Chapter 7: You’ve Been A Bad Boy, Aaron

(For mature audiences)

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

Rushing through twists, I reach interrogation. Instead of bursting in, ready to fire, checking observation would be the smarter start. False Jameson can’t know we’re onto him yet, thus the element of surprise or ability to play along can still be salvaged. His motive is easy access to our mystery suspect. Does this person work for Wallace? Shit. Murdering and impersonating an officer, knowing that they’re not meant to arrive at this precinct until later today, screams professional planning though? That’s not her M.O.

I twist the knob, then push heavily during the swoop in. The female officer lies on her stomach. No blood. Appears unconscious. Didn’t see the blow to the head coming at all. Jameson’s opportunity taken. The lights go out in this room, and the next. Nothing but darkness remains to be seen past my metal extension. Both rooms and the hallway out simultaneously. The power is cut? Within seconds, emergency lighting kicks on.

Each area has little red blotches to see ahead in sections; enough for me to cling to the shadows and enough for Jameson as well. Bringing the truck back gives Jameson a ride out using spare keys, though I doubt he’ll be leaving without that final goodie bag. In the window to interrogation is another grounded body. Faint view, thanks to the single piece of light. Darker red blood is clear to see jaywalking its way across slowly.

That’s Jameson? Maybe Terrell got the hint and got the jump on him first. There wasn’t any scuffle; table and chairs are still intact. Where did he and the suspect get to? Wait, if that’s Jameson, why’s the power out? I look closer at the stiff and cannot be conclusive from behind the table. And cannot bring myself to run on assumption. I pass under a red blotch quickly into interrogation. Captain has been stripped of his rank. Jameson must be going to evidence with the suspect. That suspect is our link to finding Quinntella Wallace and…

Fuck this. I’m heading back to the truck first. No way I’m leaning into this. I broke protocol and my name will be slapped right along with Jameson’s for providing the escape vehicle. I re-enter the hall and take the right path. Roars of gunfire flood in from the bullpen. I stop. What the fuck is happening? Weapons I’m hearing are rapid-fire, and my coworkers didn’t manage a run to and from the armory so fast. Are we under attack? Does Jameson have accomplices storming the precinct? That’s the fast way to the damn truck! Shit!

All that gunfire sounds like a small army at war out there. Pounding from pistols, machine guns, and shotguns won’t let up for more than two second intervals. My only way out is backward, past evidence. I’ll be okay since I know what this disguised Jameson looks like, and there’s only one of him? I navigate the maze. Pass more than a few well-armed officers going to join the good fight. The hallways are very dark on both sides; nevertheless, its main path is lit enough for me to see through to each end.

In passing with an officer, I ask, “You see a man in Captain’s uniform?”

The officer answers, “Haven’t seen anyone pass here, sir.”

He continues past. Requesting aid of an officer would be another mouth to feed money. Jameson knows about it, aware that I am who parked three million in a truck underneath us. With Terrell out of the picture and no contact made with Danielle, that last bag and the other six can be as good as mine. I continue. Pistol drawn, watching every nook and cranny for anyone eluding by goal-driven officers.

Reaching the darkened and recently unguarded evidence room is a cautious breeze. Should I wonder why no cops are behind the cage? Or why the cage door is wide open? Beyond has off-white emergency lights throughout aisles of shelving; no sign of activity. An abandoned posting. I thoroughly inspect gaps between catalogued items, then enter. Quickly wipe sweaty hands on my pants. Careful, as if I haven’t been able to see beyond all along. The right bend could tell a new story.

Venture into darkness consumes briefly and purposely less at the exit of each blocking overhead lamp. Too many steps inland, a scuffle alerts my senses. My pistol barrel flings fast toward that bend. Aim held, a crash and tumble reveal its presence. Movement ceases. Direct sight into the light, eyes inform me of the fallen body being the mystery perp; black outfit, black cloth sack, handcuffed. Slight and weakened movement of the cloaked person suggests injury.

