Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

One Hundred and Thirty-Two

The police property office was open from seven to five, Monday to Friday, and closed on the weekends. Harry needed to get in there to seize the burn records from Montreaux. Being Saturday, it left him with two options – get Car 10 to come down and open the office, or call the property office supervisor at home.

Knowing he was supposed to be nonexistent since the press release and also on paid leave pending the investigation, Harry avoided contacting Car 10. Instead, he called up property office clerk Larry Smallsy and gingerly explained that he needed some stored records for a walk-through warrant. Upon hearing the request, Smallsy made a tired sound. ‘Geez, can’t it wait, Harry?’

‘Not on a walk-through.’

‘Then just call Car 10.’

Harry cleared his throat. ‘The road boss is Laroche . . . I’d rather keep him out of this, if you know what I mean. The only reason I’m writing the warrant is to cover my ass on a mistake I made last week. Last thing I need is King Tight-ass finding out.’

Smallsy laughed at that. He understood it well. ‘Fine, fine, fine. I only live in Kits. I’ll be right down.’

Harry was relieved. He waited on the south side of the property office – away from the main traffic of the report writing room.

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Larry Smallsy buzzed himself through the back doors. He plodded down the hall, adjusting his John Lennon spectacles and sipping a frothy latte. When he was close enough, Harry could smell the hazelnut flavouring.

‘I really appreciate this, Larry.’

Smallsy just unlocked the door and guided him inside. He walked down the corridor, in between the tall stacks of boxes that columned the passageway. When he reached the back end, he put his paper cup down on the counter and looked up at the array of binders that lined the shelves. ‘Which one do you need, Harry?’

‘There’s a few of them – burning records from a decade back. From Montreaux.’

‘Man, between you and Striker, you guys are bleeding me dry.’

Harry stiffened. ‘Striker?’

‘Yeah, he came in and took a bunch of these too. Five binders in all. He legally seized them.’

Harry felt ill. ‘Which years?’

Smallsy showed him the dates and then gestured to the top row, where a large portion of the shelf now sat empty. Harry saw this and fell slightly back against the counter.

Gone, he thought. Fucking seized.

‘Hey,’ Smallsy asked. ‘You okay?’

But Harry said nothing. He just turned around and left the property office without another word.

One Hundred and Thirty-Three

The audio recordings Dr Sharise Owens had made were on one single tape, yet it took three-quarters of an hour for the clerk to have it copied by the tech out back. When Striker complained about the lengthy delay, she shot back, ‘You’re lucky we can do this at all today – only one guy knows how to transfer the files and burn the disc, and he’s not normally in on Saturdays. You should count yourself lucky.’

Properly chastised, Striker sat back down and waited for the CD.

When the clerk finally returned, she held a single bubble-wrapped envelope. Striker signed the Medical Information Release form, stating that he was now in possession of the material, then took the envelope and left the hospital with Felicia by his side.

Once in the car, Striker removed the CD from the envelope and powered on the radio. He slid the disc into the tray and nothing happened. When the LCD mini-screen flashed the message ‘UNREADABLE FORMAT’ he swore.

‘What the hell now?’ he asked.

‘Wrong format,’ Felicia replied. ‘It’s probably an MP3 or a FLAC or something. This radio’s ancient. Plays only regular audio.’ She loaded the CD into the laptop and waited. Seconds later, the Windows Media Player initiated and the voice of Dr Sharise Owens came over the speakers.

At first it struck Striker odd to hear her voice, this woman whose disappearance and death had triggered the investigation. Over the cheap speakers of the laptop, she sounded eerily faraway and tinny, but her voice was also filled with confidence and professionalism:

‘This is Dr Sharise Owens, regarding file number 71139. My practitioner number is 15572 and the patient’s name is Archer Jeffery Davies, Medical Number 4050 030 9019.’ She then gave the date and location of the writing.

As they listened to the feed, Striker opened the written file. Together, they compared the written report with the audio. For the first twenty minutes, everything matched perfectly, and Striker was growing antsy. When the tape timeline hit 21 minutes, 42 seconds, everything changed.

Striker blinked, then looked at Felicia. ‘You get that?’

‘Get what?’

‘Roll back the feed.’

