Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

One Hundred and Eleven

Improper procedure or not, the moment Acting Deputy Chief Laroche got on the phone with one of his RCMP counterparts, the federal red tape was cut. Within minutes, the two reports – Carlos Chipotle: Homicide and Archer Davies: Attempted Murder – were pulled from federal archives. Because they were both in paper form and there was no electronic copy to send, the reports had to be sent by fax to Laroche’s office.

Striker and Felicia drove there to pick them up.

Striker was relieved to be getting them so fast, but miffed as well. He looked at Felicia as they walked up to the main foyer elevator. ‘Why is it the moment the brass needs information, the report is expedited? Yet whenever I – the actual investigator – need something, there’s walls of red tape to climb?’

Felicia smiled. ‘Karma?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right. God knows I’ve pissed off someone up there.’ He pushed the button for the third floor. ‘We’ll hit Personnel first. See if they have a folder on Archer Davies.’

Felicia agreed.

Moments later, they stood in the Human Resources archives reading through the file. The bundle was thin, consisting of a record of employment with the City of Vancouver, a list of mandatory courses the man had passed to be exempt from Block 3 of the Academy, a statement from his Field Training Officer, advising that Davies was fully competent, and a Deputy Chief release, ending his probationary period early by six months.

‘That’s unusual,’ Felicia remarked.

Striker agreed. It was unusual, but not unheard of with interdepartmental transfers – especially for employees who brought with them a needed skill set.

Like being able to use C4 explosives to breach barricaded entranceways.

They left Human Resources and headed for the Deputy Chief’s office. Laroche’s secretary gave them the reports that the RCMP had faxed over – the shooting of Archer Davies and the police-involved shooting of Carlos Chipotle.

Striker felt the thickness of the bundle and nodded approvingly. These were the full reports, and he and Felicia wasted no time. They took the paperwork into the hall, found a corner, and began reading.

The first thing Striker noticed was the call code. The file was marked not as a Homicide, but as an Attempted Murder. It told him one very important fact – that Archer Davies had indeed survived his wounds.

‘We need to talk to this man,’ he said.

Felicia nodded eagerly. ‘One more avenue to follow.’

Striker continued reading. The report was long and included photographic evidence of the crime scene, a detailed map of the house where the shooting took place, and dozens of printed-out PDF files, which were mostly civilian witness statements. Once done, Striker handed Felicia the last page and waited for her to finish reading.

‘Well?’ he finally asked.

She stared blankly at the papers and did not smile. ‘It’s pretty much what we already know.’

‘It damn well mirrors Osaka’s report.’

‘Almost. Unlike Osaka’s report, this one is pretty poorly written.’

Striker shook his head. ‘I disagree with that completely.’

Felicia gave him an odd look. She fanned out a few of the pages on a nearby filing cabinet and started quoting lines. ‘Chipotle acted erratically . . . He displayed hostile actions . . . Police responded as required . . . Don’t you see? The author doesn’t explain how Chipotle acted erratically, or what his hostile actions were, and he doesn’t even go into detail about how many rounds were fired in the mayhem. Someone should teach this guy a thing or two about detail.’

Striker grinned. ‘On the contrary, I think he knows his details perfectly. In fact, I think he’s expertly written this report without really saying all that much. Pretty hard to counter it in court, if it ever went that far.’

Felicia took a hard look at him. ‘You think the author was purposely vague.’

‘I’d bet my career on it.’

‘Why?’

‘Look at the badge number. Who authored the report?’

Felicia looked down at the header, and a shocked sound escaped her lips. The first two letters were VA, meaning the author was not a Mountie but a member of the Vancouver Police Department. ‘Badge Number 1176? Isn’t that—’

‘Chad Koda.’

Felicia stacked all the papers together. ‘The more we research this file, the more circular it gets.’

‘And the more frustrating.’ Striker punched the elevator button and waited for the booth to arrive. ‘We need to speak to someone who was on scene at ground zero. This breacher, this Archer Davies guy. Hopefully, he hasn’t moved out of province.’ He looked back at the report. ‘Where does it say he lives now?’