The imposter must’ve taken the suspect to slip past reinforcements, dumping the now useless distraction. False Jameson is after the stolen money recovered and the money that I brought. Is there still time to catch up? I tiptoe but speed to the hooded person while peeking around for any traps or ambush. Doesn’t seem to be anyone around in plain sight, though still pitch black in most sections. I play cautious even more. The duffle bag must already be gone.

I lend an assist to the perp, projecting comfort over the twitches of fear at my touch, “I’m not gonna hurt you, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The now obvious statured male halts movements. I don’t have it in me to worry about what happens to this guy, until realizing he is my savior. Terrell can’t defend my alibi when Jameson escapes. As a cop who left his superior to die, I may need this person.

The man scoots away in slight urgency when I attempt to remove the hood, “Don’t. I won’t be useful if people see who I am.”

I sigh, “Are we still doin’ this cloak and dagger? Do you not hear all the shit slappin’ the fan out there?”

“Your camera system is still operational and feeding to a hub, even during blackouts. No one can be trusted. I’m injured. Help me out of here and I’ll give you information on Wallace.”

“I got three mill waiting already, fuck Wallace.”

Before I can fully turn to ditch the bastard, he speaks again, “The cops will pin this whole thing on me, detective. I gave you the money, please help me escape.”

I forgot about the blame game, “What happened in the interrogation room?”

“Someone entered, fired a shot, threatened me to be quiet, brought me along, busted up my leg, and left me here not long ago.”

As an eyewitness, I cave into the request, “Fine, but you’re walkin’. Hand on my shoulder the whole time and keep up as best you can.” I raise him onto his feet, guiding him by his shirt to build pace then maintaining once he grabs my shoulder, “He must’ve taken the back exit to the parking garage underneath us. That’s where I parked the truck.”

He doesn’t respond. I lead us into the unbelievably silent hallway, following the same path toward the cafeteria. One of two sides won, and I do not like not knowing which. Power’s still out, identifying bad mojo for team cop. If we run into heavy trouble, this poor snitch is gonna have my back shielded. No matter how valuable the information, I’m not throwing away my physical life for a lead that I’ll have to pursue without a full precinct as a resource.

Skulking around the dark corners, I hear a whisper from my perp, “How much further is the truck?”

I refuse the question with a whispered statement, “I ask the questions. What do you know about what’s goin’ on here?”

“I came in with my head practically in the ground. It’s impossible that I was followed or you wouldn’t have found my car. Somebody let word get out that there was a truck full of money nearby…”

“That another stab at me?”

“If not you, your captain. Look, the door opened and closed a few times, a silenced gunshot went off and I got dragged out of the room.”

“Well, my captain’s dead so root him out.”

The perp released my shoulder, stopping in place, “What do we do now?”

I pull him back to my shoulder, “We leave. Did the person that took you say anything? I need specifics.”

“Shut up and move. If not your captain, who else knew I was there? Who was tapping their foot in there?”

“The person that took you, Jameson. He impersonated a detective who was murdered earlier this evening.”

A couple of pistol shots ahead disturb us enough to usher complete quiet. Thud is the last of it. Obviously, a body hit the floor. Next corridor is the cafeteria. Only thing between us and the elevator at that left wall. Instead of granting an easy shot to get my head blown off, I drag us back a few steps to the kitchen. Lower myself and the suspect into a crouched position, cracking the aluminum swinging door extremely slow. No break caused by gunshot nor does the speeding course of adrenaline kick in.

Station invaders brought machine guns and sawn-off shotguns. These were pistol shots. Standard issue Glock kind. Unless the shooter is facing opposite, it’s hard to ignore a slowly opening kitchen door. Cracked enough for us to fit, I nudge the suspect in first, taking care of his footing. Distant shuffling picks my ear. I enter. The kitchen isn’t as huge as I wish it could be right now; it’s just a bar with appliances on the left and a serving station on the right. I aim over the suspect at the opposing doorless end.

A male voice on the other side whispers low, “Shit, aw shit.”

