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was going to confirm what she suspected. The last thing she wanted was for a case to pit her against someone else who wore the badge -- ethical dilemmas aside, that hit too close to home for her.
    “I believe I have information that might help you with your case,” Downs began, returning to his seat and grabbing black leather briefcase. He pulled a series of video surveillance stills from the briefcase, handing them to Jill. “You're looking at one of the vans that used to be a part of our fleet. The rear compartment had been modified to allow for use in tactical situations.”
    “Used to be,” Richards said, folding his arms over his chest.
    “We took the vehicle out of BPD rotation a year ago after a series of expensive repairs,” Downs explained. “That van has been... well, there's no delicate way to put this, but... does the name Pedro Mendoza mean anything to you?”
    Jill and her captain exchanged a look. Prior to Buckner, Pedro Mendoza had been the latest victim of the alleged rough rides that had been part of the city's lore over the years. Pedro had died two weeks after suffering spinal cord injuries in one of those rides, and his death had triggered a groundswell of protests and the already simmering unrest between the city's African-American population and the police came to a proverbial boil. It got so bad at one point that the Baltimore Orioles had two of their games at Camden Yards postponed, and they even played a game in front of a completely empty stadium. Nothing more surreal than a walkoff grand slam in front of an empty ballpark.
    “You're saying this was the van used?” Richards asked.
    “We believe so.” Downs pulled a pair of glasses from the inside pocket of his suit coat, carefully unfolding and placing them on the bridge of his nose. “We were never able to press charges because the investigation got caught up in apathy and red tape. The Ninth Precinct wasn't putting much effort into it and there was no pressure from higher up.”
    “And why was that?” Jill asked with a quirked brow.
    “The Commissioner's priority was quelling the protests,” Downs explained. “I tried to keep the wheels spinning, but once the uprisings caught everyone's attention... Detective Andersen, I trust you're familiar with the legend of Sisyphus?”
    Now that Downs mentioned it, this did feel an awful lot like pushing a boulder up a mountain, only to have it fall back near the tipping point. She had more than her share of cases that felt like they would never be solved, and as much as she hoped this wouldn’t be one of them, her gut told her otherwise. Jill turned her attention back to the glossy photos in her hand. Other than the official BPD insignia on the sides and across the hood, it looked just like the van they had seen earlier that day on the surveillance video. “Please tell me there was a name to go with this van. A department, an officer in charge of maintenance... something .”
    “As a matter of fact, there is.” Downs stood again, pulling a small index card from his pocket. “Nolan Carter, currently works Narcotics over at the Fourth.”
    Richards removed his glasses. “Did we ever look into him?”
    “Looked, yes.” Downs sighed. “Investigated, no. He's got over a decade on the force and his record is exemplary.”
    “So we just looked the other way,” Jill muttered with a roll of her eyes.
    “Despite my best efforts,” Downs said with a sheepish grin and a shrug of his shoulders. “My guess is, Carter has someone at the Bishop who makes sure his record’s squeaky clean. Makes him easy to gloss over when we hear rumors of stuff like this.”
    Richards frowned. “Why would a Narcotics cop need a tactical van?”
    “Best as our records indicate?” Another shrug from Downs. “Undercover work. Last year, Carter had spent six weeks working undercover at the Inner Harbor, trying to track several shipments of Colombian crack cocaine. We disrupted two shipments, but never could