My eyes opened sometime before it was time for my wake-up alarm to go off; numbness confined me to my bed until that time arrived. I had my coffee black because I couldn’t stand the thought of enjoying anything while Geraldine worried, without any relief from me, about her husband’s safety. I needed one or all four of the 4 people closest to me to comfort me, but I also wanted to isolate myself. I called my supervisor.
“Sergeant Matthews.”
“Sarge, it’s Bachman. I’m—”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I’m not feeling well, I’m going to need to take the day—”
“Leave request approved. Next time you wanna stay home, don’t ask permission.” Click.
I finished my cup, and had another, then a third. I rarely drank more than three but my mood was sour so I had a bitter-black fourth and tried to relax even as my pulse sped up.
I was hungry. I decided to get some Jack, because I lacked the will to cook myself even a pair of eggs. I put on my Rage Against the Machine T-shirt and a pair each of my police uniform pants and combat boots, and opened the door—
Something was waiting for me on my welcome mat, something reddish-orange and feathery, attached to a piece of twine. I bent over and picked up the corpse of a ginger bird, some species of canary. The twine was looped once around the bird’s neck, with one end wrapping around the other several times, forming a miniature hangman’s noose; the bird’s head was twisted, and dangled loosely. I tried not to understand what I was holding in my hands—but the message someone was trying to send me was all too clear.
I stared at it—this little dead creature in my palm—panicking, heart vibrating like a redlining V12—and, luckily, remembered before I spiraled out of control to regulate my breathing; counted to 4 as I inhaled, as I held it in, as I exhaled, and as I held it out. The panic survived, but—thanks to my oft-practiced coping mechanism—so did my wits.
I wondered who was trying to intimidate me—and I needed to know whether the death threat extended to my lovers, as well as why it had been sent before I was expecting it, before I started making arrests.
Somebody had figured out I was working on Alexander’s case. ((But how? Nobody outside my circle knows that it was Alex’s blood that was spilled in room 410)). Unless they’ve tested it and somehow matched him. There are databases after all, though Alex was quite particular about his OPSEC, so I doubt he would have willingly handed over his genome to any entity—it would have needed to be collected one of the times he was arrested. There’s a chance whoever sent this threat suspects that Alex was a victim in the Torrey Pines case—but they’d have needed to be looking over my shoulder from the moment I was put in charge of searching the hotel to have even a clue.
((But… There are two cases, remember? And the other one has Alex’s name on it. And every case assigned to every detective, hot or cold, is tracked in the Crimes Against Persons Unit’s CaseCloud)) Team Database, which everyone in the unit has access to. If even one detective peeks at my entries in that file, they’ll tattle to the rest of the nest that its newest hornet is trying to find SVPD’s least wanted. And my bosses probably don’t care about keeping my assignments on the down-low.
((Shit.))
There would be no fingerprints to lift from the bird’s porous feathers, and finding surveillance footage of its delivery would be impossible in an apartment complex with landlords too cheap to install security cameras; without any leads, further investigation was pointless. I threw it in the trash and walked to Jack in the Box. Along the way somebody whispered, “(Ya gotta get these bastards before they get you, Lieutenant.)” I wasn’t certain they were talking to me, so I just ignored them. I saw no utility in the whispers of invisible fools—besides, I wasn’t a lieutenant. I would never be one as long as Alex’s body remained hidden.
While I was waiting for my Breakfast Jack, I received a SecreText message:
I didn’t want to interact with anybody, but I felt compelled to give my lover some kind of response.
I ate my sandwich, then walked to Walgreens, bought a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Fudgegettaboutit, and ate it while watching The Cheap Detective. I didn’t laugh at any of the gags, and I felt bloated after eating a pint of milk and sugar.
But I had succeeded in all but forgetting about Geraldine’s ire. Instead, by the time Lou joined his polycule of femmes fatales (and femmes inoffensives) before the credits, I had only one thing on my mind: the red bird.
I fished it out of the trash, gently set it down on the coffee table, and stared at it. While the detective part of my brain slowly booted up, I took some pictures. ((Who bought it?)) I had never seen a reddish-orange canary in my life, not even a photo of one, and they had never come up in any conversation I had listened to… so they had to be at least slightly less common than the yellow kind, and not likely to be stocked at pet shops that didn’t deal specifically in uncommon birds. A quick search turned up that red factor canaries were indeed uncommon in run-of-the-mill pet shops. I compiled a list of every store in the city that specialized in birds, dialed the first one—and groaned as it occurred to me, ((Georgina was only joking about the Ace Ventura thing… but here I am, tracking down the seller of a canary entangled in a kidnapping. Next I’ll learn how to talk to cats. Oh, right—I am a cat.))
I tapped the ‘call’ button, and someone picked up on the sixth ring. “Love and Feathers, how can I help you?”
“Good morning, this is Detective Andrea Bachman, SVPD. Do you carry red canaries?”
“We can order you one and have it to you by tomorrow.”
“I need to know if you’ve had any in stock recently.”
“Sorry, ma’am, we don’t, but we deliver straight to your home, next day.”
“No thank you, I’m not looking to have anything delivered to my home. Do you know of any businesses that do carry them?”
“I have no idea. Is there a reason you need it same day? I may be able to arrange something, though it will cost more.”
“No thank you. Nothing off the top of your head?”
“We don’t keep track of other stores’ stock. I can have one delivered to you before 1 o’clock, which would be much more convenient than going to another store to pick up in-person.”
“No, thank you. You don’t keep track of what your competitors sell?”
“No. Could I convince you to do business with us if I waive the delivery fee?”
“Thank you but no thank you, I don’t need a bird, I already have more than I wanted. Why don’t you keep track of others’ sales? If you know what they sell a lot of you can stock the same things and bring in more customers.”
“You ask me about a new bird even though you aren’t interested in buying, and then you tell me how to run my business. What’s wrong with you?”
“I never—I never said anything about buying, and I’m not telling you how to run your business.”
“Yes, you are telling me how to run my business. Now if you don’t mind, I have paying customers to tend to.”
“Thank—” Click. “…you. (Fuck.)”