Felicia used the mouse to drag the cursor back a full minute. Dr Sharise Owens’ voice took over the air once more:

‘The bullet round is of the frangible type, which has caused an array of soft tissue complications, most pertinently in the nervous and cardiovascular systems. The entrance wound, a three-inch opening, has destroyed the spinous processes of the eighth and ninth thoracic vertebrae and the subsequent vertebral bodies; the bullet’s exit caused fracturing of the inferior third of the sternum and the subsequent splintering of the ninth and tenth ribs anteriorly . . . This is indicative of a high-calibre, high-velocity round.’

Felicia listened to the woman’s explanation, then nodded. ‘She’s telling us it was a high-velocity, high-calibre round.’

Striker’s eyes darkened. ‘It’s not the calibre or speed that concern me, it’s the type and direction.’ He pointed to the written report. ‘Carlos Chipotle was firing an AK-47. Full Metal Jacket rounds.’

Felicia made an oh-shit sound. ‘Non-frangible.’

Striker nodded. ‘The only guys there with frangible rounds were us – the cops.’

‘Which means Archer got tagged by one of our own guys.’

Striker nodded. ‘And where does the report list Archer Davies’ entrance wound?’

Felicia searched the report. ‘The sternum.’

‘Exactly. But given the size of the posterior gunshot wound, that would be impossible – the entrance wound is always smaller than the exit wound.’

Felicia suddenly looked ill. ‘But if the exit wound was on the front side of Archer’s body, then that would mean—’

Striker nodded numbly.

‘They shot him in the back.’

One Hundred and Thirty-Four

Striker wanted a list of every cop on scene at the Chipotle gun call where Archer Davies had been shot. To do this, he and Felicia stopped in at Main Street Headquarters to use one of the desktop computers. They were linked in to the mainframe and could bring up information that the mobile laptops could not.

Being Saturday, the office should have been busy with cops sorting out the Friday night files, but today it was almost empty.

Striker walked right down to his desk. He brought up the call, read for a bit, then leaned back in the chair and felt like he was going to get sick. He gave Felicia a dismal look.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘The bullet that struck Archer Davies entered through his mid-spine and came out his chest; that much is undeniable. Judging from the ballistics report, it’s also true that the bullet was fired from a police sniper rifle. In the report, there’s only one ERT sniper listed.’

She understood the significance of that.

‘Rothschild,’ she said.

Striker nodded. ‘Carlos Chipotle was all coked-out with an assault rifle in his possession. So containment was essential. If Chipotle managed to escape with a weapon like that, who knows what might have happened? There’s a school just four blocks down the road, and a Community Police Office a mile north of there.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘My point is this – in order to contain him properly, there should have been two snipers on the scene. Both in elevated positions. Was Rothschild the only one – or was there another?’

Striker focused back on the computer and began paging through the information. For a Man With a Gun call, it was surprisingly and disappointingly brief, but the information that was there offered clarity.

He read through it:

11:45: The call comes in. A witness reports a man with a machine gun down by the river.

11:51: The first Patrol unit arrives on scene.

11:57: The entire block is cordoned off.

11:59: A request for the Emergency Response Team is made by Car 10.

Striker scanned ahead for the next important time:

12:28: The Emergency Response Team is delayed due to an ongoing incident in the downtown core.

12:29: A city-wide message is sent requesting all Patrolmen qualified as carbine operators to head towards the area.

12:47: With the assistance of the Burnaby RCMP and the New Westminster Police Department, a makeshift team is assembled with Chad Koda as the lead sergeant. Constable Mike Rothschild is the lone sniper. His position is a two-storey elevation from the southeast.

Striker paused. This was what he had been searching for, and upon seeing it he frowned. The breaching team had come in from the southeast – under cover of the sniper. So for Archer Davies to be shot in the back, and on a thirty-degree angle, the bullet could only have been fired by one person.

Mike Rothschild.

Striker scanned through the list of badge numbers, looking for any other officer that had arrived with a long gun, be it another ERT sniper or one of the patrolmen carrying a carbine.

But there were none.

‘Goddammit,’ he said. ‘There must have been another shooter there – someone other than Mike who could have fired that bullet.’

Felicia’s face softened. She reached out and touched his arm for support.

