#lacsd | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tropes-and-tales · 3 years ago

Text

Benny Magalon: The Newest Regulator, Part One

WC: 3565

Other Pieces: This is part of a mini-series.

CW: Talk of sex trafficking, but nothing explicit. 18+ only.

______________

Working for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department wasn’t exactly what you would call your dream job. Your dream job, for the record, would be a hazily defined role with some magazine or newspaper where you read books and reviewed them at your leisure, in exchange for a six-figure salary and full benefits.

Since that job didn’t exist, you found yourself working as a member of the support staff with LACSD. Not a six-figure salary, but enough to afford your tiny apartment, vet bills for your dog, and the occasional splurge at the bookstore. And the benefits were good too.

You had started with the Altadena station, filling in for the usual analyst who was on maternity leave. Then you bounced around for a year – a floating employee who took assignments that lasted for months or sometimes just for a week or two. You were something of a jack-of-all-trades: an administrative assistant, a junior detective, and an accountant all rolled into one. You pulled case files and organized lab results and submitted department budgets.

But after a year, a role opened up with Major Crimes. You wouldn’t have put in for it, but your supervisor pulled you aside and said that you should.

“They need someone with a little more initiative,” he said. “Someone who can pitch in on more than just organizing calendars and pulling files for them. Someone who can step in on low-level casework.”

It was a coveted role, working with Major Crimes, so you shrugged and applied.

And you got the job.

-----

Major Crimes was…interesting.

Cops always held the potential for roughness. A lack of social graces, one could say. Some of the more buttoned-up detectives tried to hide it, but in Major Crimes, they didn’t even bother.

You knew they were testing you. Hazing you. Their former analyst was an old-timer named Callahan, a low-level cop permanently pulled from the field because of an injury. When he retired, they had dragged their feet to fill the position until the work was so backlogged that they had to capitulate.

But that first day, they didn’t make it easy, and if you had learned anything in your past year with cops, it was to take anything they dealt you and give it right back to them twice as hard.

“Looks like our stripper is here,” announced one detective when you walked into the bullpen that first day.

“Only because your mom couldn’t make it,” you retorted smoothly, which pulled a series of laughs and whistles from the other men in the room.

“Ignore Zapata,” said Nick O’Brien. He strode across the room to shake your hand, though you’d already met him a few weeks earlier, when your transfer came through. Then he turned, his hand on your shoulder to turn you too, both of you facing the bullpen.

“This is the newest member of the team,” he told them, giving them your name and a quick rundown of your past year on the touring circuit.

One by one, they introduced themselves. Zapata, the smirking one with the quip about the stripper. Connors and Henderson, also smirking.

“That’s everyone,” Big Nick said. “Except Borracho.” His eyes slid away for a moment to the shift whiteboard, and you followed his gaze. There it was, the missing detective, written in sloppy blue ink on the schedule: B. Magalon, LOA.

Cops were always going out on leaves of absence. It was rough work, draining and soul-sucking. It was easy to struggle with substance abuse to mask the pain. You gave a small nod and didn’t give the missing detective a second thought until you finally met him, a month later.

*****

Borracho hated undercover work, and this assignment was no exception. It was a big one though, spanning multiple agencies with multiple UC’s. And there were multiple crimes. Money laundering, drugs. Gun running. Sex trafficking.

It was easy enough to slide into the criminal underworld. He was naturally silent, not much of a talker, and that silence – paired with his existing tattoos and his facial hair – lent him a certain automatic credibility from looks alone. He got a shitty apartment as his home base, and he fed intel to his handler via a burner phone and coordinated drops.

It was the proximity to such awful humans. Borracho wasn’t a wide-eyed innocent; he had been on the force long enough to see the horrors humans inflicted on each other. But this assignment was something else. The drugs and guns were almost prosaic. The sex trafficking was monstrous.

He never saw it – he only heard about it. Which made it monstrous, the way his new criminal buddies casually talked about women as chattel. How much a virgin could fetch, or a snow bunny, or one that had been broken in already. Borracho always had to grit his teeth, clench his fist at that talk.

But it was ending tonight. Months of undercover work culminating in this: a private party full of merchandise – women – for sale to the highest bidders. A snare of multiple agencies just waiting to enclose around them.

And Borracho: heartsore and tired and ready to come home.

