Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Twenty-Three

As Striker made his way back towards the scene of the explosion, his iPhone went off. He looked down at the display and saw the word ‘JaKo’. Short for Jay Kolt. He picked up. ‘Jay – thank God. Where the hell you been?’

‘Testifying.’ The man let out a weary sound. ‘I’m down at Georgia right now. Been here all damn day.’

‘You almost done? I need to talk to you about a case we got going on here. A real weird one. Involves electrical torture. A wand of some kind.’

‘Hmm. Not exactly a layman’s tool.’

‘It’s not a layman’s file,’ Striker replied. He took a short cut between the condominiums and started walking back around the seawall. ‘Torture session down by the river.’

‘Sounds nasty all right.’ Kolt broke from the phone to talk to someone, then returned. ‘Listen, Striker, I’m back on the stand any second. It’s gonna be a full day here, but I’ll call you once I’m done.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

Striker stuffed the cell back into his jacket pocket and continued walking around the inlet’s bend. When he reached Anderson Street he stepped off the kerb, and almost slipped on the fragmented remains of one of the toy shop’s wooden toys. Cursing, Striker started to walk past it, then stopped.

Something about it intrigued him.

A second, closer look told him why. The toy appeared to be a doll of some kind, though it was difficult to tell for sure, because the head and feet had been blown right off in the explosion. The remaining torso – the back half of which was also missing – was covered in grime and garbed in a blue uniform of some type.

A policeman’s uniform.

Striker gloved up and picked up the toy. He brushed away some of the grime with his thumb. With the dirt and plastery powder removed, the uniform was much more distinct – as was the strange number painted amateurishly onto the front chest of the doll.

A large, red number 5.

Striker stared at the number for a long moment, wondering if there was some significance. When nothing came to him, he looked around the road at the array of broken-up toys and figured it was just another part of the debris. He bagged the broken remains for evidence and headed back to the primary crime scene.

There was still much to do.

It was going on three by the time the primary explosion scene was under control. There was less chaos now, but sprawling examples of the destruction everywhere Striker looked. The whitish smoke had now all but dissipated into the harbour, and the only hints of the pre-existing fire were the clusters of HAZMAT members still hosing down the rubble.

Striker leaned under a slash of yellow police tape at the south end of the block and looked at the gallons of water going down the drain. With it went so much evidence. Screens should have been set up.

Someone had really dropped the ball.

The thought angered him, and it took some determination to tear his eyes away from the drains. He found Felicia. Even though she was busy talking to Inspector Osaka – and a tall Native woman Striker did not recognize – she gave him a nod to let him know she’d seen him. After a few more seconds, she broke from the group and met him halfway.

‘EDT’s in full effect,’ she said wryly.

Striker grinned at the comment: EDT was cop slang for the Evidence-Destroying Team – a nickname police often used for the fire crews.

‘We should have screened the drains before they got here,’ he said.

‘We don’t have any screens. Osaka’s already called for some, but they haven’t arrived yet.’ Felicia reached up and brushed some cherry blossoms and ash out of his hair. ‘I’m just glad you’re okay. Last thing we need is you getting hurt in some useless chase.’

‘It was far from useless—’

‘That came out wrong.’ Felicia pointed up the road. ‘I ran south on Anderson in case he doubled back. But he was long gone by the time I got there. And then you came over the radio and killed the search.’

Striker listened to her words and came to the realization that the man must have escaped south or west. ‘He ran for a reason, Feleesh. They always do. The question is why? Was he involved in this explosion? Or was it something else?’

‘It could have been something simple. For all we know, he had a warrant – they always run when they have a warrant.’

‘Maybe so, but I don’t like the coincidence.’

Striker let the issue die, and Felicia filled him in on the scene details. ‘Fire crews have all but gotten the flames out now. Everything’s just smouldering. I called up the gas company and had the line shut down. Also, the City’s sending down an engineer right now to condemn the place.’

