Cause to Run. Blake Pierce

three minutes away. We’ll take the call.”

      “Thank you, Detective Black,” the woman replied before she gave out the address, apartment number, and background information.

      One of the many aspects Avery loved about Boston were the houses, small homes, most of them two to three stories high with a uniform structure that gave much of the city its communal feel. She hung a left onto Fourth Street and cruised to their destination.

      “This doesn’t mean we’re off the hook on paperwork,” she insisted.

      “Nah, of course not.” Ramirez shrugged.

      The tone of his voice, however, coupled with his attitude and the unruly piles on his own desk, made Avery wonder if an early-morning drive had been the best decision.

      Not much detective work was needed to discover the house in question. One police cruiser, along with a small crowd of people that were all hidden behind something, surrounded a blue stucco house with blue shutters and a black roof.

      A Latino man stood on the front lawn in his boxers and a tank top. In one hand, he held the hair of a woman who was on her knees and crying. In his other hand, he simultaneously waved a gun at the crowd, the police, and the woman.

      “Get the fuck back!” he yelled. “Every one of you. I see you there.” He pointed his pistol toward a parked car. “Get the fuck away from that car! Stop crying!” he screamed at the woman. “You keep crying, I’m going to blow your head off just for pissing me off.”

      Two officers were on either side of the lawn. One had his gun drawn. The other had a hand on his belt and a palm up.

      “Sir, please drop your weapon.”

      The man aimed at the cop with the pointed pistol.

      “What? You wanna go?” he said. “Then shoot me! Shoot me, motherfucker, and see what happens. Shit, I don’t care. We’ll both die.”

      “Don’t fire your weapon, Stan!” the other officer shouted. “Everybody just stay calm. Nobody is going to get killed today. Please, sir, just – ”

      “Stop fucking talking to me!” the man howled. “Just leave me alone. This is my house. This is my wife. You cheating motherfucker,” he simmered and shoved the muzzle of his gun into her cheek. “I should clean out that dirty fuckin’ mouth of yours.”

      Avery turned off her sirens and sidled up to the curb.

      “Another fucking cop!?” the man seethed. “You guys are like cockroaches. All right,” he said in a calm, determined way. “Someone is going to die today. You’re not taking me back to prison. So you can all either go home, or someone is going to die.”

      “Nobody is going to die,” said the first cop, “please. Stan! Put your gun down!”

      “No way,” his partner called out.

      “God damn it, Stan!”

      “Stay here,” Avery said to Ramirez.

      “Fuck that!” he stated. “I’m your partner, Avery.”

      “All right then, but listen up,” she said. “All we need now is two more cops turning this into a bloodbath. Stay calm and follow my lead.”

      “What lead?”

      “Just follow me.”

      Avery hopped out of the car.

      “Sir,” she commanded to the drawn officer, “put your gun down.”

      “Who the fuck are you?” he said.

      “Yeah, who the fuck are you?” the Latino aggressor demanded.

      “Both of you step away from the area,” Avery said to the two officers. “I’m Detective Avery Black from the A1. I’ll handle this. You too,” she called to Ramirez.

      “You told me to follow your lead!” he yelled.

      “This is my lead. Get back in the car. Everyone step away from this scene.”

      The drawn officer spit and shook his head.

      “Fuckin’ bureaucracy,” he said. “What? Just because you’re in a few papers you think you’re super cop now or something? Well, you know what? I’d love to see how you handle this, super cop.” With his eyes on the perpetrator, he raised his gun and walked backward until he was hidden behind a tree. “Take it away.” His partner followed suit.

      Once Ramirez was back in the car and the other officers were safely out of firing distance, Avery stepped forward.

      The Latino man smiled.

      “Look at that,” he said and pointed his gun. “You’re the serial killer cop, right? Way to go, Black. That guy was fucking crazy. You got him good. Hey!” he yelled at the woman on her knees. “Stop fuckin’ squirming around. Can’t you see I’m trying to have a conversation?”

      “What did she do?” Avery asked.

      “Fuckin’ bitch fucked my best friend. That’s what she did. Didn’t you, bitch?”

      “Damn,” Avery said. “That’s cold. She ever do anything like that before?”

      “Yeah,” he admitted. “I guess she cheated on her last man with me, but shit, I married the bitch! That’s got to count for something, right?”

      “Definitely,” Avery agreed.

      He was slight of frame, with a narrow face and missing teeth. He glanced at the growing audience, then looked up at Avery like a guilty child and whispered:

      “This don’t look good, right?”

      “No,” Avery answered. “It’s not good. Next time, you might want to handle this in the privacy of your own home. And quietly,” she said softly and stepped closer.

      “Why you getting so close?” he wondered with a cocked brow.

      Avery shrugged.

      “It’s my job,” she said as if it were a distasteful chore. “The way I see it? You have two choices. One: You come in quietly. You already screwed up. Too loud, too public, too many witnesses. Worst-case scenario? She presses charges and you have to get a lawyer.”

      “She’s not pressing no fucking charges,” he said.

      “I won’t, baby. I won’t!” she swore.

      “If she doesn’t press charges, then you’re looking at aggravated assault, resisting arrest, and a few other minor infractions.”

      “Will I have to serve some time?”

      “Have you been arrested before?”

      “Yeah,” he admitted. “Five-year stint for attempted manslaughter.”

      “What’s your name?”

      “Fernando Rodriguez.”

      “You still on parole, Fernando?”

      “Nah, parole was up two weeks ago.”

      “OK.” She thought for a moment. “Then you’ll probably have to be behind bars until this gets worked out. Maybe a month or two?”

      “A month?!”

      “Or two,” she reiterated. “Come on. Let’s be honest. After five years? That’s nothing. Next time? Keep it private.”

      She was right in front of him, close enough to disarm him and free the victim, but he was already calming down. Avery had seen people like him before when dealing with some of the Boston gangs, men who’d been beaten down for so long that the slightest infraction could make them snap. But ultimately, when given a chance to relax and take stock of their situation, their story was always the same: they just wanted to be comforted, helped, and made to feel like they weren’t alone in the world.

      “You used to be a lawyer, right?” the man said.

      “Yeah.”