*****

Your supervisor had sold you on the Major Crimes role. They need someone with a little more initiative, he had said. Someone who can pitch in on more.

That translated, at the moment, to you being crammed into heels and an uncomfortable outfit from the LAPD Vice closet.

“Vice is short a few girls,” Nick had said. “We need three more, at a minimum. Four would be better.”

You had only half-listened at at the time. You were bent over your own work, and you usually let the filthy banter and boring shop talk of the bullpen wash over you. You only took in some of it: how the LAPD Vice group had a stable of female cops they used, and how there was some undercover event that evening. Something about putting some plants in the party for when the arrests happened.

“What about the kid?” Henderson had asked, jerking a thumb at you. They had taken to that as a nickname for you, The Kid, which was better than The Stripper, you supposed.

Your ears pricked up at the moniker. “What?”

Not that it mattered. Nick gave you thoughtful look, and that was that.

-----

Which is how you found yourself now, in the back of an unmarked black SUV with three other female cops in similar miniscule clothing. Your mission was easy enough: just stick with the UC from LAPD, a compact little man with a seedy mustache and icy blue eyes. He was posing as the seller – a term that made your stomach turn – and you and the other girls were his merchandise.

“You’ll be perfectly safe,” Nick had told you. “The party is gonna be busted up before anything happens.”

It was at a Carbon Mesa home, a sprawling mansion overlooking the ocean. Your stomach turned again when the SUV pulled up and you saw the guards posted by the door with guns.

You climbed out of the SUV, and you tried as best you could to hide the fear that was roiling through you. You’ll be perfectly safe, Nick had told you, and you had to trust in his assurance.

*****

Borracho is in the back of the property, casing the rooms facing the ocean. His nerves sizzle with the coming sting, the chaos that is going to break the moment when four separate law enforcement agencies descend on this party.

Good, he thinks. For his entire time in this assignment, he never had to see the women being trafficked. He’s seen bricks of heroin, crates of guns with the serial numbers filed off. But no living, breathing victims.

Until now.

He knows that there will be some LAPD cops amongst the girls tonight, girls from Vice who are used to this sort of thing, but for the life of him, he can’t quite tell who is who. By the time he circles back to where the guests are trickling in, there’s already plenty of women there. Merchandise. His eyes sweep them; he can’t tell which ones are drugged into compliance and which are UC cops with carefully blank eyes and expressions.

But there’s one…

She has to be one of the trafficked girls, judging by the sheer terror written across her face. Her eyes are barely visible under layers of glittery eye shadow and thick mascara, but they dart around the room like a hunted animal. Her lips are stained a lurid pink, but her bottom one is slick with spit because she keeps biting it, worrying at it.

She’s uncomfortable and scared. Borracho scans the room and sees that the other men see her too. Where he wants to wrap her in his jacket, he knows those other men have far less noble intentions.

It rekindles that spark that drove Borracho to police work in the first place. The desire to protect. The desire to save.

He moves quick – not quick enough to draw attention, but quick enough to get to her first. It’s been months of living in this dark underworld, and it’s nearly at an end, but he’s singularly focused on protecting that girl – saving her – in the last hours before it all ends.

*****

It goes wrong the moment you walk into the place: your UC from the LAPD – the one you are simply supposed to stick with – melts away into the crowd. You don’t know how it happens. You blink, the edges of your vision fuzzy and black from the ridiculous fake lashes, and he’s gone.

Well, shit.

You do an awkward little side shuffle, tottering in your uncomfortable heels, and you try to tuck yourself into a corner already occupied by a tall, expensive-looking vase. You feel exposed: you’re in a skimpy halter top and a tiny skirt that shows off far more skin than you are comfortable with, and you try to wrap your arms around your exposed midsection.

It’s such a strange experience. The mansion is well-appointed, and there’s men in dark suits milling around. They look so…normal. So mundane. You can hardly believe that they are there to buy women. To buy you, theoretically.

The thought makes you shrink further into the corner, and you search the milling crowd for your UC contact. The little guy with the light blue eyes. You don’t find him, but someone else finds you.

He’s quick – you don’t even see him coming until he’s right there. He’s taller than you, dark hair and eyes. Dark facial hair, dark suit. There’s a tattoo on his neck that you can’t quite make out.