Striker nodded. ‘We’re going to need some help on this one.’

‘We already got it.’ Felicia jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Corporal Summer’s on scene.’

Striker paused. ‘Corporal?’

‘You heard right.’

Striker immediately didn’t like it. The Vancouver Police Department didn’t utilize the rank of corporal; instead, they employed different classes of constables, ranging from 5th all the way up to 1st. After that, the rank jumped straight to sergeant. So if this Summer person was a corporal, that meant only one thing:

The brass had brought in the Feds.

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Why’d Osaka bring in the RCMP? What’s wrong with our guy – Christiansen?’

‘He’s back east at a funeral.’

‘What about Truc Tai then?’

‘She’s on annual leave.’

‘Then call her in.’

‘Hey, it’s not like they haven’t tried. She’s not answering her cell.’ Felicia glanced back at the tall Native woman who was walking around the crime scene with Inspector Osaka by her side. ‘Like it or not, the RCMP is all we got – and she’s it.’

Striker rubbed his hands over his face. It was frustrating. Not that the members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police weren’t of the highest calibre; they were. But they brought with them a lot of red tape. And a lot of different rules and regulations, most of which led to infighting between the integrated units. Whenever possible, Striker always tried to keep Vancouver files in-house.

It prevented a lot of unnecessary headaches.

As if on cue, Corporal Summer began barking orders to her searchers: ‘Gear up, people – masks and gloves, everyone. We need evidence of components. Anything you can find related to a fusing system: batteries, speaker wire, steel brackets. Nothing is trivial. And someone get some screens over those drains – we’re losing trace evidence!’

Screens on the drains?

It was music to Striker’s ears.

He watched the woman work for a moment, and he had to admit that something about her commanded presence. She was tall – a head taller than Felicia – and lean yet muscular. Athletic. She was also quite pretty. She looked no more than thirty-four – which would be ridiculously young for a federal bomb investigator, so he assumed she was older.

Her thick straight hair fell to her shoulders and was dyed a soft honey-blonde that contrasted with her darker skin tone. All in all, her looks were entirely civilian, yet her middle-of-the-road business suit screamed cop.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Well, I’ll say this – she takes command well.’

Felicia rolled her eyes. ‘She’d better be able to take command. She’s a corporal, after all – she’s told me that three times.’

Striker smiled. ‘Corporal. The dreaded C-word.’

As if sensing that their conversation was about her, Corporal Summer stopped walking around the crime scene and glanced in their direction. Upon seeing Striker, she beelined towards him. When she was near enough, she extended her hand and offered him a wide smile.

‘Are you Detective Striker?’ she asked.

He took her hand, a bit wary. ‘Yes . . .’

‘The same Detective Striker who dealt with the St James massacre?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, yeah, well, that was a while ago.’

Her already wide smile got even wider. ‘Oh my God, it’s such an honour to meet you, Detective. Really. I’ve read all about you and the active shooters you took down at St Patrick’s High School. That was such a . . . such an extraordinary case.’

The memories of that time were bad, and Striker tried to make light of it. He forced a laugh. ‘Well, I’m an extraordinary detective.’

Corporal Summer laughed wholeheartedly.

Felicia, meanwhile, just crossed her arms. ‘I seem to recall being beside you during the St James attack.’

Before Striker could respond, Corporal Summer brushed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and continued speaking to him. ‘You know, I would love to buy you a drink sometime and hear all about it – strictly in a professional manner, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Striker replied. ‘Corporal . . .’

‘Summer,’ she offered. ‘But you can call me Kami. We might as well be on friendly terms since we’ll be working together for a while.’

‘Tammy?’

She laughed. ‘Kami – with a K.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m Striker – with an S.’

Felicia rolled her eyes. ‘And I’m confused – with a C. Shouldn’t we be investigating this case?’