‘I’m sorry, Jacob, but Rothschild was the only cop there with a long gun. You have to face it . . . Rothschild shot Archer.’

One Hundred and Thirty-Five

Oliver stood on the corner of Cambie and West 2nd, directly across from Vancouver Police Headquarters, with his bag of supplies in hand. He wore the police uniform his sister had created for him, and knew that it was an exact replica, right down to the buttons. Feeling the sweat from his brow trickle under the line of his hat, he wiped his brow and flagged down the first marked patrol car that turned the corner.

A short fat mug of a cop with a horseshoe balding pattern rolled down the passenger window. ‘Need a lift there, fella?’

‘Yeah. Leaving early today and I gotta get myself back to Kerrisdale.’

‘Hop in.’

Oliver threw his bag on the floor, then jumped in the passenger side and slammed the door. The cop hit the gas, turned south on Quebec Street, and gave him a sideways stare. ‘Never seen you before – you from the odd side?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Call-out?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re sweating up a storm, buddy. You sick or something?’

‘Yeah. Sick.’

‘Man, you look it. Don’t breathe on me, huh?’ The cop guffawed, then grabbed his iced cappuccino from the cup holder and sipped. ‘So where exactly we going here?’

‘Just get me to Arbutus and 41st . . . then I’ll show you.’

The balding cop nodded and they drove on.

As they went, Oliver crossed his arms, slowly, gingerly, to take pressure off the fractured bone in his shoulder. He leaned back in the seat and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy. The cop had the air conditioner going full bore and the draught felt like pins and needles on his skin – painful, yet oddly soothing. Were it not for the man’s constant yammering, Oliver would have zoned out completely.

They reached Arbutus and 41st.

‘Where now?’ the cop asked.

Oliver blinked. Tried to focus. He saw a green Starbucks coffee shop and the blue glare of a Bank of Montreal sign. He got his bearings. Then pointed. ‘Turn left here, then down the lane.’

Soon, they found themselves at the end of a long back alley. Oliver deftly unzipped the bag. Inside it was his SIG P224. The suppressor – seven inches long and nearly as big as the gun itself – was not yet unattached.

The cop finished his iced cap and gestured to the backyard of a tiny rancher. ‘This your place?’

Oliver didn’t answer the man. Instead, he pointed at the floor near the gas pedal. ‘That thing yours?’

When the cop glanced down, Oliver drove the man’s head forward with as much force as he could muster. The cop’s face slammed into the steering wheel and his nose broke with a soft crunching sound. He screamed. Jolted back. Raised his hands in a pathetic display of defence.

Oliver drove his elbow into the man’s face and almost knocked him out. Then he pulled him closer, pinned his face down into the seat, and slammed the base of his pistol onto the back of the man’s skull – once, twice, three times – until the cop moved no more.

Breathing hard, shaking, exhausted from the moment, Oliver closed his eyes and fought against the soft beckoning call of unconsciousness.

It was done.

It was done . . .

The beginning of the end was here.

One Hundred and Thirty-Six

The drive from Main Street Headquarters back to Striker’s house was one of deep thought and consternation. Felicia kept herself busy reading and re-reading the CAD call they had printed out, the reports they’d gathered, and all the history brought up on the numerous police databases. Striker drove on autopilot. Before he knew it, they were stopped behind a marked patrol car outside his house. He sat there and listened to the motor idle. After a while, he killed the engine.

Felicia opened the door. ‘Well? You coming in?’

He nodded. Exited the car. Went inside.

Sitting in the den with his feet on the coffee table was Rothschild. He was nestling a Coke.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Striker sat down in the recliner facing Rothschild. Felicia sat down in the love seat that was angled between the two men. Striker spoke first. ‘The Chipotle shooting years ago . . . how many snipers were on that call?’

Rothschild looked taken aback by the question, and he gave it some thought. ‘Just one,’ he finally said. ‘Me.’

‘No carbines?’

‘Not that I recall.’ His eyes took on a faraway stare. ‘It’s been ten years, man. A long time.’

‘I know that. But think hard. Were there any other long guns there? Something that would fire a .223?’

Rothschild was silent a long moment, then answered. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, we called for one, but I don’t think any arrived. Why don’t you check the CAD call? Everything should be documented in there.’

‘We’ve checked, Mike. No other long guns are listed.’