This is exactly why you had fought Nick as best you could. There had been a little voice in the back of your head the whole time, a strong gut instinct that you had learned not to ignore…but you had ceded to Nick. He was the expert, apparently.

An expert who turned out to be dead wrong, because within seconds of getting here you’ve lost your UC protection, and now some dark-eyed, dark-haired man is standing too close to you, bending his head to your ear, whispering that he’s going to take you somewhere quieter.

You’ve taken self-defense classes, but you freeze in this moment: unwilling to create a scene and ruin the sting, and also frozen with fear. But you’ve also read enough true crime books to know that a strange man taking you somewhere quieter is going to lead to something bad.

“No, I’m okay…” you start to protest, but it’s weak, your voice has no strength behind it. You’re frozen in place, but even if you weren’t – where would you go? There are so many people now, and Nick had told you that there were a few UC cops here tonight, but you have no clue who they are.

And what would you say anyway? Hi, I’m only here as a plant for the coming police raid? That’d be a good way to get yourself fired, possibly tipping off the wrong person and ruining an expensive, important operation.

“Come on,” the man says, and he puts his hand on your upper arm. Gently tugs you out of your corner and deeper into the house, and you feel powerless to stop him. It’s strange how his voice is soft, reassuring, and how his hand doesn’t grip you too hard.

That’s how they get you, you think. You think of all the murders and rapes you’ve read about where women were led placidly to their doom, too socially conditioned to be rude or put up a fight.

This guy, he’s going to hurt you – probably not kill you, because he thinks you’re for sale, but he could do plenty of harm, will do plenty of harm, and your stupid brain can’t seem to settle on the right course of action, so you are placidly led to your doom anyway.

*****

Borracho is certain he’s doing the right thing. The moment he takes your arm to lead you elsewhere, a couple of men turn and appraise you. He swallows against the acid churn of disgust rising in his throat – he can see what the other men are thinking, laying out what you might cost versus what you might earn for them.

And what they could take from you for themselves.

He takes you upstairs. Not to one of the bedrooms – even the thought makes him want to puke – but there’s a study overlooking the ocean, and that seems like a good place to stash you until help arrives. You allow yourself to be led, but you’re unsteady in your heels, wobbling and stumbling a little, and each time you do, you resist him just a little.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs over and over, like you’re a wild animal that can be soothed. That’s what you remind him of, he realizes - a fawn. Unsteady on your feet, wide eyes searching for predators. Not completely innocent, but nearly so. You know there are wolves out there; you just haven’t been chased by one yet.

The study is quiet, and Borracho shuts the door with a faint click before he turns back to you. Your arms are crossed over your midsection, trying to hide yourself, and he holds out his palms in a gesture of capitulation.

You are terrified. You refuse to meet his eyes, but you mumble something about not wanting to be there, and so he takes another step towards you. And another, then another, until you are backed against the wide mahogany desk. You finally look up at him, and Borracho can see that your eyes are brimming with tears.

I’m gonna get this girl home to her people, he thinks. You’re obviously terrified, so it’s easy for him to picture you being snatched away from some parking lot, an abduction. Someone somewhere is looking for you, and Borracho can picture the reunion, the tears of joy as he brings you back to your parents, maybe siblings…

Already he is listing out the next steps. After you are swept up in the arrests, he’ll talk to Nick, run your prints through CODIS, run your name through the national database of missing persons, get you a bed with one of the social services until you can go home –

He realizes just a beat too late that he has not cornered a fawn, but a wild cat. All of his benign, noble thoughts are securely in his own head, and all you see is a dark, tattooed man looming over you. A single tear cuts a sooty track down the curve of your cheek, but some survival instinct is powering up in you, and Borracho doesn’t notice it until you attack him.

You are like a wild cat, if an ungainly one. Your heels slip on the polished marble floors, so your first swipe at him barely registers, but you fall into him. While he grabs your elbows to steady you, you keep hitting him, and Borracho drops his UC persona for a moment in surprise.

“Hey,” he says, startled by the sudden flurry of slaps and punches coming at him, one swipe scratching his neck into a couple of burning lines. “It’s almost over.”

But again, you are scared and have no idea what he means, so your eyes go wide at his words. Another beat too late, he understands how you’re interpreting what he’s saying.

It’s almost over.