Striker gave her a surprised look, then nodded. ‘Of course, of course.’ He looked at Corporal Summer and changed the direction of the conversation. ‘So what exactly is your designation here?’

‘I’m a Certified Fire and Explosion Investigator. I’m also a member of the IABTI.’

‘Which is?’ Felicia asked against her better judgement.

‘The International Association of Bomb Technicians and Investigators. I trained down in Huntsville, Alabama, at the Hazardous Devices School. It was quite the course, really. You should try it sometime.’

Striker gestured to the front of the shop. ‘So, with your training and experience, what would you say this is – a bomb, or an accidental explosion?’

Corporal Summer adjusted the badge clipped to her belt and studied the scene. ‘Well, any determination at this point of the investigation would be merely preliminary, of course. But I will say this – I have mixed feelings. Could have been a natural gas explosion, the way the front wall was blown forward like that.’

Striker agreed. ‘And I couldn’t make out a definable epicentre.’

A look of surprise covered Corporal Summer’s face. ‘Well, well – someone’s been doing their homework.’

‘I like to dabble.’

Felicia gave him an annoyed look, one that Striker pretended not to see. He was about to suggest deploying a bomb dog when one of the firemen hosing down the smouldering rubble let out a startled cry. The man raised his hand in the air, alerting everyone of a casualty find, and the moment made Striker’s heart drop.

‘What have you got?’ he called out.

The fireman said nothing for a short moment, then his voice took on a nervous tone.

‘Looks like a woman,’ he finally said. ‘I just can’t tell for sure.’

Twenty-Four

The bomber gripped the walkie-talkie tightly as he struggled to navigate through the tunnels. It wasn’t easy; everything kept moving around on him and distorting – like the images in a funhouse mirror. The percussive blast had hit him good. Bits of plaster debris. Glass too.

Molly was right – he had been too close.

All in all, it had shaken his foundations, but that was okay because it had jarred his mind right again. To a place where everything almost lined up. Following the blast, he’d felt like he was floating on clouds. Or filled with a fever and lifting above it all. The memories . . . the memories slammed into place:

He was off to war again.

Father was spinning him round in the air, giving him an airplane ride.

Then his men were dying all around him – chunks of flesh being punched from their bodies by AK-47 fire.

And Mother was crying, not wanting him to go.

Then Father was leaving. Standing at the car. And he was sobbing, peeking out between the drapes, saying, ‘Don’t go, Daddy, don’t go.’

And the helicopter was dropping down – the loud whup-whup-whup of the blades sounding like angry thunder . . .

The timeline was wrong, he knew. Still in shambles. Out of place.

But it was better than before.

Despite the external chaos of the world around him, an inner calmness found him. A serenity. Because the jigsaw of his years was slowly unscrambling. And he hadn’t felt this good since . . . since . . .

Well, sometime.

He placed one hand against the cold wet concrete of the tunnel wall and took a moment to ward off the dizziness that was slowly submerging him. At his side, the radio crackled:

‘All clear. Proceed.’

‘. . . copy, all . . . all clear . . . Proceeding.’

When he reached the end of the tunnel, he used the ladder to climb out. It took all his strength. Once at street level, he slid into the back of the utility van, and Molly took care of the rest. He heard her climb into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and the vehicle got moving.

For a long time there was only silence. After many kilometres, Molly spoke. ‘You were too close.’ She turned around to look at him and let out a gasp. ‘God in Heaven – your face. You’re going to need stitches.’

He said nothing.

‘Did you hear me? You were too close. Again.’

He closed his eyes, tried to bumper back his pinballing thoughts. ‘It . . . it helps,’ he finally said.

‘It does not help. You’re scrambling your brains even worse.’

‘Molly—’

‘And enough with the ducks. This isn’t a game – it’s a higher calling.’

The bomber looked away. Grinned bemusedly.

A higher calling . . .

