Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

One Hundred and Six

The bomber lay back on the heavy steel table. He was thirsty.

And cold.

So cold.

When Molly wiped him down with more lidocaine, it chilled his overheated skin and stung him at the same time. He flinched when she began removing the packing gauze from the entry wound in his shoulder; it slithered out of him like a bloodied snake and turned the steel bowl pink.

‘If you’re going to vomit, let me know.’

‘. . . so cold.’

Molly washed the wound with saline, then injected him with another dose of meds – some antihistamines, some plasma and antibiotics – before patching him back up again.

‘You need rest,’ she said.

‘. . . out of time.’

‘Lay still. You’re tearing your wounds open. Lay still.’

‘The operation . . . we’re almost done.’

Molly held up the bowl of gauze and pointed to the white pus within the blood. ‘It’s purulent. Infection’s setting in fast. Your body needs time. It needs to rest.’

He refused to look at her.

‘You’re making this personal,’ she said.

He heard that, and he laughed. ‘Personal? It always was personal, Molly. We were kidding ourselves to think it wasn’t.’

‘Maybe so . . . but you’re enjoying it.’

‘Feelings and emotion have nothing to do with it. The world is black and white, not grey. You’re either guilty or innocent, right or wrong, alive or dead . . . You used to see that once, a long time ago.’

The bomber closed his eyes. Despite what he had said, Molly was right, he knew. At least on some level. He was enjoying this. More than anything, he wanted to stay active. In the moment. Engaged. Whenever inactivity returned, bringing with it the passivity and the silence, so too did the awful, awful memories.

It was a strange notion – that peace would be hell, and hell would bring peace. But that was the way it was now. The way it had always been.

Ever since that first explosion in Afghanistan.

The one that took his leg off.

He fought to get up from the heavy metal table and stared at the grey cement walls of the command room. Overhead, the red and blue pipes began making noise again, their rumbling call something between the hiss of snakes and the thunder of a storm.

On the only other table the room offered was the last wooden duck, dressed in a policeman’s uniform.

Number 1.

The most crucial of all.

He reached over and picked it up. Stared at the little white duck. And he smiled weakly.

It was time.

‘Where’s my uniform?’ he said.

One Hundred and Seven

When Striker and Felicia made it to Cambie Street Headquarters, it was going on for eleven. They took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked down the hall to the Deputy Chief’s office.

As Striker turned the corner, he spotted Laroche. The man was on the phone, barking more than talking, and absently brushing his fingers through his thick black hair, trying to keep every strand in place. In front of him, spread out across the mahogany desk, were several inter-office memos.

Striker read a few of the headings: Global TV. News 1130. The National.

All media outlets.

Before being demoted from the Deputy Chief position, Laroche had been known as Deputy Drama Queen by many of the men. Now some of the street cops called him the Superintendent Starlet. It was probably unfair – one of the man’s responsibilities was, in fact, assisting Media Liaison in dealing with the press. But the fact that Laroche so revelled in the spotlight rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.

Striker included.

‘Sir,’ Striker finally said to get the man’s attention.

Laroche looked up. A less-than-pleasant expression spread across his face. There was a certain thinness in his features, the kind brought on by extreme stress, and Striker could see that Osaka’s death was affecting the man.

Laroche didn’t say hello, didn’t so much as nod. He just finished his phone conversation, then hung up – slammed the receiver so hard, the strands of his perfect hair fell out of place.

‘Press is all over this goddam thing,’ he said.

Striker was not surprised. ‘Of course they are. We got bombs going off all around the city. Cops have been targeted. Civilians too. And we still don’t know who the bombers are.’

Laroche’s face tightened. ‘As always, Striker, thank you so much for the wonderful goddam news. Jesus Christ, are you any closer to solving this thing?’

Striker moved out of the doorway into the office. He grabbed a chair for him and Felicia, then sat down and told the Acting Deputy Chief more of what they knew. ‘This might all come back to a police-involved shooting – one that took place ten years ago, involving a Satan’s Prowler member and an integrated ERT squad.’

Laroche’s dark eyes took on a distant look. ‘Ten years . . . you’re talking about Carlos Chipotle.’

Striker was surprised Laroche even knew of the man. ‘We are.’

‘Chipotle was a psychopath and a cokehead.’ Laroche slumped back in his chair with a bewildered look on his face. ‘What makes you believe this might be related?’

‘It’s one of the few links that exist between all the parties involved. We’re still in the middle of the investigation. We’ll let you know what we uncover.’