I found another one. “Bill Bird’s Bird Bills, this is Bird Bill Bill Bird.”
“Good morning, Mister Bill, my name is Andrea Bachman and I’m trying to identify the purchaser of a particular bird.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Y-yes. Detective.”
“Call me back when you have a warrant. Have a nice day.” Click.
I dialed a dozen numbers till I heard, “We sold our last one yesterday.”
((Bingo.)) “Would you be able to identify the person you sold it to?”
“I get about 50 customers a day.”
“Can you at least try?”
Sigh. “It was… a man… with… brown hair.”
“Curly, wavy, straight?”
“I don’t remember. It could have been black.”
“Was it long?”
“It was average length.”
“I… don’t know what ‘average’ means in this context.”
“It was about as long as most men wear it.”
“Medium?”
“Sure. ‘Medium’, ‘average’, you like using the thesaurus while interrogating?”
“No, I—”
“I’m a businessman, Detective. Which is to say, I have a business with which I am very busy. I would appreciate you getting to the point.”
“How tall was he?”
“Medium.”
“You mean ‘average’?”
“Please put down your thesaurus.”
“Right… um… ‘medium height’. Any scars, tattoos, unusual facial features?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Tsk…” I sighed.
“Are you investigating a crime?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say at the moment.”
“You wouldn’t say that you ‘can’t say at the moment’ unless you were investigating ‘at the moment’.”
“I’m trying to say I don’t know if it’s a crime yet.”
“You could have just said that.”
“Ah. Yes. I suppose I could have.”
“Is this guy a victim?”
“No.”
“So he did something.”
“I’m not at liberty to say either way at the moment.”
“He’s a suspect.”
“Ye-esss… He is a suspect.”
“What did he do?”
“Do you have a surveillance camera trained on the register?”
“Yes. What did he do?”
“Would you mind if I came down and watched the footage?”
“I’d like you to answer my question.”
I grunted. “Criminal threat.”
“Who did he threaten?”
“A police officer. He threatened to kill a police officer. Happy now?”
“Oh. If you’d told me sooner we could have done this quicker.”
“I’ll remember that next time. Can I see the security footage?”
“I’ll get it ready for you.”
“Could I get your name?”
“Jason Ibrahim.”
“Thank you, Jason. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
I dressed in my professional fineries, grabbed my professional equipment, pocketed the bird, and drove off.
Cheeps Not Cheaps exotic bird shop was located in the Fordham Valley Shopping Mall, nestled between a Sinnerbon and a Funkin’ Donuts. I turned on my phone’s wire mode as I made my way to the counter, behind which waited a person—‘a businessman’, he called himself, so I presumed he was a man—5′7″, about Judy’s age, black hair, in a T-shirt and jeans under an apron printed with the store’s name. I showed him my badge and informed him, “Good afternoon, I’m Detective Andrea Bachman. Are you Jason?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Do you consent to being recorded? You are under no obligation.”
“That’s fine.”
“Would you happen to be the owner?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m talking to the right person.” I removed the hanged canary from my pocket and held it out, nestled in my palm. He tensed up. “This is the criminal threat in question. Do you recognize it?”
“Oh. Oh, jeez… Yes. I sold… that poor thing, to that medium-average man.”
“Does the bird have any distinguishing features that make you so confident in saying that?”
He was careful not to touch the bird as he pointed. “There’s an imperfection in the cheek plumage, it’s more yellow than red. He asked for our cheapest ‘redhead-colored’ bird, and that innocent creature… was the least expensive, because of the imperfection.”
“Thank you. Would you like to inspect it, just to be certain?” I held it out.
He took half a step back. “No, no thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
“Are you telling me you’ve never touched a dead bird before?”
“I handle them all the time, just not ones with nooses and broken necks.”
I put the bird back in my pocket. “I understand. Could we take a look at the surveillance footage?”
“Right this way.” His DVR stretched the definition of ‘modern’, but it worked well enough. He already had the video feed rewound to the moment of the purchase, with the customer standing at the counter. “That’s him.”
((5′9″, T-shirt and jeans. The ball cap is obscuring part of his face, but not enough for anonymity. That’s Detective James Horton, CAPS First Precinct. He was sitting not 20 feet away from me yesterday. He might have even overheard me asking to take on the case, though I can almost swear I was the only detective in the bullpen when I asked the captain for it.))
((Why the threat, though? He can’t be aware that I’m sincerely trying to rescue Alex, unless he’s privy to more than he should be.))
“Detective? Do you recognize him?”
“Not a hair on his head. Can you burn me a DVD of this?”
“Of course.” He pulled a disc from a spindle of blanks and started the burn. “Detective…”
“Yes, Jason?”
“You said this was a criminal threat.”
“Yes.”
“Is that all he did?”
“As far as I know, no. Why?”
“What department are you from?”
“Crimes Against Persons Squad, First Precinct.”
“Like, assaults and threats.”
“Yes.”
“And murders.”
“Yes, and manslaughters, missing persons, accidents, suicides, anything involving harm to a human being.”
“Did this man… kill someone?”
“No.”
“Did he kidnap someone?”
“No.”
“Did he try to physically hurt anyone in any way?”
“No. He intended only psychological harm.”
“That’s a relief. Are you going to be able to find him?”
“I’ll try.” The disc ejected, and he passed it to me. I recorded the date, time, and occasion on the front with a Pointie marker, and deposited it in a coat pocket. “Thank you, Jason. I saw that he paid with a card. Could you send me the transaction record from your point-of-sale system?”
“Of course.”
I suppressed a sigh of relief over the favorable conclusion to an interview that had such a rocky start. I wrote my email and cell in my notepad and tore away the page. “Feel free to call me or send me anything else you think might be relevant. You’ve been a big help, Jason.”
I drove to the station and made my way to Diane’s office. “Tricia, I have something for Diane.”
“Go on in, Prax.”
Diane smiled when she saw me and gave me a tight hug. “You look like you are doing better! How is the kidnapper hunt going, Sweetie?”
“Geraldine basically told me to fuck off until I had good news, I just kind of… felt numb after that. No news turned out to be bad news, and I wanted to process it alone.”
