12801 12th Street Northwest
“Two-Eighty-One. Robbery in progress. Pawn shop. MLK and Dodge.”Another day, another series of random criminal acts, senseless violence, or just plain malfeasance on the part of humanity. Which, he supposed he should be grateful for, being that crime was something of job security for him.
“This is Unit Twelve, en route.”Throwing the bulletproof vest over his head, Dick casually looked over at Cissy Chambers even as he fastened the vest to his torso.
“Who’s in unit twelve?” Chambers was in uniform, already in S.W.A.T. gear and checking the load out of the Glock 22 police pistol that she carried. It was a standard sidearm, carried by more than half the police organizations in the United States. Still, the .40 caliber pistol looked unusually large in the woman’s deceptively delicate hands. “Harrison and Dolph,” Cissy answered, tossing a look his way as she racked the slide back to load a round into the chamber.
Then she looked away again, dropping the magazine and loading another round in.
The Glock 22 was the Bludhaven Police standard issue for everyone who had graduated from the police academy. Every uniform cop carried the .40 caliber, though plains clothes detectives tended to have more leeway. Particularly as they often favored sub-compacts that were more readily concealed. Among BPD, that would be a Glock 19 or a Sig P229.
Dick carried the Sig, chambered .357. Like Cissy, he racked the slide and then dropped the magazine. As he fumbled about to find what he’d done with that spare bullet, Dick candidly remarked,
“Double check the evidence room against their reports when they get back.” Chambered gave what sounded like a nervous laugh. The kind of sound that made clear that the woman wasn’t certain just how she was supposed to react to a statement like that.
Sliding the magazine back into the grip, Dick gave the base of the pistol a quick slap to check that it was snugly locked in place, then just turned to level a stern look over at the lieutenant.
Cissy’s head cocked to one side. “You’re serious?” she blurted aloud.
“You tell me how Harrison’s leasing a Porche Macan with a baby on the way and paying child support on the last kid. All on a corporal’s salary,” Dick stated, in a matter-of-fact tone that seemed to leave no room for debate.
Returning the pistol to the underarm holster that he wore, Dick grabbed a black jacket that had yellow piping and the word
POLICE emblazoned across the back. Throwing that on, the man adjusted the radio that was on his belt, clipping a mic up on the left shoulder and then looping an earpiece around his right ear. Finally, he switched frequencies and said,
“All right, this is Grayson, we got eyes?”“Hostetler. I’m across the street with visual. No lights or movement inside.”It had been forty-two days since they’d pulled the thirteen kids out of the cages underneath the old Gotham Corridor Self-Storage. In that time, Anton Schott had gone from
person of interest to official suspect. A CrimeStoppers tip had turned up, indicating that Schott might have taken up residence in these apartments.
The property manager had identified Schott’s photo as a resident went by the name Michael Jarret. It was a name that Dick hadn’t been able to place immediately, but he knew that he’d seen or heard it somewhere recently. If Toyboy was here, Dick probably could have gotten that answer in less than a minute. But, this was Dick’s
other job. And so he’d just have to make do for the time being.
Schott, or Jarret, hadn’t been seen of late. He was never a punctual resident, but he’d missed this month’s rent payment.
Dick was worried that Schott had already fled. But sitting on the apartment wasn’t likely to tell them anything if that was the case. Toggling the radio again, Dick made the call.
“Take down the door.”From the stairwell, Dick could hear the S.W.A.T. make their move. Voices shouted, echoing in the night as a loud crash could be heard. Through the earpiece, Dick could clearly make out the words.
“We’re in.”At
that point, Dick and Chambers were both on the move. Guns drawn, the commissioner and the lieutenant moved up the stairwell, passing quickly down the hall and then through the open door.
The S.W.A.T. team had posted inside. There was no one home.
Turning around, Dick did a slow turn to survey the interior of the apartment. It looked like it had been ransacked. Drawers yanked out of cabinets, then overturned and left discarded on the floor.
If Anton Schott had been here, he was long gone now. Grinding his teeth as he returned his pistol to it’s holster, concealed by the jacket that he wore. Then, planting his hands on his hips, Dick just stood back and watched as his officers did their job. Cordoned off the scene. The forensics team was on their way up, to start bagging and tagging whatever might turn up of interest.
