you recognize this van?”
Carter frowned when he took the first photograph into his hand, the crease in his forehead exaggerated by the shadows afforded by the blinds.
“I don't get it,” he said. “I haven't driven this thing in over a year.”
“What happened to it?”
“Downtown refused to pay for replacement brakes and a new front end,” Carter explained, his upper lip curling into a sneer. “So as far as I knew, it went off to the scrap heap.”
“Why would this van need all those repairs?” Jill asked. “Aside from the brakes and the front end, I mean.” She began rifling through a series of hand-scribbled notes on yellow legal pad paper. “Records show repairs for the transmission, body work on the rear end, engine tune-ups far more frequent than the manufacturer recommends... it's almost as if this vehicle was being pushed well past its limits on a regular basis.”
Anger flashed in Carter's hazel eyes, and Jill could see the twitch in his arms. “What are you implying, Detective?”
“I'm doing you a favor, Officer,” Jill began, pulling another series of images, grainy stills form surveillance footage, from her notepad. “We could be having this conversation in one of the interrogation rooms. But from one badge to another, I think you deserve the benefit of the doubt... for now.”
“Lady, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Three men and a woman, all wearing masks, shot Devin Buckner in the temple, execution style, this morning on the corner of Madison and Tyson. But before they did that, they took him on a trip... in an unmarked white van that looks a lot like your old tactical ride. This child was already on his last legs before the bullet lodged into his brain. Broken nose, shattered collarbone, dislocated shoulder, kneecap snapped in two... and the autopsy's not even finished yet.”
Jill studied Carter as she read off the laundry list of injuries, her own stomach churning in a mix of bile and hatred. With the revelation of each new injury, she saw Carter's eyes divert to a random spot on the table instead of the photographs splayed out before him. His brow furrowed until he was sitting in a full scowl, his jaw clenched and the tension making his shoulders taut. Yet Jill never once tore her gaze from him.
“A year ago, something similar happened to Pedro Mendoza.” Jill paused to study Carter's reaction. He had none. “Before Pedro, there was Reggie Dawson. Before him, Andre Scofield. Donald Wilson, LaTrice Samuels, Benjamin Cartwright, Lamar Goodwin... do you see where I'm going with this?”
“Look,” Carter finally spoke, his hands clenched into fists as they rested on the table, “you got something to say, just come right out and say it.”
Jill held his stare, grateful for the late nights of poker she used to enjoy with Captain Richards while she was still in the Academy. If nothing else, he taught her a mean poker face. Carter blinked after what felt like several minutes, and his shoulders slumped. Carter wasn’t bad in that department, either; his face held no expression when Jill rattled off the other names. Then again, if this man was capable of killing a teenager in cold blood, having it thrown in his face likely wouldn’t be a bother.
“Officer Carter,” she said, pointing at the still from the video of Devin's murder, “is that your van?”
The look of disgust on Carter's face was palpable. “No.”
Jill sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “Officer, what caliber handgun do you have?”
Carter leaned forward. “The fuck kinda question is that?”
“A legitimate one,” she shot back. “The handgun the department issued you when you received your badge... what kind is it?”
Carter leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and raising his chin so that he was looking over his nose at Jill. He crossed his legs at the ankles, the scowl on his face slowly morphing into a self-important smirk the longer the
Carter frowned when he took the first photograph into his hand, the crease in his forehead exaggerated by the shadows afforded by the blinds.
“I don't get it,” he said. “I haven't driven this thing in over a year.”
“What happened to it?”
“Downtown refused to pay for replacement brakes and a new front end,” Carter explained, his upper lip curling into a sneer. “So as far as I knew, it went off to the scrap heap.”
“Why would this van need all those repairs?” Jill asked. “Aside from the brakes and the front end, I mean.” She began rifling through a series of hand-scribbled notes on yellow legal pad paper. “Records show repairs for the transmission, body work on the rear end, engine tune-ups far more frequent than the manufacturer recommends... it's almost as if this vehicle was being pushed well past its limits on a regular basis.”
Anger flashed in Carter's hazel eyes, and Jill could see the twitch in his arms. “What are you implying, Detective?”
“I'm doing you a favor, Officer,” Jill began, pulling another series of images, grainy stills form surveillance footage, from her notepad. “We could be having this conversation in one of the interrogation rooms. But from one badge to another, I think you deserve the benefit of the doubt... for now.”
“Lady, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Three men and a woman, all wearing masks, shot Devin Buckner in the temple, execution style, this morning on the corner of Madison and Tyson. But before they did that, they took him on a trip... in an unmarked white van that looks a lot like your old tactical ride. This child was already on his last legs before the bullet lodged into his brain. Broken nose, shattered collarbone, dislocated shoulder, kneecap snapped in two... and the autopsy's not even finished yet.”
Jill studied Carter as she read off the laundry list of injuries, her own stomach churning in a mix of bile and hatred. With the revelation of each new injury, she saw Carter's eyes divert to a random spot on the table instead of the photographs splayed out before him. His brow furrowed until he was sitting in a full scowl, his jaw clenched and the tension making his shoulders taut. Yet Jill never once tore her gaze from him.
“A year ago, something similar happened to Pedro Mendoza.” Jill paused to study Carter's reaction. He had none. “Before Pedro, there was Reggie Dawson. Before him, Andre Scofield. Donald Wilson, LaTrice Samuels, Benjamin Cartwright, Lamar Goodwin... do you see where I'm going with this?”
“Look,” Carter finally spoke, his hands clenched into fists as they rested on the table, “you got something to say, just come right out and say it.”
Jill held his stare, grateful for the late nights of poker she used to enjoy with Captain Richards while she was still in the Academy. If nothing else, he taught her a mean poker face. Carter blinked after what felt like several minutes, and his shoulders slumped. Carter wasn’t bad in that department, either; his face held no expression when Jill rattled off the other names. Then again, if this man was capable of killing a teenager in cold blood, having it thrown in his face likely wouldn’t be a bother.
“Officer Carter,” she said, pointing at the still from the video of Devin's murder, “is that your van?”
The look of disgust on Carter's face was palpable. “No.”
Jill sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “Officer, what caliber handgun do you have?”
Carter leaned forward. “The fuck kinda question is that?”
“A legitimate one,” she shot back. “The handgun the department issued you when you received your badge... what kind is it?”
Carter leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and raising his chin so that he was looking over his nose at Jill. He crossed his legs at the ankles, the scowl on his face slowly morphing into a self-important smirk the longer the
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