“The Narcotics Vice Unit is composed of seven teams consisting of thirty seven patrol narcotic officers and five clerical employees,” Pavlov read aloud from the pamphlet in his lap. “Hey, that’s us,” he joked, hitting his partner in the shoulder with the back of his hand. Michelle Cortez only turned her head slightly to look at Pavlov, her sunglasses hiding what he knew was a very annoyed expression. She was new. Or at least, newish. No newbie’s got thrown into a vice unit, but word was that she had been transferred in by a high recommendation from a well decorated officer. Not that Pavlov really cared. Part of him missed his older partner, but Rufus was missing three fingers now thanks to a drug addict with a shotgun and he had earned his disability check and retirement to Hawaii with his hot wife. Pavlov couldn’t blame him for taking the out. He was just waiting for something like that to happen to him so he could reasonably explain wanting to sit on his boyfriend’s couch all day, eating pizza instead of being stuck in a patrol car with a spanish woman who didn’t seem all too interested in speaking with him.
Pavlov had picked up the pamphlet at the precinct because it amused him to read the inspirational and informative paragraphs on each section of the Boston police department. Amusement might not have been the word. That sounded so light hearted. Kind of like the pamphlet itself. He was sure that no one was stupid enough to think being a police officer was a fine-dandy-happy-go-lucky time, but he couldn’t help but wonder if these sort of things misguided young teenagers into choosing a career based on pictures of good looking people in tight uniforms with sunglasses that matched Michelle’s staring into the distance while they leaned against a patrol car. “You’d think they would learn to use a better font. It’s almost 2014 and they’re still using sans serif font. Unprofessional,” Pavlov said, sighing through his teeth, anticipating Michelle’s heavy sigh as well, for different reasons. Before she had a chance to speak (if she even would, because Pavlov had learned thus far she wasn’t much for talk), the radio buzzed.
“We have a possible 246 on Dorchester street, suspect entering the St. Augustine Church.”
Before Pavlov could reach for the radio, Michelle already had it in her hand, the other gripping the steering wheel and making a sharp left, heading for the exact location dispatch was talking about. “72, go ahead.” Pavlov listened, half intently, half annoyed as Michelle spoke, eyes out the window as she drove faster than the speed limit to reach wherever. That was a rookie sort of thing, he’d learned. Because Pavlov had been the same way when he was younger. Always excited for the next bust. Always trying to prove himself, just like he was sure she was.
“Should’a let a beat cop get it,” Pavlov said as Michelle made a harsh turn onto Dorchester. She didn’t respond, but Pavlov saw the church looming in the distance, a bad taste in his mouth. Churches in general made him nauseas, but something about St. Augustine made him downright sick. Dorchester was a nice place until you got into the heart of it and found good Irish men that went home to hit their wives every night and people that sold drugs and got addicted to drugs and petty thieves and crime that rotted the frame work of a good American neighborhood. And St. Augustine was directly in the middle of it. Literally, geographically as well as a central point. Pavlov had heard rumors of the preacher there, and none of them good, but he’d never had the pleasure of meeting him. As Michelle pulled the car up to the side, he figured God had already decided today would be a bad day.
She was too excited to get out of the car, too ready for whatever was inside. As Pavlov climbed out, he could see blood on the door and on the pavement. It wasn’t like the way TV’s made it out to be. It wasn’t bright and pooled on the ground in a big puddle. It was dark, almost brownish, smearing across the door and droplets scattered the cracked pavement. Michelle drew her gun, held it to her hip. Pavlov did the same. Reasonable cause to suspect someone inside had a weapon, at least. He could feel the cure gun on his side as well and wondered if maybe he should have drawn that one, to cover Michelle in case whatever beast they were about to throw down with had a little extra genetic to help them. Pavlov shook the awful feeling in the pit of his stomach and walked with Michelle to the door, flattening against one while she did the same on the other side.
It didn’t seem like Michelle liked him that much, but she stared at him with at least a little respect. She nodded slowly and he turned quickly to kick the door open and enter, gun raised and finding the preacher first. Then his gaze flickered to the body on the floor for just a moment before bouncing up to him. He never met the preacher, but he knew his name. Asri Massar. More than once someone going through some sort of withdrawal had whispered his name and then looked mortified just to be uttering it. He was shouting something, but Pavlov felt like his ears were covered by rushing water. He kept his gun on Asri.
“Stop talking and get on your knees. Put your hands behind your head,” he demanded, stepping forward with the gun still raised. “Cortez, check the body,” he instructed.
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