Laroche’s face remained slack for a long moment, then his eyes turned suspicious as he realized they were here for a particular reason. ‘What do you need of me?’

Felicia spoke first. ‘Clearance.’

Striker clarified: ‘We need authorization to read Osaka’s files – the older ones from when he was working in the Police Standards Section. Osaka was working there at the time of the Chipotle shooting. Those files are essential to this case.’

‘Which files do you need?’

‘All of them.’

‘All?’ Laroche said nothing for a moment, then he nodded his head in submission. ‘PSS files are classified. So I need not remind you that whatever permissions you’re given, the information in those files will be for your eyes alone.’

Striker nodded. ‘Understood.’

Felicia said the same.

Laroche got on the computer and began typing. A minute or two later, he was obviously done, because he sat back and shook his head like he was expecting something bad to happen. He looked up at Striker, and his pale face was tight and grave-looking. ‘Why do I have a feeling you’re about to single-handedly sewer my career for the second time, Striker?’

Striker just smiled.

‘What can I say, sir? Misery loves company.’

One Hundred and Eight

The Police Standards Section, once located in the same building as Cambie Street Headquarters, had recently been moved outside the walls of the department in order to offer the appearance of impartiality. In truth, it made no difference. The investigations were still done primarily by Vancouver Police Department sergeants, with the help of their assistants.

And that was the way it had to be.

Lately, a select portion of special interest groups had been fighting the system, trying to replace the police sergeants with civilian investigators who would then take charge of the investigations.

Striker couldn’t see it happening. Not with all the requirements of the courts and the union and the ability to scour through secret police files. A purely civilian investigation team seemed nothing more than a self-serving, special-interest pipe dream . . . but there was little doubt that some changes would be coming.

It was inevitable.

They parked out front. To most onlookers, the building looked like any other business. No department insignias decorated the tinted glass doors, no signs or inscriptions guided the way. The building was small, plain, and newly built.

A modern facility for a modern force.

Striker and Felicia went inside and found their way to the records room, where they began searching through the files. By the time they were done, almost a half-hour later, they had removed and photocopied twenty-three investigations, several of which were linked to other departmental files.

Felicia looked at the pile. ‘This is a ton of work to go through. Osaka must have been single-handedly working a dozen files back then.’

‘He was a busy man. We’ll start with the most relevant files and go backwards from there.’

Together, they started sorting through the folders.

When Felicia picked up one, she looked at it, then shook her head as if confused. ‘This one is linked to the Chipotle shooting – I thought the investigation had already been done by Homicide?’

‘This is the internal investigation,’ Striker reminded her. ‘Everything they do here is separate from the other police files. It has to be, or else there would be no impartiality. Look around and you’ll find lots of duplicate investigations. The difference is that these reports focus solely on the officer’s actions, not the suspect’s.’

Felicia just nodded as if making the connection; they now had access to secondary independent reports.

Rather than leave the office, they took the paperwork to one of the unused meeting rooms, and locked the door behind them. The desk inside was oval and long, designed to seat twenty people. Striker took his position at one end, and Felicia the other.

Then they got to work.

Twenty minutes later, Striker was skimming through some of the attachments – Civilian Statements, primarily – while Felicia was reading the Chronological Timeline that Osaka had entered on his own investigation into the Chipotle shooting.

‘One thing about Osaka,’ she said. ‘He was thorough.’

Striker nodded. ‘Public image. He had to be on a file like this. The shooter was Rothschild – one of our own guys. Nowadays, the Vancouver Police Department wouldn’t even investigate the call. We’d send it to an outside agency, probably Abbotsford or Delta.’

‘For impartiality.’

He nodded. ‘Optics are everything.’

When Striker finished reading the complete narrative of the shooting, he re-read the bombing report on Chipotle’s wife and kids. After a long while he looked up and frowned. ‘Everything appears to be on the level. At exactly nine o’clock in the morning, Chipotle’s house is blown sky-high.’

‘From a bomb Sleeves set.’

Striker nodded. ‘The wife and two daughters are killed, and no one can find Chipotle anywhere. Then, at two in the afternoon, a civilian calls in. She sees a man with a machine gun down by the river. He’s crying, screaming, aiming the gun at people.’

‘And she calls 911.’

Striker ran his finger down the timelines on the page. ‘First, Dispatch thinks it’s just some crazy guy wandering around. They send Patrol. But then they realize it really is an automatic weapon, so they call in the Emergency Response Team.’