Felicia shuffled through the pages until she reached an updated Entities section, one that listed names and addresses for court subpoena purposes. She skimmed down the list and, after two pages, let out an excited gasp. ‘You’re not gonna believe this. The last known address for Archer Davies is down on Zero Avenue.’

‘In White Rock?’

Felicia nodded. ‘The Sunset Grove Care Centre.’

One Hundred and Twelve

It was one-thirty in the afternoon when Harry pulled back into town in his brother’s personal vehicle, a new-model Dodge pickup truck. Black. He drove down Camosun Street and parked out front of Striker’s house, directly across from the park. By the time he had rammed the gear shift in Park and shouldered open the door, one of the patrolmen guarding the house was already fast approaching him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ the young cop asked.

Harry did not recognize the man. He was tall and thin, and had a look of no-nonsense about him. Harry flashed the badge and the man nodded.

‘Detective Striker isn’t here,’ the cop said.

‘I know that; I’m here to see Rothschild.’

The patrolman looked at him somewhat uncertainly, and Harry realized it was probably because of his appearance; he was unshaven and dishevelled today, wearing yesterday’s clothes – all gifts from a night spent sleeping in the truck.

‘Long shift,’ he finally said.

The cop just nodded.

Harry opened the wooden gate and stepped into the yard. He hiked the cement walkway, climbed the porch steps to the front door and knocked three times. Moments later, he heard the sound of footsteps inside and sensed someone looking through the peephole.

A lock clicked, a chain rattled, the door swung open.

Mike Rothschild stood in the doorway. It had been a while since Harry had seen the man, maybe eighteen months, and the time had not been kind. The lines on Rothschild’s face were cut deep into his flesh, like little dugout trenches on a battlefield. Like Harry, the man looked worn thin.

Rothschild took a half-step onto the balcony. ‘What are you doing here?’

Harry did not smile. He just took a step forward and met Rothschild’s stare.

‘You and I have to talk,’ he said.

One Hundred and Thirteen

The first thing Striker did upon returning to the Sunset Grove Care Centre was head for the front desk. Seated there, glossing over the newspaper with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand, was a new woman who looked terribly serious. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight that it tugged at her eyes and made her face look like she’d had one too many lifts.

Striker showed the front-desk clerk his credentials, then grabbed the sign-in book. As he flipped backwards through the pages, Felicia watched eagerly beside him. The book was relatively new, and he reached the first page quickly. He looked at the clerk. ‘Do you have the previous book?’

Her eyes flitted up from her paper. ‘Previous book?’

‘For signing in.’

She stared back through steely dark eyes. Said nothing. And then finally moved off her stool as if this required all the energy she had left in her body. She slowly wandered over to the filing cabinet that sat behind the front counter, scoured through the top drawer, and eventually returned with another binder made up of imitation black leather.

‘It cannot leave the front desk.’

Striker offered no comment. He took the book, snapped it open to the end, and began turning back the pages, one by one. He found Osaka’s name only three pages back. And this time the signature was not beside Sal Hurst’s room number, but beside another name they were looking for.

Archer Davies.

Felicia smiled. ‘There it is. Archer Davies. Room 12.’

Striker looked up at the woman behind the desk. ‘Did you ever have any dealings with Inspector Osaka?’

‘No.’

Striker thought of the nurse he’d spoken with during their previous visit. ‘Did anyone else?’

The woman glanced down at the book. ‘Room 12 is Nurse Janet’s rounds. She’s in today. Probably somewhere down the hall. Ask her; she would know.’ She looked back down at her newspaper as if the detectives no longer existed.

Striker paid the woman no heed. He closed the book and slid it back to her, then proceeded down the hall. A nervous tension filled him, and for some reason the hall looked longer and narrower than it had the first time he’d been here. Everything felt dark and heavy.

He reached Room 12 and went inside.

A man occupied the bed. He was hooked up to an air compressor of some kind, and a soft intermittent shu-shush sound filled the room.