‘Then what’s the problem? Why all the questions?’

‘Do you remember Archer Davies?’

Rothschild’s face darkened. ‘Of course I do. He got injured, went back to England or something. Chipotle shot him.’

‘Not Chipotle, Mike. You.’

Rothschild’s face hardened at the words and his eyes got wide. ‘What the hell you talking about, Shipwreck? That’s not even funny.’

Striker did not look away. ‘I’m being serious here.’

Felicia nodded. ‘There’s no doubt about it, Mike. The bullet that felled Archer Davies came from your sniper rifle. A .223 round.’

Rothschild froze for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief.

‘Not possible,’ he said. ‘The autopsy—’

‘Chad Koda had it doctored,’ Striker said. ‘He knew what had happened, Mike. He knew it was your bullet that tagged the man. And he covered it up. There’s no denying this fact. It was your bullet. You shot him.’

Rothschild’s face turned from red to white, and he looked helplessly around the room. ‘I . . . I never . . . never knew . . .’ He stood up awkwardly, on legs that looked rubbery. He went to place his bottle of Coke on the table, tipped it over, and pop spilled all over the glass surface. Swearing, he grabbed the bottle, stood it up, and walked aimlessly around the room. He stopped by the fireplace mantel. Placed a hand over his stomach. Looked sick.

‘It gets worse,’ Striker said.

Rothschild looked back with concern. ‘What could be worse?’

‘Archer was shot in the back, Mike. You need to tell me how that happened.’

Felicia nodded. ‘And since the only time his back was towards you was when the team was making entry, that would mean that the bullet was fired before the explosives went off. Even before Chipotle started shooting.’

For a moment the words just hung there, and the confused, sick look on Rothschild’s face remained. Stunned as he was by the news, he nodded as if he realized what they were getting at – how the situation looked. Like a premeditated cop-on-cop shooting.

‘That’s not how it happened,’ he said.

‘Then explain it to me,’ Striker said. ‘Cause I want to believe you here, Mike, I really do. But nothing’s adding up.’

Rothschild took the CAD papers from Striker, sorted through them, and then frowned. ‘The problem is right here. Page seven. They’ve listed my position as southeast; fact is, I was north.’

‘North?’ Felicia said.

Rothschild nodded. ‘Think of the terrain.’

Striker did, and as the layout developed in his mind, he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. ‘That house is on Blanche Street . . . where the land there slopes down towards the river.’

‘And it’s steep as hell,’ Rothschild replied. ‘You can’t get an elevated eye from the south – only a ground eye.’

‘Which would put the squad directly in your sights.’

‘Exactly.’

Felicia nodded as she saw it too. ‘So you repositioned north. You should have broadcast it.’

‘I did broadcast it. North was the only option. And it was still bad. The entire side of the rancher was nothing but windows. And with the midday sun shining down, there was one hell of a gleam. Breaching from that end would have been squad suicide. So they came in from the south, and I did what I could to cover from the north.’

‘Sounds like a less than perfect situation,’ Striker said.

Rothschild let out a frustrated sound. ‘It was a cluster-fuck. A thrown-together squad of reserves. Only Koda and Archer had any experience. The rest of us were just a bunch of novices. When things went bad and Chipotle started firing through the windows, the whole team fell apart. Half of them spun about and raced for cover, and before you knew it, Archer was exposed. The breach went off, and Chipotle was out there firing at everyone . . . it was fuckin’ chaos.’

As Rothschild spoke the words, his breathing grew deeper, faster.

‘I had to engage,’ he said. ‘Otherwise Chipotle would have mowed them all down. So I fired – three, four, five times, I can’t remember. I just fired and fired and fired till he stopped shooting, until he went down . . . And then we found out about Archer.’ He looked up and now his eyes were watery. ‘I thought – we all thought – that Chipotle had gotten him. No one knew it was us . . . that it was me.’

‘Chad Koda did,’ Felicia said. ‘Or he found out soon after.’

Striker nodded. ‘And so did Oliver Howell. He thinks this was all one giant cover-up. That’s why we’re all here, Mike . . . Oliver Howell thinks you murdered his father.’