She brushed away a curl of my hair. “I am sorry, Sweetie. It is your business why you did not come to me for comfort, but did you by any chance talk to Judy?”
“I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want anyone around feeling bad for me. I didn’t want to be comforted. I just wanted to stare at the TV and drool.”
“We all have our own ways of coping. I hope that you are feeling better after getting some sleep.”
“I’ve been trying since that phone call to convince myself that she hasn’t lost all hope, while simultaneously trying to accept the obvious conclusion that she has—because I’m a cop, and she knows damn well that cops can’t be trusted.”
“You are trustworthy. Someday she will come to realize that, even if that someday is the day you find him.”
“Maybe…” ((But there’s someone interfering with my search…))
“What is on your mind, Drea?”
I pulled the bird out of my pocket and dangled it by its noose. “There was a present on my welcome mat when I finally got around to leaving my apartment this morning.”
The concern in the wrinkles of her skin doubled, while the concern in her eyes turned into the beginnings of rage. She held out her cupped hand and I let the bird fall into her palm. Fear mixed with fury. “Do you have any idea who would want to do this?”
“James Horton.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“CAPS First Precinct, two desks over from me.”
“A pig. Any idea how he found out?”
“He must have seen that I was assigned to Alex’s disappearance in our CaseCloud Team Database.”
“How do you know it’s him?”
“I tracked down the pet shop that sold him the canary, and watched the DVR footage. I have it on DVD…” I showed it to her. “…and I have the credit card transaction record from the payment system in my work inbox.”
“I’ll spin up a CaseCloud vault and add you so you can upload the evidence. I’ll make sure he gets his 3 years for criminal threat.”
“I appreciate you going to bat for me, but… I’m thinking I might also be able to spin an accessory after the fact for Alex’s kidnapping…” A subtle smile reversed her negative demeanor. “…on top of the Section 422 PC.”
“Accessory to kidnapping might be a little bit of a stretch for something so simple as a dead bird… but I think you might be able to use that threat to extract a favorable plea bargain.” She kissed me, and with an affectionate pat on the cheek, ordered, “Get to it, Eupraxia.”
“As you command, Mistress.”
After one last peck of our lips, I went to my desk, uploaded my pictures of the hanged bird, the video of Detective Horton purchasing it, and the point-of-sale transaction record.
About that point-of-sale transaction: the record made no mention of the name of the payer, his billing address, his issuing bank, or his bank account number—only that the payment had been made with a PassPorter contactless credit card with the last four digits ‘7956’. The transaction information had been obscured to the point that I had no straightforward way of proving the purchase was made with Horton’s card. I therefore had no choice but to go straight to his bank to acquire a full record of the incriminating payment.
Which meant I needed a warrant.
I created a new DOCX in the CaseCloud vault, only to be interrupted: my calendar notified me that I was due in Traffic Court at 10. ((Here we go…)) I called Sergeant Matthews and informed him I had a citation to respond to, and he kindly pointed out, “You already called in for the day, and I don’t care what you do with your time. Stop bothering me.” If anything, there was a hint of hostility in his dismissive tone.
I showed the courthouse security people my badge and they let me skip the security line. I joined a crowd waiting outside court room 23, Traffic, and a few minutes later we were shepherded in and seated in the gallery. I was optimistic that my case would be resolved quickly, since I had been blessed with a last name that started with the second letter of the alphabet…
Then the docket for the day popped up on the big monitor in the corner… in reverse alphabetical order. ((Ah, Christ, fuck me.))
“(Sucks,)” said somebody, quietly.
“Hm?”
“(Waiting.)”
“It is what it is.”
There was no further rapport; I preferred to think about my partners than talk to strangers. Tom came to mind, probably because I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days. I missed him. Nico, too.
I sat through speeding tickets, expired licenses and registrations, vehicles registered for non-op being taken out for a spin, red zone parking, DUIs, expired parking meters, and a dozen other categories of vehicle violations both moving and non-moving. Three hours of that bullshit later, I heard, “City of Santa Virginia versus Andrea Bachman.” I rose and stood at the defense podium and the bailiff approached me. “Raise your right hand. Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“Yes.”
They swore in Samuel Prince next. Judge Frita Mendez asked him, “Officer Prince, pardon me, but I’m having a hard time making out your handwriting, and you neglected to file the ticket electronically. Which section are you accusing Mizz Bachman of violating and which day did it occur?” I resisted the urge to correct her use of ‘Mizz’ instead of ‘Detective’.
“The ticket was issued on the 14th, your Honor. It’s a parking citation.”
“And the charge, Officer?”
“Parking meter racketeering.”
She stared at him over her reading glasses for a solid 5 or so seconds. “My apologies, I think I may have just had a senior moment. Could you repeat the section of the Municipal Code you are alleging was violated?”
“Parking meter racketeering.”
“‘Parking meter… racketeering?’”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Pray tell me, Officer Prince, is that in the Municipal Code?” she asked, her words sticky with sarcasm.
“N—no, your Honor.”
“What makes you think you can unilaterally legislate for the City of Santa Virginia?”
“She…”
After a few seconds of silence, she told him, “Take as long as you need, Officer, you’re only wasting everybody’s precious time.”
“It’s—it’s a special case.”
The needles in her eyes sharpened. “Please, explain, Officer, what is so special about Mizz Bachman’s actions that you found it appropriate to make up a new law.”
“Y’see, the defendant has organized a crime ring—”
“A ‘crime ring’,” she repeated, her impatience not entirely contained within her throat. “And what are you alleging was her organization’s ‘racket’, Officer Prince?”
“The systemic nonconsensual topping off of parking meters on Adams Avenue, in violation of Santa Virginia Municipal Code Chapter Seven Article Four Division Three Section Eighty-Two.”
“That would be conspiracy, not racketeering, a charge which would only be applicable if Section 74.0382 MC was at least a misdemeanor.”
“Can we amend the charges?”