One look at the man and any person could tell he was not well. His face had an aged appearance. The colour of his skin was off, like cream gone bad, and the skin rimming his eyes was a faint purple colour. Beneath the stubble of his face, and under the faded tattoos of his arms, the meat and fat were gone, eaten away by time and sickness. It gave his body the appearance of a deflated balloon, one that had long since lost its resiliency. Compared to this man, Sal Hurst looked ready to run a marathon.

Felicia neared Striker, whispered: ‘He looks like he’s already dead.’

Striker thought the same. Any previous hope of questioning this man had been wishful thinking at best. Felicia moved up to the bed and gently placed her hand on the man’s left arm.

‘Sir?’ she asked. ‘Sir?’

But no response came.

‘Can I help you?’ a voice said from behind Striker.

He turned around and found himself standing face-to-face with a tall thin brunette who was wearing a pale-blue uniform and a pair of matching clogs. In her hands was a clipboard with some charts on it. Striker flashed her the badge.

‘Are you Janet?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’m the nurse in this wing.’

‘We’re here to speak to this man. Is there any way you can wake him for us?’

The nurse just smiled sadly. ‘I wish I could,’ she replied. ‘But that’s completely impossible, I’m afraid . . . Mr Davies is in a coma.’

One Hundred and Fourteen

For the bomber, the drive to the Sunset Grove Care Centre was one of nervousness and fear. With every passing mile, an indescribable desperation grew within him. He felt like there was an unknown organism eating him from the inside out. Sucking away his strength. Devouring his hope.

When they reached the parking lot, Molly kept the motor running and did not move from her seat. It was her usual passive-aggressive way of telling him she wasn’t coming inside. He offered no reaction to it. She had never come in to see him. Not once in all the time he had been here.

Why should she change now?

He fumbled for the latch, found it, and opened the door. Outside, the air was hotter than it had been in the van, and it seemed to beat down on him relentlessly as he crossed the blacktop and approached the entranceway. When he walked inside the front doors of the care home, the interior air washed over him and was a cool relief. Compared to the bright glare of the midday sun, the foyer was masked in darkness, and he took a moment to let his eyes adapt. Splotches of dark browns impeded his vision.

The world felt distorted. Off-kilter.

The fever was worsening.

He moved towards the south corridor, walking on feet that felt swollen and oddly light. Drops of sweat rolled down his brow and neck, tickling his overheated skin in the cold draught of the air conditioning.

‘Sir? . . . Sir? . . . Sir!’

He stopped. Looked left. Saw a very serious woman.

‘You must sign in.’

‘Of course.’

He floated left. Fumbled with the pen. Scribbled something in the book.

‘You don’t look well, sir. Is everything okay?’

‘Tickety-boo.’

He put down the pen. Turned towards the south hall. Headed down it.

Ten steps later, he reached Room 12 and came to a hard stop. Standing at the foot of the bed, talking to Nurse Janet, was the one man he had been battling ever since this nightmare had begun – Homicide Detective Jacob Striker.

The cop had finally found them.

One Hundred and Fifteen

‘How long has he been like this?’ Striker asked the nurse.

‘As long as I’ve been here,’ she said. ‘And that’s going on two years now. But I think it’s been longer. He was transferred here some time ago – I’d have to check his records.’

Striker nodded. He looked down at the pale man lying there, at all the tubes running from his arms to the machines standing bedside, and he noticed something. Where the man’s left hand should have been, there was only a mangled stump of flesh.

‘Is something wrong, Detective?’ the nurse asked.

He explained: ‘I’ve read the police reports. I know Archer was shot. But this,’ – he pointed to the stubby remains of the man’s left arm – ‘this was not in the report. What happened? Did it get gangrenous?’

The nurse shook her head. ‘We didn’t remove it. That was a result of the explosion.’

Striker and Felicia shared a glance. ‘What explosion?’

‘Perhaps I’d better get the file.’ The nurse left the room, and they were left with nothing but the soft shu-shush sound of the air compressor. She returned a few minutes later with a green folder and continued speaking as if the conversation had never stopped. ‘Ah yes, here it is. The bullet entered the spinal cord at the T11-12 level’ – she glanced up from the papers – ‘that’s the middle of the back.’