One Hundred and Thirty-Seven

Striker and Felicia left Rothschild and the kids under the protective care of Patrol and headed down Kerrisdale’s main drive. Striker needed some time away with Felicia. A place where they could be alone to organize all the jigsaw pieces of this puzzle.

So much, there was so much.

He stopped at the local Starbucks on 41st, the one across from the Bank of Montreal, and purchased a pair of coffees and two pastries. ‘Any kind,’ he told the clerk. ‘Just throw them in the bag.’

Food in hand, he returned to the car.

They drove down to Maple Grove Park and watched the children laughing and giggling and jumping into the public pool. For a brief moment, memories of taking Courtney here returned to Striker – the time she had first learned to swim, the time she had finally gotten the nerve to jump in by herself – and he smiled at those memories.

They calmed his mind.

‘We have to go through this one more time,’ he finally said to Felicia. ‘In detail. So we have it right.’

She agreed. She put down the file she was re-reading, then grabbed her pad of paper and a pen.

‘From the beginning,’ she said.

Striker nodded. ‘Essentially, what we have here are two files that are connected. And sadly, I think it all started with the death of Harry Eckhart’s first son.’

‘Joshua?’

Striker nodded. ‘When the boy died, Harry broke down. He got into financial trouble, did some dumb things – who knows what. But in the end, he needed money, and he needed it bad.’

Felicia nodded. ‘And since he was in charge of burning the drugs, he started selling some of them back to the Satan’s Prowlers, through Sleeves and Chipotle.’

‘Exactly. But the operation got too dangerous to do alone.’

‘So he brought in an old friend,’ Felicia said.

Striker nodded. ‘Chad Koda. Which was a perfect fit because, aside from trusting the man, Koda – through his ex-wife Sharise Owens – connected them to Keisha Williams.’

‘And Williams is how Koda got the toy duck.’

Striker held up a finger. ‘Williams was killed for more than just her job as the toymaker,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, she was also a chartered accountant. Her real role here was to move the money.’

‘Risky work,’ Felicia said. ‘She rolled the dice. She lost.’

‘Came up snake eyes,’ Striker said.

‘You think Harry and Koda manipulated her?’

Striker shrugged. ‘Who knows how she got involved. But once she started moving that money, it was over for her. She was involved. Culpable.’

Felicia scribbled all this down furiously, using mostly shorthand. ‘For all we know, she might have thought it legitimate in the beginning. After all, these were two cops she was dealing with, one of which was living with her cousin. Which also ties in Dr Sharise Owens.’

‘Partly,’ Striker said. ‘But we’ll get to her later.’

He picked up some of the paperwork they’d obtained from the Source Handling Unit, skimmed the pages, and then nodded. ‘Next, we have Archer Davies. The man’s an ex-soldier from the British Army. He’s moved to Canada to start a new life with a new woman. He joined the VPD, and soon had his own source.’

‘Carlos Chipotle.’

Striker opened the man’s file. ‘Yes, Chipotle – a man who quickly finds himself in hot water when the gang catches him double-dipping. He owes the gang money and he can’t pay. And these are the Prowlers we’re talking about. They don’t mess around. So if Chipotle can’t come up with the money quick, they’ll kill him. And he knows that.’

‘And he can’t come up with the money.’

Striker nodded. ‘So where does he go? To the VPD. To Archer – offering information about Harry and Koda’s little operation in exchange for protection and indemnity.’

‘Big mistake,’ Felicia said.

‘The biggest. The Prowlers find out. Before you know it, Chipotle’s family is blown sky-high by Sleeves and Chipotle’s on the run.’

‘Which leads to him being grief-stricken, coked-up, and flaunting a machine gun down by the river.’

Striker nodded sadly. ‘And Archer ends up getting injured – which is real bad because it looks like Harry and Koda have worked something out to silence him, fearing what Chipotle might have told him.’

‘And Archer eventually dies from his wounds.’

Striker heard that and stopped talking. Turned silent for a while. The more he thought it over, the more surreal it all felt. So many links in this nightmare chain. He took a moment to sip his coffee and watch the children frolicking in the pool. Their high-pitched shrieks of joy and excitement. Their laughter.

Their innocence.

After a moment, he looked over at Felicia. ‘You got all that?’

She read it all over and nodded slowly.

‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘Make one hell of a novel.’