The judge sighed and rubbed her temples, and muttered almost too quietly for me to hear, “Meter maids.” Then, for the whole court to hear, she informed Sam, “Whereas the defendant is being charged with an infraction, therefore there is no requirement for indictment; and whereas this is a ‘critical’ section that the city hasn’t shut up about for as long as it’s been on the books, I have been politely asked by my superiors to invest more of my resources in its prosecution; I will amend these frankly ridiculous charges to something actually on the books—if the defendant consents. Mizz Bachman, would you consent to amending the charge to a single violation of Section 74.0382? If you do not, I will drop your case with prejudice, and you may go home. I should hope that the smart response is obvious.”
“Well, I was in the middle of investigating a possible murder, when I had to come here and wait 3 hours for my name to be called…”
“‘Investigating’? Are you a reporter, Mizz Bachman?”
I retrieved my badge and credential wallet from my left pant pocket and flipped it open. “Detective, SVPD Crimes Against Persons, First Precinct.” Sam’s eyes inflated.
“May I? Bailiff O’Reilly, if you would.” I gave it to the bailiff, who passed it on to the judge who examined it closely, then chuckled silently. “Officer Prince, I would like to compliment you for demonstrating the integrity needed to pursue justice against a fellow officer, and a detective of higher rank, no less. Detective, do you wish to give Officer Prince the opportunity to hold a fellow officer of the law accountable by consenting to amending the charges, or do you believe that doing so would be a complete waste of time?”
I was curious about how this traffic case could play out. “Well… I used to be in Parking Enforcement, so I know what it’s like to witness the injustices perpetrated by fellow officers of the law going unexamined. I worked alongside Officer Prince for 6 years, and I know him to be a man of diligence and sincerity.” He was neither. “It would be a grave insult to his reputation as a peace officer, and to the court he has asked for assistance in seeking justice, if we didn’t amend the charges and see his allegations of wrongdoing through to their just and legal conclusion.”
As I spoke, her face turned to ash and despair. “Are you… absolutely certain that you wish to decline the opportunity to have your case dismissed outright, Detective?”
“Yes, your Honor. This is a serious allegation, deserving serious examination.”
“It is by no means serious, Detective.”
“It’s a conspiracy charge, isn’t it?”
“Not without an indictment. You are facing a single count of violating Section 74.0382 of the Municipal Code.”
“Regardless, I consider this a professional favor to Officer Prince, an honest opportunity to show the world how justice is done.”
She looked at me like I was the stupidest person in the world. Which I was, but I was having fun watching Sam’s jaw drag on the floor, and I wanted to see just how far the judge was willing to go, anticipating the possibility that she might even hold him in contempt… or me. “If you insist, Detective. Officer, do you have any evidence supporting your allegation of violation of Section 74.0382?”
“Yes, your Honor. On the night of Saturday, July the 13th, the defendant was spotted on Adams Avenue in skimpy clothing, cavorting amongst known prostitutes.”
“A detective… ‘cavorting’… with ‘known prostitutes’.” She nodded. “I’ve heard of stranger things. I’ve presided over more extreme and more flagrant corruption.” She faced me. “Detective, whatever your answer is to my next question, I will take you at your word. Is it true that you were ‘cavorting amongst known prostitutes’ last Saturday?”
“He hasn’t specified a time. I would also like to know exactly how well he ‘knows’ these prostitutes.”
She allowed herself a chuckle even as she shook her head and looked to the heavens in frustration. “God save me. Officer, what time did you witness this alleged ‘cavorting’?”
“About 8 o’clock.”
“Detective, were you on that street at 8 o’clock?”
“I was in my apartment, getting ready to have coffee with my girlfriend at 9,” ((in the morning.))
“You drink coffee at night?”
“I used to work the night shift. Sometimes that meant coffee at night.”
“Alright, that actually makes sense—but I take it you no longer—”
“I saw her there,” said Prince. “She was wearing—”
She banged her gavel. “Officer, do not interrupt the judge when she is speaking. You already started off on the wrong foot today, so now you’re on paper-thin ice. No more outbursts. That said, I will hear your testimony.”
“She was wearing a black dress.”
“Do you have photographic or video evidence?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Alright, just… bring them directly to me—Bailiff Watson, let him through. If procedure is the bath water, decorum is the baby. Officer, you are free to approach the judge’s bench, I don’t want to play telephone with the… ‘evidence’.” He pulled a handful of 8-by-10 photographs from his bag and presented them to Judge Mendez, who put on her glasses. “I see.”
“That’s her,” he said, pointing at one of the photos. “In the black dress.”
“Possibly. Detective, you may approach the judge’s bench.” She showed me the first photo, which was more glare than subject. “In your opinion, Detective, does this look like you? With the red hair?”
“It’s hard to tell.” She showed me another, which was even worse. “Hmm. That doesn’t look like my face.” She turned to the next, which was better than the others, but my face was still hard to make out. “It’s still too blurry.” She showed me the next one, which kind of looked like me, but still could just as easily have been someone else. “I dunno. We redheads tend to look a lot alike.”
“No comment. Officer, did you take these?”
“No, your Honor, that would be Officer Damien Firth.”
“Is he available to call as a witness?”
“No, he, ah—elected not to—was busy.”
“So you had another witness you could have called, but were unable to persuade to come to court?”
“Y—yes, your Honor.”
“I… see. Do you have any witnesses who could identify Detective Bachman at the scene?”
“I doubt the prostitutes would be willing to testify against her.”
“Whether they are willing is immaterial. What matters is whether you brought them here today.”
“No… I did not.”
“Tsk tsk tsk. Well, Detective—will you admit that you were there, or do you deny it? I will take you at your word.”
“Could we entertain Officer Prince’s claim without me admitting that I was there? For the sake of giving his case a fair shake.”
She sighed. “Normally, no, I would have simply dismissed the case if you were to deny his claim. However, you are willingly measuring out your rope on his behalf, and I will henceforth cease my efforts to dissuade you from tying it around your own neck.” She pondered for a moment, then said, “You know what? I would like to understand what the original charges stemmed from. Officer, pray tell, what exactly did the detective do… that led you to believe that she was leading a quote-unquote ‘racket’?”
“Well, ma’am—”
“‘Your Honor.’”
“Your Honor—”
“How long have you been a peace officer? A few months?”
“7 years.”