The notion sat in his head like a benign tumour. The whole idea of God was a foreign concept to him, a subject he could not understand. Codswallop. At times, Molly’s theological and emotional conflicts ate away at him. They were good people doing bad things. He got that.

But it changed nothing.

‘Everything went according to plan,’ Molly said softly. ‘This time.’

He offered no reaction, he only spoke. ‘With Target 5 dead, we can go back to dealing with Target 6 – the way we intended. Get back on track.’

‘The sooner the better.’ Molly let out a sound of concern. ‘My God, if she escaped—’

‘She’s going nowhere – not unless she can uncuff herself and navigate her way out of that maze.’

For a long moment, only silence filled the cab of the van. When Molly spoke again, her voice was low and soft.

‘I just want this to be done.’

‘It will be,’ he said. ‘Already, one target is down and one is our prisoner. That leaves only four more to go.’

Molly made an uncomfortable sound. ‘We need to use less explosive from now on.’

Her words stirred something within him. ‘Less?’

‘Yes, less. Or we’ll end up killing someone innocent.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Innocent.’

‘Less than a half-kilogram,’ she pressed. ‘It’s enough – these are high-grade explosives, after all . . . Are we in agreement? Are we?’

He opened his eyes. ‘Will it make you feel better, Molly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

Twenty-Five

Normal procedure at any fatality is for the coroner to pronounce death before the body is removed. In most situations, this is gospel. In this case, however, that procedure was overruled by Inspector Osaka.

For obvious reasons.

As Striker waited for the Body Removal Team to arrive, he gave the victim a cursory look. The blast had all but destroyed the head and neck regions. As for the body, it had suffered extreme trauma from the percussive force. And the flesh had been exposed to high levels of heat and flame, which had burned away the fat and turned the muscle tissue black. As a result, the remaining limbs had contracted into something of a foetal position.

But one arm was missing.

Striker examined this. From the yellow line, news media – digging for a front-page storyline – kept taking pictures from every accessible angle. Their usual lack of sensitivity made Striker angry, and that anger disrupted his thought process. He wanted the body moved to protect the family.

And he got his way.

When the Body Removal Team arrived, they found the victim hidden beneath a blue police tarp. The three orderlies, all dressed in civilian clothing, donned latex gloves and loaded the body into a generic white van. Body in possession, they drove through the frenetic cluster of reporters and headed for the basement of Vancouver General Hospital.

That was where the morgue was located.

Striker watched them go. When the patrol cops sealed off the road with more yellow police tape, Striker and Felicia assisted in a secondary sweep of the area. This time, they weren’t looking only for bomb components, but for body parts too.

It didn’t take long.

‘Over here,’ Striker called.

He pulled back a square-shaped chunk of support beam and pointed. Wedged between chunks of wood and concrete was a twisted fleshy mass. Perhaps the remaining limb. It was hard to tell.

Striker got forensics to bag and tag the tissue for the Chief Medical Examiner.

‘Good work,’ Felicia said.

Striker didn’t respond. A deep concern filled his belly. There were too many unanswered questions here. About the case and about the person in the rubble. Not much was known about the victim so far: the body was that of a female, and – from the few lower-limb parts that weren’t completely burned – the female appeared to be of non-Caucasian ethnicity.

African-American was a possibility.

Felicia touched his arm. ‘Hey, you okay?’

He turned to face her. ‘A black woman is kidnapped and tortured this morning down by the river. Now there’s a black woman killed in the explosion here . . . I hope to God they’re not related.’

Felicia nodded. ‘I’ve been talking to some of the people in the area. The owner of the Toy Hut is a woman by the name of Keisha Williams. She’s black.’

Striker listened, but the information somehow didn’t connect. He was tired. The day felt long, yet it was only four-fifteen. He looked at the different pods of forensic and search crews, and tried to keep track of everything. There were so many divisions. Multiple departments. It was an inter-agency nightmare.

‘Come on,’ he finally said. ‘We need to round everyone up and make sure we’re all on the same page here.’

