Felix drove back to the station at first light the next morning.
He made straight for Carles's office the moment he arrived, opening with:
"Those shooters really got released?"
Carles blinked before realizing Felix meant the ones from the Austin shootout.
"They did. By now, I'd say their people have already picked them up."
"Why?"
Carles pulled out his phone and played a clip. On screen, a woman stood at a podium:
"I am Cristina Villareal, spokesperson for the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office. Today I speak on behalf of the DA regarding the shooting incident in the Austin neighborhood.
"The DA's office has decided to dismiss the murder and aggravated assault charges against the three suspects arrested in the Austin incident. They will be released without conviction.
"Our reason: the suspects claimed the confrontation was 'a voluntary fight between two equal parties.' After careful deliberation and review of the available evidence, the DA concluded there was insufficient evidence to convict. That is our decision.
"This concludes today's briefing. There will be no Q&A."
The clip ended in a flurry of voices and a forest of raised hands.
Felix shook his head. Two blows in quick succession, and he felt his composure slipping.
"What the hell does 'insufficient evidence' even mean? A dozen of us saw them shooting at each other. One man was already dead on scene. They refused to surrender, opened fire on us, and there's video from residents online. What more damn evidence do they need?"
Carles rose, pushed Felix gently into a chair, and poured him a glass of iced Coke.
"Felix, I know you've got a strong sense of justice. And yes, what you're saying is exactly what happened. But the DA's office isn't our chain of command. Their decisions are theirs alone. We have no power to intervene, and we have to carry them out. That's reality."
"Did they take a payoff?"
"Don't go there. All I can say is: I don't know, I can't confirm… maybe."
"They'll turn prisoners loose like that, yet grill me in an internal review looking for holes? They think I'm easy to push around?"
"That's political correctness, Felix. It wins over swing voters, costs politicians nothing. They live in safe neighborhoods with tight security. It's the streets and ordinary people who pay the price. And making trouble for the police? That's part of the package."
Carles's patience eased some of the pressure in Felix's chest. Still, he thought grimly: next time, he'd hit harder. No survivors. Leave the DA nothing to release.
He finished Carles's Coke, tossed the empty bottle back at him, and walked out to the sound of Carles's indignant shouting. That, at least, felt satisfying.
Felix changed, grabbed his gear, and rolled out. The Dodge patrol car he'd been assigned had more punch off the line than the old Ford Taurus — smoother to drive too. What he really coveted were the department's Ford Mustangs and Camaro pursuit units: sleek, high-powered, their engines growling with one touch of the throttle.
But Carles had told him he wasn't authorized for those; if he wanted one, he'd have to talk to Robin. Robin handled administration, which included vehicle assignments. Felix knew better. For a schedule change or reassignment, Robin might say yes. But asking for a car he didn't need? That would be breaking the unspoken order of things — and making life harder for himself.
He cruised the streets without much appetite for handing out tickets.
"Adam 388, caller reports the sound of a baby crying inside a dumpster. Respond and confirm."
"Adam 388, copy."
Felix accelerated to the address. A middle-aged woman stepped up to his window as he pulled in, face tight with worry.
"Officer, I made the call. I live in the apartments over there. I came down to take out the trash, and as I walked past the dumpster, I heard a baby crying. So I called right away."
"All right, ma'am. Please stay here while I check."
He opened the small "care pack" Rachel had put together for him — disposable gloves, masks, wet wipes, disinfectant. He pulled on a pair of gloves.
The moment he neared the dumpster, he caught it — faint, muffled crying. He lifted the lid. Amid the trash sat a black plastic bag.
He tore it open. Inside was a newborn, skin still wrinkled, letting out the occasional weak cry. The tiny body was limp, slick with blood, the umbilical cord still attached.
"Oh, my God!" the woman gasped beside him.
Felix had never been a father, but even he could see the child was in trouble. He didn't dare move it himself, immediately calling Dispatch to request paramedics.
Within minutes, an ambulance screeched to a halt. One medic supported the baby's head and hips, another held the umbilical cord as they lifted the child clear.
A third spread a blue blanket on the ground, wrapping the infant as soon as it was laid down.
They hurried back to the rig — the cord needed cutting, the baby needed a full exam. A dumpster was no place for a newborn; they'd also have to check for congenital conditions or other injuries.