“And you don’t know how to address a judge.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t show up in court very often.”
“You just write tickets and assume they won’t contest them in court.”
“Um. Yes… yes, ma’am. Your Honor.”
She shook her head and sighed. “Try not to forget: ‘Your Honor’. Proceed.”
“First, near the beginning of her assignment as a Parking Enforcement Officer covering Adams Avenue, there was a precipitous…” A very good word to use in a report addressed to police leadership, but judges are generally unimpressed by fancy diction—big words are to persuade the jurors, not the person who hears the lawyers’ eloquence all day, every day. He got the word right, but of course he second guessed himself and gave it another try. “…a precipitous drop in citations since she was first assigned to the area. Second, we noticed that the prostitutes would load the meters whenever she came around on her route. And third, an Internal Affairs investigation discovered that she was loading the meters herself.”
The judge’s head pivoted slowly around to me. “Is this true, Detective?”
“Yes. I violated Section 74.0382 on a few occasions.”
“Off- or on-duty?”
“On, your Honor, in cases where, based on the class and condition of the vehicle, I was concerned the driver might struggle to afford an expired meter fine.”
“As much as I hate to say this, the financial hardship of violators wasn’t material to your application of the law as an officer, Detective. You have just admitted to— Do you understand that you did not need to consent to have the charges amended? That you could have avoided this self-incrimination?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Then—for my edification, please, would you explain why you agreed to move forward with this case?”
“Because I was curious.”
“Because you were ‘curious’? Is that a good reason to put your wallet in danger?”
“Also… because I waited 3 hours to have my name called, I wanted to experience some courtroom drama to make up for the boredom.”
She convulsed and covered her mouth, as if to stifle a laugh. She tried not to smile, but I could tell she wanted to. Once the urge had passed, she asked as seriously as she could, “Are you always this self-destructive, Detective?”
“If you knew about the kinds of activities I freely engage in with people I barely know, you would know that the answer is a resounding ‘yes’.”
A few chuckles emerged from the gallery, but not from the judge. She was trying her best to maintain a straight face. “Order. This is not a joke, Detective. I suggest you give me serious answers from now on, unless you want time behind bars. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Now tell me, do you or do you not understand the consequences you are facing?”
“In all seriousness? No. What’s the worst that can happen to me if I’m found guilty on all charges?”
“The charge of conspiracy is nonsensical, but there appears to be a real case against you for violating Section 74.0382 multiple times. That’s a 500 dollar fine per violation.”
“How many times did I violate it?”
“Officer Prince?”
“Um. Your Honor… I don’t… have IA’s report on me, so I don’t know.”
“Detective, do you recall—and are you willing to admit, under oath—how many times you violated Section 74.0382?”
((10,423.)) “Twice.”
“Twice? My impression is that there was a systematic pattern of violations of the section. Are you certain that it was only two times?”
“At least twice… that I can remember. Could be more, but I never made a spreadsheet to keep a tally.”
More laughter from the gallery. “Order. And perhaps not keeping track of your crimes is the smartest thing you’ve done in this case. Officer, outside of the Internal Affairs investigation report, how many times did you witness the defendant violate Municipal Code Section 74.0382?”
“Well, I wasn’t—I didn’t personally witness any acts.”
She sighed. “Of course you didn’t. We have two violations that Detective Bachman is willing to admit to, and the issuing officer is unable to provide a higher number. Detective Andrea Bachman, I have no choice but to find you liable for two counts, and only two counts, of nonconsensual meter payments in violation of Santa Virginia Municipal Code Chapter Seven Article Four Division Three Section Eighty-Two, and thus fine you 1,000 dollars.”
I pulled Saturday’s wad of bribe money from my purse and held it up. “Is cash okay?”
She was amused, but she tried not to show it. “The judge does not accept payments, Detective, you should know that.”
“Of course. That fact slipped my mind.”
“You may leave, Officer Prince. Stay, Detective.” I had a very explainable desire to obey her command and an equally explainable anticipation of her giving me either a treat for being a good girl or a spanking for being a bad one. After Sam had left, she told me, quietly, “What I am about to tell you does not leave this courtroom. Nod if you understand.” I nodded. “I knew this case was going to be bullshit the moment I laid eyes on his chicken scratch. And then I made a mistake: I gave you the choice of whether to give him what he wanted or go on our merry ways, thinking, she’s a detective, she’s gotta be smart, she can take a hint. But you didn’t. Past every exit, you stayed on the highway to Hell. And then… I understood what was going on. I relaxed. I played along. I enjoyed myself. For the first time since I saw fireworks on the Fourth, I felt a smile coming on. I felt like I was watching two clowns taking turns kicking each other in the groin. This case… was a nice breather. I’m actually glad you two screwed around today and showed everyone just how stupid cops can be.”
“I’d say Parking Enforcement is the bottom of the barrel, but it isn’t. It’s the shit someone put the barrel on top of to cover the smell.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth, but a little hint of a laugh escaped. “That’s true. But I’ve seen some real numbskulls. Narcotics in particular.”
“They can be pretty dumb. But we both know the real nincompoops come out of Crimes Against Persons.”
She allowed herself a little chuckle. “All that said… come a little closer.” I got as close as I could. She whispered, “Detective Bachman, if you show your face in my courtroom and waste even a second of my time again, I will find you in contempt. Next time I make you an offer to have a bullshit case against you dismissed, are you gonna take it?”
I was shocked by her sudden change in attitude, and a little turned on by her aggression. I looked for a wedding ring, and didn’t see one. “I value our time together far too much to waste it… Judge.”
She raised an eyebrow. “‘Judge’? How close do you think we are?”
“Not as close as we could be.”
“Detective, are you the kind of woman who might play roller derby?”
“If you enjoy watching sweaty fat girls being rough with other sweaty women, I’ll buy myself a pair of skates and learn the game.”
She shrugged. “I could see you wearing a star on your helmet.”
“I don’t understand the significance of the star, but as long as you’re having a good time while you’re cheering for me from the stands, I’ll wear anything you want me to wear.”
She smirked as her eyes dwelled on mine. “I’m waiving your fine because I hate this stupid regulation. And I had fun, so I’ve decided you can have a minor favor at a later date. Go.”