My fingers help the door avoid making any noise single flapping diner type doors would make. I give a slight peek over the serving counter to see the metal frame that hold the glass. Head higher, I notice someone through the slit, still unable to identify who. Pacing with one hand on their head and a gun in the other. Definitely not a captain’s uniform. My shifty partner Richard goes to press the elevator call button.

I call his name from low, “Rich?” On maximum alert, he rotates toward us with his standard issue high, “Hold up, it’s Harris.”

At no shot, I gradually rise from behind the counter, then he eases the weapon with a whispering attitude, “Somebody know what’s goin’ on? We got a bunch of fuckin’ skinheads ransackin’ the place.”

I bring up my cloaked suspect by his shirt, “Skinheads? I thought this was Quinntella Wallace. Somethin’ with the new guy Captain was with. Jameson. He killed Terrell and stole something from evidence.”

“Unless she started a fuckin’ MC with leather jackets and shaved her head, this ain’t her. Who the hell is that?”

“Anonymous, for now. A witness.”

Eyes squint, “Fuck that.” The elevator sounds before opening, “Captain’s dead, shift’s over.”

He enters. Part of me applauds cowardly behavior, which is also the smarter decision than going against who knows how many cop killers; other part deeply suspicious of what his lazy ass was doing. It appears he was leaving already. Upon entry with my suspect, I face the closing door and spot a cop’s corpse. Richard is already facing forward behind us. No single taste of a word on his tongue to wanna explain himself. The suspect is clueless. The elevator jumps, heading down.

Gun still in his hand. Held stiff, firm grip clenched. He killed that cop… Does he have something to do with this attack? Am I being paranoid? Whoever stormed the front doors haven’t made it this far yet, so why the dead cop? I have a truck with three million waiting for me in the garage. Who am I to judge? I’m okay calling it an accidental kill and not trying to defend the honor of a dead man. Long as he doesn’t make sudden moves, we’re good. The elevator halts, then opens. The garage is faintly lit due to the blackout. My truck is around the corner near the other elevator. About time I found my way to paradise. This guy’s on his own.

Slightly minding my back against Rich, I allow the suspect to lead by command, “Straight ahead.”

He instigates forward movement and I follow a couple arm’s lengths behind him. No one took a shot at him; therefore, I exit the elevator next, ready to give Rich a verbal send off.

Suspect annunciates, “Two.”

I get whacked in the head. Instantly, blackout from blunt force. A gunshot pops afterward. My eyes can’t see but I am being dragged just out of the elevator by my leg. Rich is dead in the elevator. It closes.

The suspect speaks, “Get these cuffs off me.”

What’s happening? Senses are the only part of my body that’s awake right now. I can’t move. My face throbs. More than just fact states blood is leaking from my head. My eyes open briefly as my pockets are being checked. Again, shortly after, as the suspect removes his cloak. The false Jameson? It’s the imposter that was supposed to be in Terrell’s outfit. How? Am I hallucinating?

A nonchalant female voice speaks, stepping to the side of and staring at me, “Aaron Harris.”

Dark-skinned, slim woman with brown eyes and long black hair; a face that no New Yorker forgets. Quinntella Wallace. I don’t understand. What happened to the suspect? I didn’t see their body with the captain, yet somehow the imposter has the suspect’s exact clothing.

Quinntella speaks again as she sits next to my paralyzed body, “You’ve been a bad boy, Aaron. Driving my money in here, did you think I’d let you leave with it? Ride off into the sunset with three million dollars? Would’ve been the easiest night of your career huh? Man, that sucks. You were so close too.”

Her hand reaches above me, and a baseball bat gets passed over. Certain it’s what I was just bashed with and why I can’t swallow blood collecting in my mouth. Quinntella uses the bat to assist her stand as I cough blood onto my face. The cough jerks my body, tilting my head a little bit right where she sat. Someone is wearing Terrell’s uniform. Watching me. It must be the suspect. Standing directly in front of a light. The false Jameson and the suspect? Partners? Please, step away from the light and give a dead man one last wish.