Surprisingly, you go for his eyes, and he jerks his head away at the last minute. They teach that move in self-defense classes –

And then you rear back and punch him – perfect form, pivoting from your heel to get the full force of your body weight into it – straight in the groin. Borracho’s world goes white and silent as he ascends to a different plane of existence. One of pure, unadulterated pain.

He barely registers the next few moments as he kneels on the floor, barely able to breathe through the pain: you scrambling away from him, the distant sound of breaking glass, and the general shouting and chaos that comes when a party full of trafficked girls and human scum is broken up by the law.

*****

You’re proud of yourself. You defended yourself against a creep, and you didn’t give the game away. When you escaped the dark-haired man, you found yourself alone upstairs.

Easy enough to tuck yourself away in a linen closet, and easy enough to crawl out long moments later when you hear the cops coming up the stairs. You lie on the floor, hands out in surrender, until they help you onto your feet and lead you outside.

Nick is there. So is Zapata. They look at you but don’t react, and you are led with another girl to a waiting cop car. Not cuffed, but not exactly free to go. That’s step two of your assignment: stew in the holding cell with the other girls for any usable intel into who was at the party by choice and who was there against their will.

You don’t get much from the other girls. Most are too scared to talk, and the seasoned ones are too savvy to talk. When it’s your turn to be “processed,” you tell the detective as much.

You’re thanked for your service and sent back to Major Crimes. It’s late – or early, depending on one’s view – but Nick wants you to debrief him. It’s technically overtime, and he sweetens the pot with the promise of two whole days off, off the books.

Besides, you want to tell him about the man you escaped from. The other detective seemed dismissive of your story, but you thought Nick might be more willing to hear you tell it.

*****

Borracho should go straight home. He was “arrested” and processed with the rest of the men at the party, and then his alias – Vincent Hernandez – was sent to holding until he could be arraigned in the morning. On paper, at least. In reality, Borracho steps out of a side door of the precinct, his own ID and cell phone secure in his pocket. He sheds his underworld persona like a snake shedding its skin, and he’s glad for it. Glad to be himself again.

He could go home, but he’s keyed up. Besides, he’s been away for a few months, and he needs to take inventory of his desk. Those assholes at work think everything is fair game, so he knows that his desk drawer reserve of Pepto, his ibuprofen and extra-strength Aleve have probably been depleted.

And he can check in with Nick and whoever is on tonight. He can get the wheels turning on getting you home, the terrified kidnapped girl. He had mentioned you to his handler, but the man had waved him off, unconcerned.

Borracho has his handler drop him off at Major Crimes.

Outside the door to the bullpen, he can hear it: the laughter, the shouts of Nick and someone – Zapata, maybe – ribbing someone. Who else would be on tonight? But the protesting voice sounds like a woman, and when Borracho opens the door and limps into the room – the punch to the groin now a throbbing ache – he’s immediately confused by the scene, and it takes a few tellings before he’s is up to speed.

*****

You aren’t a cop, and you’re the first to remind Nick and Zapata that fact. Over and over and over, but they still howl each time they make you repeat your story.

“Tell it again,” Zapata laughs, and you scowl under the thick makeup, cross yours arms in the oversized windbreaker that you’ve stolen from Connors’ locker to wrap yourself in until you get home.

You open your mouth to tell him to get fucked, but then the bullpen door opens and someone comes in. No, not someone. It’s the man you saved yourself from, and it makes no sense how his sudden appearance sends Nick and Zapata into fresh gales of laughter.

He’s limping, and he looks just as confused as his eyes settle on you. Two furrows appear between his brows, and he tilts his head as you sit up in your seat, alert and ready to defend yourself again. You’re awash in a fresh flood of adrenaline until Nick steps behind you, lays a steadying hand on your shoulder.

“Easy, killer,” he jokes. “Meet Detective Benny Magalon.” He nods at the dark-haired man and introduces you to him.

“Our new analyst. The newest regulator,” Nick says. “A little feistier than Callahan, but I guess you already know that.”

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas @massivecolorspygiant @imspillingcoffee @amneris21 @paintballkid711 @mad-girl-without-a-box @bestattempt @rosiefridayrogersunday @strawberrydragon @hoeforthefictional @greeneyedblondie44 @leannawithacapitala @stardust-galaxies@melaniecraig80 @thesandbeneathmytoes

#benny magalon #benny borracho magalon #benny magalon x reader #Benny Borracho Magalon Imagine #benny magalon x reader #Borracho Magalon x Reader #borracho magalon x reader #borracho magalon #den of thieves

73 notes · View notes

chasitybeart · 6 years ago

Text

Cylindrical Tanks Vs. Square Tanks: Which One Should You Choose?