Felicia knew the file well, and she chimed in:

‘But the Vancouver ERT unit is already on another call in District 1. And this call is right on the Vancouver-Burnaby border, so they order in the Integrated Unit.’

Striker held up his finger. ‘But . . . they’re still short on bodies for a full team. And with the information about an AK-47, there’s no time to waste. So they throw together an impromptu team using reserves. They lock down the block and the river, but by now Chipotle’s gone inside one of the houses. They try to call him out. But he’s having none of it.’

Felicia looked at the medical section of the report which held the cocaine levels. ‘Not only is he grieving, but he’s all coked-out. Completely irrational.’

‘And he blames the cop several times for selling him out after he “gave them the information they wanted”.’ Striker read back through the narrative. ‘He blames the police for the death of his wife and kids.’

The words hit him like a hammer. He stopped reading and looked over at Felicia with a sick look on his face. ‘So, essentially, what we have here is an agent, regularly selling information about the Prowlers back to the police, and then accusing his handlers of selling him out.’

She winced. ‘It sounds bad.’

‘Does it get any worse?’ He took a moment to write this information down in his notebook, then continued: ‘So the stand-off with Chipotle goes on for over an hour with no progress made whatsoever. Koda is the sergeant at the time, and he makes the decision to breach.’

‘And Chipotle opens fire.’

‘Massive gun battle.’ Striker turned to the conclusion. ‘In the end, the fatal bullet comes from Mike Rothschild’s rifle; this was verified by ballistics. Mike is cleared of any wrongdoing and receives the highest award for bravery the department can give – the Award of Valour.’

‘As he damn well should,’ Felicia said. ‘They all should. Their lives were on the line out there. And the shooting was basic. I don’t see why it went to a full internal investigation anyway.’

Striker turned past the conclusion page. At the end of the report was one page of miscellaneous notes:

Injuries – Police Constable Davies.

‘Oh boy,’ Striker said. ‘This is why . . . Chipotle wasn’t the only one who got shot that day – that prick tagged one of our own.’

Felicia wasn’t aware of this, and the news made her eyes narrow. ‘Who?’

‘Some guy named Archer Davies . . . I’ve never heard of him before. Maybe he was a Fed cop, I’m not sure. Regardless, he was the breacher for Team Red that day. Not a full ERT member, but a reserve.’

‘Did he survive?’ Felicia asked the words almost regretfully.

Striker turned the page and saw nothing else. ‘He must have survived – he’s listed as Injured, not Deceased. Plus there’s no link to a second homicide report. Either way, we got two people shot at this call – Archer Davies and Carlos Chipotle. It’s an avenue that needs pursuing. Write it down.’

Felicia did. When she was done, she looked up with a sick expression. ‘This is gonna sound bad, because it’s terrible that this Archer guy got shot . . . but I still don’t see how it necessitates a full internal investigation into the shooting of Chipotle. Once again, we know that Rothschild was the one who shot him. And we know that Chipotle was all coked-out and blasting away with an AK-47 – that much is indisputable.’

Striker nodded. ‘The problem here is one of timing.’

‘What timing?’

He pointed to various segments in the report. ‘Carlos Chipotle was shot at 14:23 hours – that time was taken directly from the CAD call. Chipotle died not two minutes later at 14:25 – also taken directly from the CAD call.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is this: at 14:24 hours, one of the units went over the air telling everyone, and I quote, “He’s giving up. He’s coming out! Hands clear.”’

Felicia made an oh-shit sound, and Striker continued.

‘When the incident was over, no one would admit to going over the air with that remark, but the dispatcher heard it because she typed it into the CAD call.’

‘Can’t they just check the radio number?’

Striker shook his head. ‘No. Don’t forget, this was before the radios went digital. Back then, everything was analogue. A radio was just a radio. There was no way of linking which unit was broadcasting at any one time. So not only were the radios not encrypted, but people could say whatever they damn well wanted to over the air.’

He skimmed back through the report pages until he found the police statement of Constable Mike Rothschild.

‘In his statement, Rothschild says he heard someone say: “He’s coming out! Heads up!” When Chipotle stepped into the doorway, he still had the AK-47 in his hands. Rothschild says he feared for the safety of his squadmates and he took the shot. End of story.’

By the time Striker had finished speaking, Felicia’s expression had darkened.

‘As much as I hate to admit it, Jacob, the optics are bad here. Real bad. In fact, if someone didn’t know any better, you know what it looks like?’

Striker nodded gravely.

‘A police execution.’