I pulled out my notepad and quickly scribbled my number. “Thank you, Miss Mendez.” I tore off the sheet and plopped it down on her stand. “Keep in touch.” And with a parting wink, I left her smiling.
Outside the courthouse I brought my phone back to life to find a message in my inbox:
I thanked Diane and let her know about the arrest I had planned for later, then went back to my desk, whipped up an affidavit summarizing Horton’s crime, and made my way back to the courthouse. I informed Judge Juarez’s assistant that “I have an affidavit.”
“Arrest or search?”
“Both.”
“Is there a reason you didn’t submit it electronically?”
“I was… not told I could do that.”
“Export to PDF, sign digitally, submit to the Santa Virginia Court Order Request System, and one of our judges will get it back to you in 30 minutes. You can even do it from your phone if you have the patience to type everything out with your thumbs.”
“Oh. Okay.” ((Well, damn. I already do everything else from my phone, what’s one more convenient way to bind myself ever tighter to its all-knowing power?)) “I’ll remember that for next time. (Hm…) since I’m already here, can I still submit in person?”
“Yes, can I see some creds?”
“Sure.” I showed them.
“One moment.” They picked up their desk phone headset. “Judge, there’s a Detective Andrea Bachman, SVPD CAPU, here in person with an affidavit for you. — Yes, apparently she didn’t know. — I was a little confused, myself. — On it, Judge.” They hung up. “May I?” I handed over the affidavit and they got to typing, then stopped and stared at me. “James Horton?”
“Yes.”
“Detective James Horton.”
“The same.”
They shrugged. “Alright…” They continued typing and clicked their mouse a few times and scanned my affidavit through a very compact desk scanner that I coveted upon sight. “The judge isn’t busy, he’ll see you right away.”
I entered the judge’s chambers to find him reading a cooking magazine. Judge Juarez, early 60s, white hair, navy suit, put the magazine down when he heard me, brought his head up 6′2″ into the clouds, and extended his hand; I shook it and we took our seats. “Detective Bachman, it’s not every day I have the privilege of conducting my business face-to-face. Do you consider yourself old-fashioned?”
“In some ways—I still memorize phone numbers.”
He chuckled. “I don’t know how I survived my first 5 decades on this Earth without my phone remembering everything for me.” His decades had been kind to his face; he was no Peter Falk, but I would have to admit that his wrinkles were handsome. “First order of business, your creds.” He looked over them briefly with a pair of stately reading glasses. ((Flirt with two judges in one day? Maybe.)) “Alright, those are copacetic. Let me bring up the affidavit.” He finger-poked his password on the keyboard and clicked around. “Are you new to CAPU? I haven’t seen your face ’round these parts.”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“First case?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re getting an arrest warrant. If I have you one by the time you’re done talking to me, that would be a good sign you’ve been doing your job right as a detective. Alright, paperwork, paperwork…” He double-clicked. “There it is. Let’s see here… a 7460 and an arrest for… one conspiracy to kidnap resulting in an injury, after the fact… one conspiracy to falsely imprison, also after the fact… and a criminal threat… paired with a threat against a public official, and our perp is James Horton.” He glanced up from his screen as he recalled, “There is a Detective James Horton at the city PD, First Precinct CAP Squad, if I recall. Hmm… Sure enough, you listed the First Precinct as the premises. That is verrrry concerning.” He chewed on one arm of his reading glasses as he stared me down.
“I’m shocked.”
He eyed me all the more critically. “This warrant isn’t some practical joke or revenge… is it?”
“I barely know the guy.”
He nodded, but he was still looking at me with discomforting suspicion.
“I’ve never talked to him longer than it takes for one of us to say, ‘Hello,’ and the other to ignore them. Neither of us has any history of interpersonal conflict. This threat came as a complete surprise to me.”
“Right… Let’s see the affidavit.” He double-clicked, hummed to himself, muttered little fragments of sentences, and ‘huh’ed several times as he read it. “I’d prefer to see this surveillance video and this dead bird with my own two eyes… but that isn’t necessary for issuing warrants; the higher ups want me to just take you blue bloods at your word.”
I pulled the bird from my pocket and gingerly placed it on his desk.
He stared at it for a moment, then picked it up, held it in his palm wordlessly for another moment longer, then passed it back. Once it was back in my pocket, he ordered, soberly, “Raise your right hand.” I did. “Do you swear that the affidavit you are submitting to me, Judge Edgar Juarez, is factual, that you have not knowingly or intentionally made any false statements, and that you have not made any statements in reckless disregard for the truth?”
“I swear.”
He handed me a pen, I signed my affidavit and passed it back, he stamped it and scanned it; then printed out two pages, signed and scanned those, then handed them to me: my warrants. “For your sake, Detective, and for the welfare of your loved ones, I hope you have at least a tiny fraction of an idea of what’s going to ensue once you pierce the blue shield. Especially over a missing antifa—that’s high treason as far as your brethren are concerned. Giving this detective what he’s earned…” He pulled a lollipop from a jar on his desk and got to peeling the wrapper. “…is a problematic goal. Don’t ever take your piece off. Not when you’re off duty, not when you’re sleeping, not when you’re showering, not when you’re making love. If you can get a ballistic vest—and you should—you must wear it at all times, too.”
“As you are already aware, I’ve already received my first threat,” I said with a smug smile.
He finished unwrapping the lollipop and started sucking on it. “You did a good job tracking down your man’s avian purchase, but that isn’t enough to give you the right to smirk about the situation you’re putting yourself into.” I wiped said smirk from my face. “You’re lucky I’m not into the whole blue brotherhood thing, or I’d’ve laughed you out of here. And maybe blacklisted you. Assuming you survive this case, if you ever need to catch another officer, you bring the affidavit to me, or to Judge Ashley Kirkland, or to Judge Frita Mendez. A few of the other judges can be trusted half the time to deliver, but most of them are either ex-police leadership or ex-DA jackasses who drank the blue Kool-Aid decades ago and will bury your case before it can see a prelim.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, your Honor.”
