to sweat the academy outta this newbie.
Captain holds a stare at the perp as he speaks, “Shoes fit. Everything happened inside and out, just the way it was told. Low profile team near the bank, meet up, truck drove off and parked with the other. This person knew the whole fuckin’ playbook start to finish.”
My disbelief doesn’t hide, “Are you serious? There’s no way one of Quinntella’s people would roll over to us. That shit’s like tellin’ on water for bein’ wet? She’s got rap sheets taller than me. Unless we know where she’s sleepin’ right this second, this is pointless.”
Terrell glances past me, granting the newbie an opinion, “Any thoughts on it, Jameson?”
Facing through the glass, an answer sighs out, “If the stories match, this woman deserves to be given protection for what she knows.”
For a second, Terrell and I lock eyes at his question, “Woman?”
“From what was said, this person did not seem to bear any aggressive attitude at the bank job; very passive behavior, very perfectionist. That kind of demeanor makes me think our perp is a woman. This circle of male robbers is typically hostile to keep crowds under control. We could argue professionalism, but no amount of desperation is worth riding with amateurs. Anything tied to her name is guaranteed problems or a pine box.”
I ask, “What if that’s what this person wants you to think? You don’t sneak into a police station dressed like that without the intent of literally trying to mask your identity. A minor spin on the tale and your entire perspective is thrown. Everybody wants protection for nothin’.”
“Concealment’s not for her protection. She’s protecting her investment; us. From what I read about Wallace, if rumor even circulated about anyone ready to name names, nothing stops her getting to them. And no one has ever been out of her reach. Captain Terrell says the stories line-up, then the stories line-up. Man or woman, this situation needs to be taken seriously.”
Terrell states, “Identifying this person is no longer priority one. We need to get in contact with our FBI friends and get wheels spinning on this deal. Feds know what’s on the table, they’ll play ball. I’ll call it in, and you two need to get a hold of whereabouts and money ASAP.”
I got questions that the, oddly, influential rookie can’t be around for, “Captain, can we talk in private for a second?”
Without verbal acknowledgement, he steps around us and leads out the viewing room, “What is it?”
Looking around the empty hallway for eavesdroppers, I ask, “You contacted Danielle?”
“Not ‘til we get every missing dollar in hand. If she knows we got a connection, she’d wanna take the situation into her own hands. Then we lose out on a historic bust for New York books. Once Quinntella’s in bracelets, we’ll go from there with returning the money and taking our finder’s fee.”
“You got anything on this new guy? Where’d he come from? And why does his fresh ass opinion matter in this investigation?”
“He’s top-notch but greener than shit. Commissioner threw him on us hours ago to break this Wallace case for good. I don’t know if he’s got some kinda super sleuth rum but I get paid to play their game so… Spotted record on minor over-aggression, high academy graduate, kills it on the night shift, handful of solved cases under his badge. I personally ran his name through the database; hell, I even called his references to make sure he’s legit. Feds’re tricky as fuck though, so keep his leash dialed back. They’re still working on his precinct profile for resources, etcetera.” Captain Terrell opens the viewing room door, “Do your job and I’ll phone the Bureau.”
Jameson joins me at the interrogation room door as Terrell closes his. Repeat cycle of insanity with a sour twist. The perp has not as much as twitched since we walked out. Can this person be a woman, like the rook claims?
Without hesitation, I get to the point, “Your story checks out.”
The perp asks in the usual soft tone, “And my protection?”
“Although your story does match, we need the heist money to make sure you have something to bargain.”
Still low, the perp remarks, “Of course you do.”
I take advantage of the remark by biting back, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means? Danielle misses her money and wants it back. Before you hand it off to her, I need a guarantee of protection.”
To play offended, I raise my voice, “You think I’m a fuckin’ dirty cop? A dirty cop would’ve cut these cameras off and beat the information outta you.”
“Or cut the cameras off and made me sign a piece of blank paper then got off with the money. Regardless, you get money and locations after I feel safe enough to give it.”
“You makin’ orders now?”
“I’ve been making orders since you walked in. Protection for info and money, that’s the deal. I’m certain it shouldn’t be a problem to have an agreement upon delivery. I don’t expect to walk out of here with a security detail before giving you what I said I would.”
Secretly, I was attempting to recover the money before handing off a random piece of paper, “Okay then that’s fair. My Captain will be right in with that but we need somewhere to go while we wait.”
“There’s a black truck parked three blocks east of here. Same truck we used for the getaway. Every dollar is in the trunk, key’s on the passenger tire.”
I don’t even hand out a thank you before leaving the rookie in charge of guarding the perp, “Stay here, Captain will be in, in a second.”
Jameson acknowledges my command, “Understood.”
On my exit, Terrell is already waiting outside in the hall for me with a command as well, “Secure that truck, no back-up. Keep the bags in the trunk, until we get this person moved. Go.”
We brush past each other, as I depart the same way I came in. He enters interrogation with paperwork in hand. Hopefully sheets of blank paper for the perp to write locations, instead of an agreement for protection. I haven’t been a cop as long as most present company but am certain something like this has never happened. Terrell is keeping it between the two of us, proving evident of an agenda at play. Stashing the bank money blocks away leaves plenty of opportunity to skim off the top; even worse, leaving a black truck parked in this shitty part of the city would make anyone curious about what’s inside.