‘We understand that,’ Striker said.

‘Autopsies . . . of course you do.’ The nurse carried on. ‘The bullet left him paralysed, of course. But that was not the reason for the coma. That was brought on by the trauma from the explosion.’

‘Again, what explosion?’ Felicia asked.

The nurse flipped through the pages. ‘It says here an explosion occurred during the incident, but it doesn’t say exactly what.’

Striker gestured for the report. ‘May I?’

The nurse gave him an uncertain look, but then conceded. Striker took less than five minutes perusing the material, and by the time he was done, he understood things more clearly.

‘Archer was the lead guy and he was trying to breach the door,’ he said to Felicia. ‘That’s the only thing that makes sense. They were attempting entry and something went wrong. The C4 exploded – that’s what happened to his left arm. And somehow in the mayhem he got shot.’

‘It’s also why he had the stroke,’ the nurse explained. ‘The force, the trauma, the resultant high blood pressure – it all added up and was just too much for his body to handle as time went by.’

‘How serious was the stroke?’ Felicia asked.

‘A basilar, I’m afraid. There’s none more debilitating.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Felicia said.

‘It’s why he can’t breathe on his own any more. Why he can’t even blink.’

Felicia made a horrified sound. ‘You mean to say he can think perfectly normal in there, but he can’t even blink?’

The nurse’s expression was glum. ‘It’s one of the reasons the doctors put him under – the coma was induced. For humane reasons.’

Striker listened to everything the nurse said, and he felt sick for the man. He wrote down the name and practitioner number of the doctor in charge – a woman he had never heard of. Then he looked back at the nurse. ‘Does anyone come to visit him? A wife or kids?’

‘Oh yes, he has a wife. And a son and a daughter too.’

‘How old are they?’

‘Young. Fourteen or fifteen, I would think. To be honest, they don’t come all that often. The wife comes more, and even she is here only once a month. It used to be more, a long time ago, but over time . . . well, she’s been away more and more.’

Striker nodded. ‘I’d like to talk to them.’

‘I can’t give out their personal information.’

Striker understood the rules and regulations with regards to privacy. ‘Call the wife, please. Ask if she doesn’t mind seeing us. If she’s willing, we’ll meet her at her place, wherever that is.’

The nurse said she would do this, then turned to leave the room. Striker stopped her with a few words: ‘Is that it, by the way?’

She turned back. ‘Is what it?’

‘Is that all the people who come to see him?’

She shook her head. ‘Actually, there is one more. A man – he comes every day without fail. Has for almost two months now. It’s just so sad. He just sits there, inside the room, and he talks to him. Sometimes for hours.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Tom Atkins,’ she said.

‘Tom Atkins?’ Striker asked. The name sounded familiar for some reason. Had he read it in one of the reports? He wasn’t sure. ‘Is that the name he gives you?’

‘Well, he never actually gives me any name. I never really speak to him – that’s just the way he signs the guest book.’

Striker gave Felicia a quick glance, then focused back on the nurse. ‘This man . . . what does he look like?’

The nurse’s face tightened. ‘I actually don’t know for sure. He’s fiercely private. And I think he might also have injured himself in some way. He always covers himself up. Wears a kangaroo jacket sometimes. Or a baseball hat and sunglasses.’

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Call Dispatch. I want plainclothes units here now.’

Felicia nodded and was already dialling.

The nurse was clearly taken aback. ‘Is . . . is everything all right?’

Striker ignored the question. ‘This man . . . when was he here last?’

‘Well, just . . . just yesterday.’

‘You saw him?’

‘Yes, I spoke to him. He’s quiet, but he’s really very nice. Really.’

‘Does he have an address or a telephone number? How do you get in contact with him if there’s an emergency?’

‘I . . . I call him. His number’s right there in the file. On the back page.’

Striker opened the folder and turned to the back. There, in red ink, was the name Tom Atkins, followed by a 778 number. A cell phone. He called up Info and got the operator to do a search on the number.

‘Prepay,’ came the reply.