“Tell me, Detective: do you think Horton is the worst apple in the department’s bunch?”
“Only the worst at not getting caught.”
He chuckled exactly once. “Either you learned that from observation or someone else’s advice—or you were smart enough to figure out the answer based on the fact I even asked the question at all. The latter is cleverness, which has the potential to get you outta danger. The former is wisdom, which will keep you out of danger altogether.” He pulled out the sucker and pointed it at me. “It’s a helluva lot better to be wise than it is to be clever. Capisce?”
“Perfectly, Judge.”
“Wisdom or cleverness, your answer was correctamundo. The worst of the bunch know how to avoid getting caught, and how to silence the people who catch them in spite of their efforts. Take a lollipop and watch your back.” He resumed sucking.
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
The lollipop was delicious—lemon, my new favorite—and the drive back to the station was uneventful, except for the quiet plea emanating from the passenger seat: “(Don’t do this.)”
“I’m doing my job.”
“(I don’t want them to hurt you.)”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll have my gun on me. I’m a quick draw and a good shot, you made sure of that.”
“(They’ll shoot you or hang you or—)”
“They won’t go that far.”
“(The judge thinks otherwise.)”
“I’ll get a vest.”
“(A vest won’t keep them from bruising and breaking your bones or hitting you with a car or dragging you behind one.)”
“I’ll be fine,” I insisted—perhaps a little too forcefully, because the voice didn’t reply.
I stopped by the armory to grab a pair of handcuffs and swap my badge into a necklace. “Okay Andrea. Just like in Academy. Remember to read him his rights. For God’s sake, do not forget Ol’ Miranda.” I steeled myself for whatever may come. I found Detective James Horton at his desk in the CAP squad room. I tapped his shoulder.
“What’s up?” he asked in a friendly tone before swiveling around and seeing who it was.
“James.”
“Ugh. What do you want, Ronald McDonald?”
I handed him the warrant. He chewed his cheek as he read, then his eyebrows quickly popped and just as quickly fell, squinting his eyes. “Did you really get one of these for me?”
I nodded.
“What are you gonna do, arrest me?” A couple of heads turned in confusion.
“Yep. And you’re gonna comply.”
He stood to tower over me menacingly as he asked, “And then what are you gonna do?” Several more heads swiveled our way.
“Read you your rights. Then I’ll have you booked and arraigned.”
He nodded slowly. “I had nothing to do with anything alleged in that warrant.”
“I’m sure the jury will believe you once they’ve seen the evidence.”
“Whatever.”
“You have the right to remain silent…” He let me cuff him, and I informed him of his rights. As we departed for Booking, every eye in that squad room stared at us in either disbelief, shock, or horror; a few pairs had something else in them, though—something that looked like fury.
I supervised the officer who rolled his fingers on a tenprint scanner while the other officers stole offended glances at me. I was making waves. I was doing my job right.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Behind me was a fresh acquaintance, 5′6″; a soul exuding ‘late 40s’ but a body clinging securely to youth; luscious curly brown locks; a power suit that would intimidate even those braver than the troops, with a crisp shirt yellow as the waist of a wasp; and a smile both soft as marshmallow and sharp as obsidian. They offered a hand, and I accepted it. “Detective Bachman, I presume.” They squeezed—very firmly.
I cinched my fingers tightly around theirs. “Yes. I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Indeed, that appears to be the case. Eileen Nuñez.” Our fingers dug into each other’s palms. “Your Deputy District Attorney for the Alexander Brookvale kidnapping.” Our otherwise professional handshake veered into arm-wrestling territory.
I smirked. “Charmed.” Bones flexed and joints popped.
She sneered. “I bet you are.” Our arms trembled as our muscles strained. My smirk evaporated. My flesh bruised and the pain of her crushing my hand began to get to me when, mercifully, she suddenly (but gracefully) withdrew. Our arms fell to our sides, two dueling lawmen with twelve empty chambers and a hole in my hat. We curled our crumpled fingers into fists in unison, then shook out our aches. Her smile reappeared—this time with one cheek pinched in approval—as she pulled me aside from the booking area. “I will be handling all of your cases personally, Detective, on the recommendation of your superior.” Matthews picked her? She brought her mouth to my ear and whispered, “Mistress Moneta and I are ‘special pals’.”
Dazed by the blast of sound that had just pierced my eardrum and skewered my mind, I replied, “(Hah…) Oh… Great… (Hah… Um.) As you may have noticed, our suspect is ready to be sent to the holding cells, but with you here we can move onto the fun part.”
“Yes. We shall begin immediately. I would like to extract from him whatever I can before his lawyer gets here and shuts him up. I have been informed that you are a reasonable woman, and I loathe playing the bad cop, so if you do not mind, I will be the good cop.”
I closed my eyes. “You’re making me play the asshole.”
“Yes.”
“Because you don’t like to be mean, or because you think I’m naturally uncivilized?”
“Oh, I love being mean…”
“Alright. You’ve only just met me and you’re already assuming I’m a bitch.”
“…but I don’t get many chances to be sweet.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“For reasons I would rather not discuss, I have been assigned the part of government prosecutor, a convert to a creed wholly contrary to my values.”
“If you’re not gonna be able to—”
“I am perfectly capable of doing the job assigned to me, Detective. I am simply unaccustomed to manipulating or hurting people on the receiving end of the law, and I would prefer not to make doing either a habit.”
“Oh my God, I’m fucked.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. You better be a damn fine good cop.”
“I am the nicest cop you will ever meet.”
I found an interview room for us and ordered an officer to fetch Horton. He acted chill as he took his seat.
“Hello again, James,” I began.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We all know you did. If you continue to underestimate me, your efforts will pay off eventually. Do you know why you’re here?”
“You hate me.”
I pulled the dead bird from my pocket and dangled it in front of him, but he acted like it was nothing—while Nuñez feigned horror. “No, Jimmy. You’re here because you hate me. Or, more accurately, you hate Alex Brookvale so much that you would threaten my life to discourage me from looking for him.”
“I didn’t ‘threaten your life’, and I didn’t aid or abet any kidnapping.”
“If this isn’t a threat, what is it?”
