BioKill

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“120 eddie, 10-4 k,” the police officer acknowledged back to Central.

A weathered billboard sign, folded over like a bookmarked page, was losing its grip on the wall of an abandoned building. The faded writing was barely legible: Bed-Stuy and Proud of It.

Eight years on the job in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, New York, had turned Officer Maitland into one tough hombre, accustomed to owning the streets he patrolled. Not so the rookie walking next to him. “What’s the job, Ben?”

Maitland stopped in his tracks on the sidewalk. “My friends call me Ben. You don’t fall into that category, comprende?”

Martinez fully understood.

The two officers from the 15th Precinct crossed the road to the sidewalk opposite. The residential area was mostly high-density terraced housing built of sandstone. Brownstone.

Late May in Brooklyn was beginning to warm up; most people had discarded coats and warm hats for more comfortable, cooler attire. The two uniformed officers stood out in their dark-blue uniforms as they made their way to their destination, one block over. Maitland was casual; he had been in the force too long to hurry unnecessarily. His eyes lit up. A group of black youths lay about on one of the houses’ stone stoops, adjacent to the sidewalk. The dispatcher could wait. It wasn’t urgent.

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