The type of tank you need requires much deliberation and one needs to consider a number of factors for making the right choice. Different industrial sites and establishments may need tanks for different purposes. However, if you notice, most of the tanks are either cylindrical or square in shape. Both these tanks have their respective advantages making each tank type suitable for different occasions. The real challenge is to choose between cylindrical tanks vs square tanks.

Different Geometry of Tanks

Tanks vary significantly based on their shape, structure, effectiveness, and structure. The most commonly used tanks are either square or cylindrical in shape. However, the bottom geometries can also vary. The tanks can have a flat bottom, conical bottom or even a rounded bottom.

Skipping back to cylindrical tanks Vs. square tanks, there are different parameters that should be considered while choosing the best option between the two. However, before you go ahead with analyzing the various parameters, it is crucial that you have some knowledge about both the cylindrical and square tanks.

Rectangular or Square Tanks

These tanks are mostly used for industrial purposes. The corners of the square tanks act as baffles. It allows the agitator’s power to be transferred and invested in the liquid more effectively. However, the overall fabrication cost is not as competitive as that of a cylindrical tank. Square tanks are ideal for solid suspension as some solid can build up in the corners of the square tank.

Cylindrical Tanks

The cylindrical tanks are more in demand as they have stronger design as compared to the square tanks. If cylindrical tanks are used as industrial mixers, then it will require baffles for proper mixing. The viscosity of the elements plays an important role here. Fluids with low viscosity require baffles, while liquids with medium or high viscosity don’t. It happens because the cylindrical tank’s resistance to impose all the torque emanated from the fluid.

Cylindrical Tanks Vs Square Tanks: Which One to Choose?

If you are looking for larger storage tanks also, then there are higher chances that you will be asked to purchase cylindrical tanks over square tanks. However, it would depend entirely on the purpose for which you are buying a tank. Here are the benefits of using a cylindrical tank.

Stress Distribution: All the cylindrical tanks are designed to provide even pressure distribution. They eliminate the stress points thereby promoting even distribution of pressure. Even pressure distribution is responsible for greater strength and also allows the tank to store a large quantity of a product safely.

Cost-Effective: Budget is one of the most crucial deciding factors when it comes to deciding between cylindrical tanks Vs. square tanks. As the cylindrical tanks are greater in height, the tank’s diameter requires the cylindrical walls to be less thick. Only the bottom plate is thicker in cylindrical tanks. This is the reason why lesser material is needed to make top-notch cylindrical tanks, and lesser materials mean lesser production cost. So the cylindrical tanks are comparatively cost-effective than square tanks.

Stability: The base of a cylindrical tank can be placed directly on a flat and solid surface. It promotes better stress distribution. Stability is essential, especially when you are purchasing a tank to store liquids.

Needs Less Space: The design of cylindrical tanks allows it to store an enormous amount of a product because of its height. These tanks are not much broader, but longer. It ensures that the tank takes less space in your manufacturing unit or industrial establishment. The saved area can be used to install other equipment.

Here are the advantages of using square tanks:

Better Performance: A report by the Sanitation District of Los Angeles County (LACSD) has found that square tanks which are shallow, having a depth of 3m along with simultaneous sludge removal exhibits effective performance at high surface overflow rate.

Requires Less Space:Rectangular or square tanks need less area of land for installation than cylindrical tanks. In the case of multiple unit design, the land reduction becomes much more noteworthy. So, in case you have a small area, then opt for a square tank over its cylindrical counterparts for better installation.

Better Hydraulics: In an argument about, cylindrical tanks Vs. square tanks, the latter wins this point clearly. Square or rectangular tanks are known for providing a longer flow path for suspended solids and wastewater for better disposal.

In Conclusion:

Both the tanks have their own advantages and are winners in their own right. It solely depends on the purpose for which the tanks are being purchased to determine which one to choose in the cylindrical tanks Vs. square tanks argument.

Therefore, consider the advantages of both the tanks and choose the one that meets your needs and requirements.

#tanks #squaretanks #cylindricaltanks #plastictank

0 notes