“A dead bird you found… somewhere.”
Nuñez scratched her chin. “He has a point, Detective Bachman. It looks like any old dead bird to me. My cat brings me a dead bird once or twice a week. How do you know that a cat has not bonded with you without your knowledge?”
“Do cats wrap nooses around their victims’ necks?”
“Oh, I thought that was a twig. Oh, my. Detective Horton, can you think of an explanation for this?”
“It’s a stupid bird. It probably got its head caught in the string and fell onto your balcony after it died.”
“A bird not native to this area hanged itself on my roof, died, then wandered over the edge and fell onto my welcome mat.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not dignifying such baloney with analysis. This was a message. A jury is going to look at this and know instantly that the message was ‘proceed at your own peril’. Only a guilty man would deny the only reasonable interpretation. Which tells me you’re quite aware I have proof that you’re the one who left it on my doorstep.”
He looked at the bird, then at me. “I didn’t put it there.”
“If it wasn’t you, then who?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. Not my job to find out.”
“That is true, Bachman,” interjected Nuñez. “You are slinging around a lot of accusations without any evidence to back them up.”
“I have evidence.”
“I am certain Detective Horton would like to see this evidence with his own eyes, so that he has a chance to refute it—wouldn’t you, Detective?”
“I’d love to see it,” he replied.
With my phone I showed him the surveillance footage of him buying the bird. He reacted visibly—then, as soon as he caught himself, said, “That ain’t me.”
“I believe him,” said Nuñez. “You’re wasting his time. We should let him go, Detective.”
I closed the video and tabbed over to the card processor’s transaction record and showed him that. “That’s your credit card.” I had not verified that it was in fact his card, because I had yet to extract the identity of the purchaser from the obfuscated transaction record, and I had neglected to search his bank records before proceeding with the arrest, so I was sort of… bluffing. “You bought a red canary on Wednesday the 17th at 4:23 PM. In this surveillance footage, you dial your pin… at 4:23 PM. The customer in that video is you, James. There is less than a shadow of a doubt. A fair jury would convict you on these three pieces of evidence alone. You are screwed, Jimmy. Royally screwed. And I’m just getting started.”
He looked like he was finally beginning to understand his situation.
“Miss Bachman!” exclaimed Nuñez (softly) with pretend outrage. “I expected a little more civility from a woman with your reputation—especially towards a fellow officer of the law.”
“‘Civility’? What kind of civility was he showing me when he left a dead bird with a noose around its neck on my doorstep?”
She shook her head. “Please. Be a little more polite.”
“No. By threatening me,” I told him, “by interfering in my investigation, you have aided and abetted a kidnapping, which has a significant chance of turning into first degree murder. You are a CAP Detective, Jimmy. You know how this kind of thing goes down. You can do the math.”
He whispered, almost inaudibly, “(Fuck.)”
“You’re rotting behind bars for a long time, old timer.”
“Unless,” interjected Nuñez slyly, “we work out something that works for you, Sergeant.”
“I want to see him rot, Lawyer Lady.”
“Well, I do not, Detective. James, would you like for us to come up with charges that are more to your advantage?”
“Maybe,” he admitted, fully succumbing to the same ineffective interrogation technique he had utilized himself more times than I ever would—and to a pair of novices, no less.
“Fine,” I relented. “But there are two things I want to know.”
“What do you—” he began to ask in a desperate rush before slowing down, “—want… to… know?”
“Everything you know, starting with whatever you know about the kidnapping, proceeding to who told you where I lived, and finishing with whether they knew what you were going to do with that information.”
“What’s in it for me?” He held back desperation.
Nuñez proposed, “Your sentence is reduced to California Penal Code Section 422, criminal threat, 3 years; and Penal Code Section 71, threatening a public officer, 1 year; to be served consecutively.”
Her offer didn’t satisfy me, so before he could respond I spiced it up: “And accessory to a 207 kidnapping, 8 years—even if it ends up being a murder.”
Nuñez cleared her throat. “But we might be willing to go lower than that, if you’re willing to help us.”
“Yeah?” he asked, his eyes glistening with anxiety.
“We recognize the possibility that you may not have been aware this was a kidnapping,” she admitted. “If you promise to help us in any way we ask, we will drop the kidnapping charge altogether.”
“So… I got a choice between 12 years or 4.”
Nuñez gently kicked my ankle. “Somebody decided to ‘practice their dentistry’ on Mister Brookvale,” I explained. “Tell me, Jimmy—if a kidnapper pulls one of their victim’s teeth during their captivity, is a 207 still a 207?”
“It would probably be charged as a 209.”
“The max for a 207 is 8 years. How long is a 209?”
“It’s… life.”
“Would you agree 4 years is a helluva lot better than ‘until you die’?”
He considered his only real option for a solid 2½ minutes, but eventually resigned. “Okay. Show me the bargain.” She removed another sheet from her briefcase and I grabbed a pen from my purse and we placed the two of them in front of him. He read his ticket to delayed freedom carefully, signed it, and said, “I don’t know who has him.”
“Thanks, that was real helpful,” I scoffed. “Who gave you my address?”
“Matthews.”
“Why did he share it with you?”
“Because I asked.”
“You didn’t establish a need to know?”
“I just asked.”
“Did he know what you had planned?”
“I dunno.”
“Part of the deal was you tell me whether Matthews knew what you were up to.”
“Well, I can’t know what he knows. Only he can.”
“Then tell me what you told him you were going to do with it, or I tear this up.”
Nuñez cleared her throat again. “And then we’ll get you a new one with the same things written on it, but in a prettier font.”
“I told him I was gonna give you a surprise.”
“Thank you.” I fetched his escort; as they left, I told him, “Enjoy your stay at Centinela State Spa and Resort.”
“Fuck you, too, Fire Crotch.”
“Take care,” concluded Nuñez.
Once Horton was out of the room, I admitted, “That went well.”
She sighed. “Detective, I would like to have a word with you.”
“About what?”
“Let us have our discussion somewhere that does not have a pane of glass someone can eavesdrop from behind.”
We found a single occupancy bathroom. “So, what did you want to talk about?”
“What you just did.”