Brooklyn Nine Nine

Chapter 8: The Tagger

Another morning, another cop car covered in a spray-painted penis.

Jake stood next to the latest victim of Brooklyn's most juvenile graffiti artist, coffee in one hand, camera in the other.

"Third one this week," Terry muttered, arms crossed. "This guy's getting bolder."

"And more graphic," Jake added, crouching down to snap a photo of the glistening blue phallus that now decorated the hood of a patrol vehicle. "That's not even anatomically correct. The shading makes no sense."

Rosa, silent and glaring as usual, stood on the other side of the car, arms folded.

"He's taunting us," she said.

Jake's smailed slightly and wispered. "Yeah. And I think I know why."

He didn't say more. He just turned and walked back toward the precinct.

Back at his desk, Jake stared at his notes. He remembered this case — remembered it from the show. The tagger was Trevor Podolski, the Deputy Commissioner's spoiled son. Back then, Jake had arrested him in public while in front of the Deputy Commissioner. It made for good TV, sure — but bad politics.

This time, he wouldn't make the same mistake.

He'd do it clean.

That night, Jake sat in an unmarked car, parked across the street from a private school known for wealthy brats and zero accountability. He was dressed in a hoodie, eyes glued to the street, camera ready.

Next to him sat Rosa, eating sunflower seeds and tossing the shells out the window. Terry was in the back seat, squished but silent.

"I still don't get why we're staking this place out," Terry said, voice low. "You got a lead?"

Jake kept his eyes on the school gate. "Yeah. It's a hunch."

Rosa snorted. "You hate hunches."

"I'm growing," Jake replied coolly.

Around 10:42 PM, they spotted him — a slim teenager in a dark hoodie, carrying a spray paint backpack, slinking down the street like he owned it.

Jake grinned. "Gotcha."

He cracked the car door open.

"Stay back. I got this."

"Don't do anything dumb," Terry warned.

"Since when do I do dumb things?" Jake said, slipping out and vanishing into the night.

"…Do we answer that?" Rosa asked dryly.

Jake followed the kid — Trevor Podolski — from a distance, careful to stay in the shadows. He watched him tag the side of an NYPD cruiser parked by a bodega — this one a green neon spray-paint disaster that dripped into something more Jackson Pollock than Banksy.

Jake snapped multiple photos with a long-lens DSLR he'd borrowed from the evidence room. Clear face shots. Paint can in hand. One image even captured the exact moment Trevor flicked the cap off the can with practiced ease.

Jake didn't confront him. He just followed until Trevor slipped back into his fancy brownstone, completely unaware he'd just sunk himself.

The next day, Jake worked quietly. He logged the security cam footage from a nearby deli showing Trevor walking past with the spray cans. He pulled a forensic sample from the paint left on the last cruiser and sent it to the lab. Then he printed out the photo sequence and neatly filed it into a presentation folder labeled:

"Case 0479-V: Vandalism — Targeted on NYPD Property"

Rosa peeked over her computer.

"You've been quiet."

Jake looked up. "I'm just focused."

"Unnerving."

Jake smiled and said nothing.

Later that day, Jake walked into Captain Holt's office and placed the folder on the desk.

"Captain. I'd like you to review this case before I move it forward."

Holt glanced down. "Another cruiser tagged?"

"Same MO. But this time, I have everything — suspect photos, security footage, paint analysis, the works."

Holt opened the folder and scanned it silently.

"You've put together a thorough case," he said finally.

"I'd like to forward it through internal channels," Jake said. "No press. No stunts. Just… let the system do what it's supposed to do."

Holt looked up, clearly understanding the subtext. He said nothing about the suspect's name, though it was right there in black and white.

"Very well," Holt replied. "I'll submit this to Internal Affairs. Quietly."

Jake nodded. "Thank you, Captain."

As Jake turned to leave, Holt added, "Detective… good work. And… wise restraint."

Jake allowed himself a small smile. "Thank you, sir."

A week later, Jake received the update via email: Trevor Podolski had been suspended from school, fined, and sentenced to 100 hours of community service — cleaning NYPD vehicles.

Jake read the message twice, then leaned back in his chair.

Justice delivered.

Rosa walked by and casually tossed a donut at him.

"You gonna brag about it now?"

"Nope," Jake said, catching it one-handed. "Sometimes it's better to win quiet."

Terry looked up from his paperwork. "You're creeping me out with this calm, responsible energy."

Jake shrugged and bit into the donut. "Get used to it."

As the bullpen buzzed around him with the usual chaos of calls, coffee, and conversations, Jake Peralta leaned back and smirked quietly to himself.