Felicia agreed.

Striker gathered together all their counterparts. Once everyone was listening, he began listing the tasks of all the associated units. He ended the speech by discussing the role of Victim Services. They would be escorted by Patrol to the Williams residence for two reasons: One, to verify that Keisha Williams was not, in fact, safe at home and alive. And two, to prepare the family for the worst case scenario. The thought of telling the family left Striker ill – it always did – but he fought to suppress his emotions.

There was work to do.

With the primary and secondary scenes now contained, Striker gave Felicia the nod to get going, and they headed back for the car. He wanted to attend the morgue, not only to inspect the body, but to ensure that extra tests were conducted – complete swabs of all body tissues for explosives residue, and full-body X-rays to determine what kinds of shrapnel were lodged inside those same tissues. Grim though it seemed, it was an absolute necessity.

Striker looked at Felicia and spoke the words they had both been thinking but wanting to avoid. ‘We may just have a bomber on our hands.’

Twenty-Six

Ten minutes later, Striker and Felicia reached Vancouver General Hospital. They took the freight elevator down to the sub-levels, feeling the booth chug and jerk with every foot descended. Felicia made a nervous sound when the booth stopped for a moment, her claustrophobia kicking in. She switched the portable laptop from her left hand to her right, and looked at Striker. ‘Hopefully, the ME will find something to connect the explosion to the torture scene at the concrete plant.’

Striker nodded. ‘Maybe there’ll be some explosives residue on the body. Otherwise, we’ll be waiting on word from Kami.’

Felicia cast him a cool glance. ‘Kami, is it?’

‘What?’

‘Forget it, just you and your ego again.’

‘My what?’

‘Oh please, Jacob. Like you don’t know, with all the cheesy lines you threw out there.’

‘What lines?’

‘“I’m Striker – with an S.” “I like to dabble.”’ She shook her head. ‘You’re an obsessive-compulsive flirt.’

‘I wasn’t flirting—’

She held up a hand. ‘Spare me.’

Before Striker could say more, the booth jolted, descended to the next level, and the doors opened. In silence, they walked on with the only sound being the clicking of their heels against the floor. They reached Examination Room 3. Before Striker could so much as knock, the large grey door opened, revealing Kirstin Dunsmuir, the Chief Medical Examiner.

Kirstin Dunsmuir looked as artificial as she always did. An overabundance of injected collagen caused her chiselled lips to perpetually purse, and the muscles between her eyes had been Botoxed so many times that her face showed little emotion, even on those rare occasions when she actually expressed any.

Striker forced a weak smile. ‘Hello, Kirstin. Still the life and the death of the party?’

Dunsmuir said nothing. She just stared back through icy-blue contacts – ones that matched the blue shade of her smock and surgical cap. ‘Come inside, Detectives.’ She wheeled about and walked deeper into the room, expecting them to follow.

Once inside, Felicia placed the laptop on the nearest counter and brought up all the information they had on the toy shop address. As she read, Striker approached the examination table, where the body of their victim lay.

Against the dull metallic glimmer of steel, the blackened tissues stood out and appeared terribly fragile. The face and head regions had been completely obliterated by the blast, and the rest of the remains looked somewhat inhuman.

‘God in heaven,’ he said.

‘God has no part in this.’ Dunsmuir smiled bleakly. ‘This is my domain.’

Striker offered no response. The more he looked at the body, the more disconcerting it became – had these remains really been a living, breathing person just a few hours ago? It didn’t seem possible.

He worried about the woman’s family.

‘I want this one done right away, Kirstin.’

The medical examiner’s lips parted enough to suggest a weak grin. ‘You obviously haven’t heard about the shootings this morning.’

‘What shootings?’

‘Just the latest round of gang warfare.’ Dunsmuir spoke the words without emotion. ‘I have two dead from the Sharma gang in Rooms 5 and 6, and one unknown in Room 1. And with both my assistants away at the body farm, we’ve got no one extra for coverage.’