Chambers had gloves on, picking through the trash for anything that might be of value.
Maybe something would turn up. Right now, it looked like they had nothing.
“Shit,” Dick swore under his breath.
“Commissioner,” a voice called out. Dick looked up to see one of the S.W.A.T. officers. “Dispatch is calling you.”
A grunt and a nod of acknowledgement would have to pass as his thanks for now. Switching frequencies again, Dick tapped the mic on his shoulder and said,
“Grayson. Go.”“Commissioner, unit twelve is asking for you to stop by the scene of the two-eighty-one at MLK and Dodge.”+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +
Earl’s Pawn Shop was a staple of the southwest corner of Bludhaven’s so-called
Old Town district. It was catty-corner from the Sunoco gas station that was frequently referred to by Bludhaven Police as the Stop ‘n Rob.
A robbery in this neighborhood was just another day of the week.
Dick’s unmarked cruiser pulled up near the doors. As he exited the car, the first thing that he took note of was the doors to the shop. They appeared to be the industry standard. Heavy, metal frame. Safety glass with metal bar reinforcement.
The doors were off their hinges, as though a tank had come barreling through. Except, to get the doors and frame like that, it would have had to have hit them from the
inside heading outward. Not from the position of someone trying to break inside.
It had his curiosity at least. Strolling in through the doors, he quickly spotted Dolph. In the dark blue Bludhaven uniform, talking to a woman who was presumably someone to do with the complaint.
So where was Harrison? As he glanced around the inside of the shop, he only saw the one uniform. As Dolph broke away from the witness, Dick called out and said,
“All right, you wanted me here. What do you got?”“To hear the witness tell it, Commissioner, we’ve got a larceny,” the young officer remarked. Dolph had graduated from the academy last year, but was easily one of the more promising of the recruits that Dick had on the force at present.
Made it a damn shame that he’d drawn Harrison as a partner. Eventually, either Dolph was going to dime out his partner or would fall prey to the all-too-common practice of following the bad example. Just which path the young Dolph was headed down, Dick wasn’t certain yet. “But it doesn’t make any sense,” the officer complained, seemingly at a loss.
“A larceny? Not a robbery?” Dick asked in a neutral tone. The complaint had come in about a robbery, which the state of the entrance would certainly suggest some force was used.
“So the suspect wasn’t armed? What did he do, wait for an open register, grab the cash and go?”Taking a half-step back, Dolph pivoted at the waist just enough to beckon Dick’s attention over to two hunks of twisted, wrought metal that were lying atop a counter. It was a moment before it clicked that the heavy, reinforced metal frame had been, at one time, a cash register. “Commissioner, the lady there says that a man did that with his bare hands.”
Dick’s frown deepened. The register. The doors. Could they be dealing with a metahuman?
“They got video?” Dick asked, glancing back up at Dolph.
“Harrison’s seeing if he can figure out how to either run or record the tapes,” the officer answered with a nod. Then a shrug as he added, “Apparently, no one’s actually had to review the footage since it was installed.”
Dick gave a barely perceptible nod.
“And the lady?” he asked, inclining his head to indicate the woman that Dolph had been speaking with when he’d come in.
“General Manager. She’s the one who called it in,” Dolph answered succinctly. “Says she saw the whole thing.”
“Got it,” Dick answered shortly. Then gave another nod as he said,
“Get back out to the car and call over to the precinct. Tell them I want a forensic team to go over that register. See if Mister Big Hands left us some fingerprints.” While Dolph hurried from out of the store, Dick ventured further inside. Strolling up on where the woman seemed to be trying to order a display, he simply asked,
“You Earl?”“Earl’s been dead since ‘Ninety-Two,” the woman offered in reply. By her voice, Dick was guessing she wasn’t a Jersey local. Transplant more likely. Somewhere in the South. “You a detective or something?”
“Or something,” the man quipped back in reply, even as he flipped his credentials out for her to inspect.
“Dick Grayson. BPD.” Flipping the badge case closed again, Dick tucked it away as he continued.
“I know that you’ve had to do this a couple of times already, but would you mind talking me through what you saw again?”
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