One Hundred and Nine

The bomber and Molly drove south, dressed in matching paramedic uniforms. Molly was uncertain and edgy; she had been prepared to wait and reassess their plans. But he would hear nothing of it. He was determined to find Target 1.

Today.

His body was against him now. He could not deny that. He felt overheated. Exhausted. Weak. So unusually weak. But that was all okay, he told himself, because they were finishing this entire operation. And despite the failings of his body, a part of him felt good inside. Really, really good.

Then his phone went off.

The red cell.

The ringing sound made his heart flutter, made his stomach clench and his throat dry up. It brought him back an immediate sickness that only the red phone could bring. He put the cell to his ear and heard the nurse’s voice. It was full of regret and concern.

‘It’s time,’ she said.

He listened with fear creeping over him.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes,’ he said again, almost a whisper.

To his left, Molly looked straight ahead as she drove, refusing to so much as glance in his direction.

When he finally hung up the phone, his face was slack and his skin looked not only pale but bloodless. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a hollow, gaping darkness he could not hide. He began to shake. Shake as if his fever was finally reaching unlivable temperatures.

Molly took notice. ‘Is everything okay?’

He said nothing.

She reached over and touched his arm.

‘It’s time,’ he said softly. ‘He’s dying.’

One Hundred and Ten

It was twelve noon by the time Striker and Felicia finished reading the PSS files at Internal. The time spent had been worthwhile – it had brought them more leads, and, with it, a dozen more questions. Most troubling to Striker was the notion that the police-involved shooting of Chipotle could wrongly be viewed as a police execution.

It gave them a possible motive for the bombers.

Files in hand, they grabbed a coffee from the next-door café and returned to the car.

Once seated in the passenger seat, Striker spoke his thoughts aloud: ‘The Chipotle shooting connects Chad Koda and Mike Rothschild because they were involved in the call. And it connects Osaka because he was running the internal investigation on the file. But it still leaves out Harry and the two women.’

Felicia thought it over. ‘That car bomb was remotely armed,’ she said. ‘The bombers could pick and choose when to detonate. With Koda in the car, he was the obvious target. But with Harry also so close, they might have been trying for both of them. God knows they came in shooting at Harry afterwards.’

Striker thought it over, said nothing, and Felicia continued.

‘As for Dr Sharise Owens, she was Koda’s common-law wife at one point.’

‘So what?’ Striker replied. ‘I don’t see them blowing up Pearl Osaka or going after the Williams children, do you?’ When Felicia said nothing, Striker continued. ‘Some of this just doesn’t make any sense. Think about it. If someone was going after cops for revenge, why wait ten damn years to do it? There’s only two reasons I can think of – either they were in jail, or they were in an institution somewhere.’

‘Well, lots of Prowlers have been in and out of jail over the last decade. They could have been biding their time.’

‘I don’t buy it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ Striker explained, ‘the Prowlers usually contract out their killings. Or they use their underlings to do it. That’s how Sleeves got into the gang in the first place. Which blows the whole jail-time theory right out the window. Why wait ten years when they can order one of the prospects to do it whenever they want?’

Striker took a long sip of his coffee. He tasted bitterness, and wished he’d added some cream and sugar. ‘Let’s look at some other angles. Bring up this breacher who got shot – Archer Davies.’

Felicia ran the name. ‘There’s nothing in PRIME.’

‘Not even the report for when he was shot?’

She scanned the various reports they already had. ‘Maybe they lumped it in with the Chipotle shooting.’

Striker shook his head. ‘They shouldn’t have. Every victim requires his own file. Given the cross-border issues, there’ll probably be some overlap.’

Felicia groaned. As always, jurisdictional issues and separate databases made for the creation of extra work. At times it felt mind-boggling. ‘Why a federal report for the Davies shooting? He was a Vancouver cop.’

‘That’s precisely why. The investigation had to be impartial. That required an outside agency.’

‘Right, right.’ Felicia scanned through the reports, both paper and electronic. After a moment, she looked up. ‘We got all the reports here except for the shooting of Archer Davies. It registers nothing on the screen.’

Striker was unsurprised. ‘It’ll be a Fed file and likely paper.’

‘Which means more red tape.’

Striker felt her pain, and he had reached his fill of the bureaucracy. He relented, took out his cell phone, and began dialling the one number he wanted to avoid.

‘You calling the Burnaby detachment?’ Felicia asked.

Striker shook his head. ‘Deputy Chief.’

‘Laroche?’

Striker just nodded reluctantly and forced out a weak grin.

‘Why does it feel like I’m selling my soul?’