‘Meaning?’

She met his stare. ‘If I get to your body at all today, consider it divine intervention.’

‘Fuck the gangster. This woman comes first.’

‘That’s not how it works down here, Detective, and you know it. We’re looking at tomorrow morning – at best.’

Striker cursed under his breath. He was about to further debate the issue when the door to the examination room opened and Detective Harry Eckhart walked through.

‘Harry,’ Striker said, somewhat surprised to see the man. ‘What are you doing here?’

The detective shrugged. ‘Was picking up some medical release forms at the pick counter when I saw you two come down. After this afternoon’s chase I thought I’d pop in and see what was what.’

Striker said nothing. With the exception of the chase this morning, he hadn’t seen Harry in a long time – not since Harry had transferred to the General Investigation Unit at Cambie Street Headquarters, away from Main Street’s Major Crimes Section.

Despite the time that had passed, not much had changed in the man. Harry was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, and the silvering lines on his light-brown hair were a testament to his years on the job. The red rash of broken blood vessels that coloured his cheeks made his blue eyes look cold and were framed by a jowly chin and padded cheekbones. He always looked worn thin, and today he looked especially beaten down.

Harry looked at the examination table. Moved forward. Stared down at the body.

‘Jesus mercy,’ he said.

Striker nodded. ‘You got some information on her?’

Harry said nothing for a moment, then blinked. He looked away from the body on the table. Splayed his hands in frustration. ‘I lost sight of the suspect behind the Starbucks building. With all the traffic jammed up on the bridge, I just couldn’t get around, Shipwreck. I’m sorry.’

Striker nodded. ‘It was chaos.’

‘Yeah, chaos . . .’ Harry let out a long breath. ‘Listen, I’ll send you my notes through the internal mail. Need a police statement?’

Striker nodded. ‘Mandatory.’

‘Okay.’

The room went quiet; Harry said nothing else. His face took on a deep, despondent look as he stared at the body on the table. ‘Jesus mercy,’ he said one last time. Then he gave Striker a nod and left the room without so much as another word. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Felicia finally looked up from her laptop.

‘That was weird,’ she said.

‘Harry is weird,’ Striker replied. ‘But a good man – he’s been through an awful lot. How’s it coming over there?’

Felicia just shrugged and looked back at the laptop. ‘Things are slowly coming together. We got some history on the toy shop.’

‘Do tell.’

‘Six months ago, Patrol was called to deal with a stubborn panhandler who kept harassing all the customers. The complainant’s name was Keisha Williams, and at the time, she was the store owner. So that matches what the other business owners were telling me. She’s the one.’

‘You run her name through the other databases?’

Felicia nodded. ‘Yeah. She comes up as a black woman, one hundred and eighty centimetres tall and a hundred kilos. Big woman.’

‘Any tattoos?’

‘None listed.’ Felicia kept reading down the page. After a moment, her face tightened. ‘Oh boy. She’s a single mother of five.’

Striker felt like he’d been sucker-punched.

‘And look at this,’ Felicia continued. ‘Guess who’s listed under her Associates tab? Dr Sharise Owens. They’re cousins.’

Striker beelined to her side and stared at the screen.

‘This is too much to be a coincidence.’ He looked back at the medical examiner, who was now in the process of detailing a body chart. ‘This changes everything, Kirstin. I want the works done on this one. Full swabs, tox tests, X-rays – you name it.’

Dunsmuir gave him a cool look, as if warning him not to tell her how to do her job. But, eventually, she nodded silently.

‘Is there any way you can move this examination up?’ Striker pleaded. ‘I’m desperate here.’

The medical examiner said nothing in reply. She just completed the chart she was holding, then snapped closed the metal binder. When she looked up and met Striker’s stare, her eyes remained uncommunicative and cold.

‘No promises,’ she finally said. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’