In other words, untraceable.

Striker was not surprised. He turned to the nurse. ‘When exactly did you last speak to this man?’

‘Just . . . just a half-hour. After trying to get a hold of Mrs Davies but having no luck, I called Mr Atkins. I told him how sick Mr Davies was, and that now would be the time to give his final respects. He was quite concerned and said he’d be right down.’

The words made Striker’s hand drop near his pistol. He looked at Felicia, who was now just hanging up her cell. ‘You hear that?’

She nodded. ‘Got two plainclothes units on the way.’

Striker was about to ask if the plainclothes units were Fed or city cops when a loud, strident beeping noise filled the room. Upon hearing it, the nurse rushed over to the bed, then out of the room and down the hallway. She was calling for one of the doctors.

Striker didn’t need to ask what was going on. The answer was obvious.

Archer Davies had flat-lined.

One Hundred and Sixteen

The time of death for Archer Davies was 14:35 hours.

Twenty-five minutes later, at exactly three p.m., two plainclothes units arrived – federal cops from the RCMP.

Striker was grateful for their presence. He quickly debriefed them on the investigation and told them his suspicions – that this so-called Tom Atkins might really be one of the bombers. As he did the debrief, Felicia scoured the databases for any Tom Atkins that might be related to the files.

She could find none.

‘It’s got to be an alias,’ she said.

Striker agreed. For the moment, the name didn’t matter. He got the plainclothes units set up. He placed two men inside the room, one man out of sight in the south corridor, and one man outside the facility in an unmarked car.

Then the wait began.

When the clock struck three-thirty and the man listing himself as Tom Atkins had still not arrived, Striker’s sense of excitement slowly gave way to concern. When the clock struck four, his concern collapsed into full-blown disappointment. He signalled to the plainclothes unit that he was heading down the hall, then left the room and found the nursing station. Waiting there nervously was Nurse Janet.

‘Is everything going okay?’ she asked.

‘How often have you called him?’

‘Mr Atkins? Uh, probably eight or nine times this last month.’

‘Does he always arrive on time?’

She nodded. ‘Like clockwork.’

Striker cursed. ‘He knows we’re here.’ He said nothing for a long moment, he just stood there and went over everything in his head. ‘Contact him again.’

‘Call him?’

‘Do it on speakerphone.’

The nurse made no move to do so. Her face took on a tight look.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t absolutely crucial,’ Striker said.

The nurse placed a hand over her heart. ‘What . . . what do you want me to say?’

‘That Archer Davies has little time left, and that Mr Atkins must come down immediately if he wants to have any hope of saying goodbye. Tell him time is of the utmost importance. Minutes count.’

The nurse said nothing, but she nodded. And after taking in a deep breath and trying to stabilize her nerves, she walked over to the nearest phone, picked up the receiver and began dialling. Moments later, the call was answered.

‘Mr Atkins?’ the nurse asked.

‘Put the cop on the phone, Janet.’

‘I-I-I’m sorry?’

‘Put. The cop. On. The phone.’ His words were spoken slowly. Rhythmically.

Striker took the receiver. ‘I’m right here.’

‘So you are then. Good. Listen up. I’ve killed a cop before – one besides Koda and Osaka. And if I’m forced to, I’ll do it again. Without hesitation.’

Striker asked the man, ‘What’s your real name?’

‘Do you know, Detective, what happens when a bomb goes off at your feet? I’ll tell you. A half-pound of explosives will tear off one limb. A full pound will take off two. And a bomb with three pounds will take off everything. No one survives that.’

‘Listen to me—’

‘Soft tissue goes first. If you’re a man, the testicles are often torn right from the body. Not that it matters much. The percussive force destroys them internally regardless. As for the ladies – like your lovely Spanish partner there – it’s not uncommon for the breasts to be blown right off. You might want to suggest to Detective Santos that she start wearing her bulletproof vest from now on. Kevlar helps disperse the percussive force.’

Striker waited till the man finished talking. When there was finally silence on the phone, he asked the one question he needed an answer to.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Walk away, Detective. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here.’

Then the line went dead.