At any point, the truck could be broken into or stolen, expediting my pace to suspicion level. If the money decides to disappear, there’d be no credibility that it was ever there to begin with; a bad sign for newer parties involved, like myself. I return to the half-ass beat for a short time. Black skies and unhealthy-like citizens, both poor and poorer, roam near. Some of the more organized homeless people find it safer to squat nearby, away from those who’d take from them.
I march dirty streets east with haste and purpose, clearly exposing my shield to ward off anybody with crazy ideas from panhandling to armed robbery. These streets used to make me nervous. The amount of hungry people with nothing to live for is a tally impossible to track. For fear that we’d crackdown on everyone in the area, not attacking cops is a ground rule that most tend to follow; providing me a forcefield of at least a few blocks.
Everything is closed, except liquor stores occupied with more people outside than in; likely gang members who prefer holding down storefronts they don’t own shares in. Keeping trouble away yet attracting trouble over with shouted insults and gang signs. I reach the unspecified street’s corner, looking left, right, and across for black trucks. So many cars parked on the sidewalks and broken lamps don’t make good immediate visual. I start left, wondering if I’d been played by our unknown perp.
Stashing millions in a parked truck of not-so-great condition would fetch a chance of it not being broken into. Not long into the loop, I spot the black SUV. Tinted windows and in near-mint condition. Fresh off the sale’s lot. Being overly cautious, I scope while walking by. Confirming each crevice about it is normal. Unable to see beyond the tint, it appears average. I am surprised it’s been here for hours and no one’s touched it. Someone parking here would be assumed to know better.
Before going for the key, I circle the truck completely. Swipe my hand across the top. I retrieve and use the key slot instead of the attention-grabbing fob device. Double twisting unlocks the entire truck then I go behind and hover my fingers under the sensor to open it. Its dim yellow light shines like gold in my eyes. Six black duffle bags sit stacked like building blocks. Diving into the first bag proves how untrusting I can be in mysterious perps; a half-million dollars is banded and lounging in this bag.
The bills look real enough, and I don’t plan to examine them all here. Before getting jacked, I jump in the truck and drive back toward the precinct garage. It feels much less safe than walking now, because of my blackened windows. Gangs and dealers become extremely vigilant, waiting for a window to roll down and guns to come out. Others just wonder who would drive a truck in this neighborhood that looks nicer than this neighborhood. I pedal above-average speed; signify that I won’t be doing anything criminal. Pull into the station and check-in at the gate as if the car were mine.
Etiquette would be turning it over to the impound lot but it’ll no longer be mine to control without paperwork and cameras. Once parked underground, I head up via elevator, arriving in the hall near my filthy desk. The whole pen is suddenly suspicious, like I’m in a bad place and being targeted. I just parked over thirty yearly salaries downstairs and no one knows, though I’m feeling as if someone should. A rookie mistake is trusting any of these guys.
Entering the hall that’ll take me to interrogation, I accidentally bump someone with an automated apology, “Sorry about that.”
By appearance, I recognize one of the tech geeks from our downstairs cyber lab; straight arrows who get off by making sure wires function and are listening in on phone taps. I’m unfamiliar. They don’t get much action, because we could give two shits about going undercover.
The tech accepts my apology, “It’s no problem. You seen the Captain? No one seems to know where he is.”
I answer and question, “He’s in interrogation with my perp. You need me to give him a message? I’m headed back.”
He looks into a manila folder, “Yeah, we just finished updating the new guy’s file. Detective, uh… Jameson. Just wanted to pass it down. What a sucky first night for him.”
“I’ll take it. I think he’s gonna be partnered up with me.”
One peek wouldn’t hurt. I glance into the file. Thumb through where he’s been over the years. Turns out, he’s only rookie to this department. A bit of peculiar info catches my eye; he’s been a cop about as long as I’ve been alive? What? Top right corner soaks in the picture of a more elderly man than the one in my age bracket. Not only do these tech guys have nothing to do but they even suck at that too.
I state, “That’s not Jameson.”
The tech inquires, “You knew him?”
“No w– What do you mean ‘knew him’?”
“Him and his family were gunned down in their home about an hour ago. Case was passed to robbery homicide. Just need to let Terrell know.”
My thumb swings over my shoulder into the hallway, “We got a Jameson who just started tonight. He’s in the interrogation room with Captain Terrell and our suspect right now.”
“There’s nobody on the roster to start working tonight. Maybe you got another Jameson?”
Do we? The profile doesn’t match, nobody new is scheduled today, and we got a mystery perp from a bank job that refuses to reveal their identity; a bank job that we recovered a bag from. We just got handed the other bags from the heist, but now they’re all in one place again, ripe for the plucking. It’s a set up? Did we fall into it?
I comment quickly to myself, “Son of a bitch.” I demand and rush through the hall to warn the Captain, “Get backup to the interrogation room, right now!”
My pistol flies low from its holster. With a racing heart, turn after turn still feels like I’m moving too slow. An imposter has murdered and taken the place of a detective. Is this person after the money? Or trying to discover who our mystery guest really is? If the false Jameson murdered the real one’s family, a cop’s family, then what else are they capable of?
Avery Nunez 