Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Twenty-Seven

Once in the parking lot outside the morgue, where they could finally get a cell signal, Striker got on his phone and once again tried Dr Sharise Owens’ cell number. Like before, it rang several times, then went straight to voicemail. He left yet another message, then called her apartment and did the same. Last of all, he tried her workplace.

The nurse who answered the call this time was not the original one he had spoken to before. This girl sounded very young and very tired. After Striker explained the situation, her reply caught him off guard. ‘Dr Owens? Oh yes, she’s in.’

‘She’s in? Why the hell did no one call me?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I told that last nurse that this was a police emergency and to get Dr Owens to call me the moment she walked in – she’s flagged on CPIC, for Christ’s sake.’

The girl flustered. ‘I-I . . . don’t know who you dealt with, Detective. But Dr Owens probably didn’t call you back right away because of the sick baby that got rushed through.’

Striker closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Are you telling me Dr Owens is there now?’

‘Yes. She’s in the trauma room. With the baby.’

That was all Striker needed to hear. ‘Don’t let her go anywhere. I’m heading up.’

Not ten minutes later they arrived on scene.

The moment Striker walked into the admitting ward of St Paul’s Hospital, he found himself swallowed up in the crowd. A bad smell filled the stuffy air, one of sweat and cleaners and sickness. Murmurs and sniffs and sneezes played louder than the Muzak filling the waiting room, and in the corner, a drunk was crying openly.

Striker swept his eyes around the room. A lot of memories of this place bombarded him – all of them bad. This was where he had come so many times before. With his wife, Amanda, during her depressions. With Courtney after the school shootings. And most recently, with Mike Rothschild, following the death of his wife, Rosalyn.

He hated this place.

Surprisingly, Rosalyn’s memory hit him the hardest. Maybe it was because she’d been so good to him over the years, ever since Amanda’s death, or maybe it was because Striker was the godparent to her children. Probably, it was because the memory of Rosalyn was the freshest – she’d passed away just four months ago.

Not a long time for the grieving process.

‘You okay?’ Felicia asked.

Striker blinked and looked at her. He realized he’d stopped walking and was standing there, looking down at a family that was seated in the waiting area. A little boy around six, a little girl near eight, and their father. It reminded him of Mike Rothschild and his children, Cody and Shana.

‘I should have been there this week,’ he said softly.

Felicia shook her head. ‘Where?’

‘Helping Mike and the kids move into their new home. I promised. But this goddam job – it just kills every plan you ever make . . .’

‘Mike understands that, Jacob. He’s a cop.’

‘Maybe he does. But Cody and Shana don’t.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘They’re six years old, Feleesh, and all they know is that I’m the godparent who never shows up for anything. Not for the move. Not when he took them sleigh riding at Whistler last Christmas—’

‘You were a little busy saving people from The Adder, Jacob.’

‘—and not tonight for the barbecue. Hell, I’m lucky I even made their mother’s funeral, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Don’t talk like that.’

Striker broke away and approached the triage nurse. She was pretty. Long brown hair and big doe eyes. She looked dead tired – a fact that didn’t surprise Striker in the least. Nurses had just as bad shift schedules as cops. Given the fact it was now going on five-thirty p.m., the nurse was probably nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift. Who knew, maybe she was already working overtime.

She looked at Striker as if she had been warned he was coming, and offered him a wary smile.

‘Hello, Detective,’ she said.

Striker tried to be cordial. ‘I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens.’

‘Sharise?’ The triage nurse narrowed her eyes, then looked back at the large whiteboard behind her. ‘Just . . . one moment, please.’ She disappeared into the back, and when she returned five minutes later, an uncomfortable expression marred her pretty features. ‘I’m sorry, Detective. But there’s been a bit of a mistake here . . . Dr Owens isn’t in – and she hasn’t been all day.’

Striker let out an exasperated sound. ‘I just called down here.’

Felicia sensed his mood. She placed her hand on his forearm and took over the conversation. ‘We were told she was in surgery when we called—’

The nurse frowned. ‘Oh, that was probably the new girl you spoke to. She’s just learning the system and probably got confused by the whiteboard. You see, we have two Dr Owens at this hospital – one’s a trauma surgeon, the other’s a paediatrician.’

Felicia nodded. ‘So what you’re telling us is Dr Sharise Owens is not in today?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. She was supposed to be . . . but she’s missed her shift.’

Felicia asked, ‘Has anyone tried to make contact with her?’

The nurse nodded earnestly. ‘Oh yes, I have myself. Several times. But she’s not answering her cell phone.’

‘Is that unusual for her?’

‘Yes. But to be fair, Dr Owens worked an extended shift yesterday – almost twenty hours – so we figured she’d just gone home and crashed straight through. It does happen with the doctors from time to time, and it’s been a crazy day.’

Striker moved closer to the glass partition. ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Uh, ten years, I guess. Maybe eleven.’

‘And has Dr Owens worked here all that time?’

‘She’s been here for about seven of them, I believe.’

He nodded. ‘So in all those years, how many times has she no-showed for work?’

The girl’s cheeks reddened as she thought it over. ‘Well, not once, really. At least not that I’m aware of.’

‘Can you describe Dr Owens for us?’

The girl gave him an odd look. ‘Describe?’

‘Does she have high, prominent cheekbones?’

The girl nodded emphatically. ‘Oh yes. And Dr Owens is very fit. She used to do those Ms Fitness pageants every year. And she’s also done the Ironman race in Kelowna three times. Finished in the top twenty.’

Striker thought it over. ‘Do you have a photograph of her in the computer? Or in her personnel file? Something we could see?’

The girl nodded. She typed the woman’s name into the computer and an image came up on the screen – a black woman with long, straight hair that tucked around her ears and had been dyed a lighter shade of brown. The bones of her face were well defined and her teeth looked near perfect. Capped, maybe. She was attractive and appeared confident. Strong.

‘I’ll need a copy of this,’ Striker said.

The girl looked uneasy. ‘Is . . . is everything all right?’

Striker barely heard the words. He was too busy staring at something else, and when he saw it, his stomach knotted up.

Behind the front counter, a woman was busy sorting through some medications. She was Asian, with thick red lipstick and a round pudgy face. But neither the woman, nor her medications, were what concerned Striker.

It was her uniform.

He pointed her out to the nurse. ‘Is she a doctor?’

The girl looked over. ‘Yes.’

‘Tell her to come here.’

The girl gave him a nervous look, but did as instructed. When the Asian doctor approached the front desk, the wired look in her eyes made Striker think she must’ve been on her thirteenth cup of coffee this shift. ‘You requested to see me, Officer?’

Striker only nodded. ‘Yes. Turn sideways.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Turn sideways. Please.’

The woman gave him a queer look, but turned.

There, on her shoulder, stitched into the side of her uniform, red on white, was the image of two snakes wrapped around a long staff, with wings extending from each side. The symbol was a caduceus – the ubiquitous emblem of the medical community. And the sight of it told Striker everything he needed to know.

He pointed the emblem out to Felicia and spoke gravely.

‘I think this may be it,’ he said. ‘What your witness saw on the woman in the barn – the winged tattoo.’

Twenty-Eight

Dr Sharise Owens did not have a private practice. So before leaving the hospital, Striker and Felicia demanded to see her office. The room was located at the other end of the facility, several floors up. When they finally reached it, Striker found himself disappointed.

The office was small and sparse. The only books that lined the shelves were medical texts. And all of the patient folders and tapes were stored in archives. A cursory search revealed nothing but standard stationery in the desk drawers – Workers Compensation Board charts, the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia templates, and numerous other forms from Medical Service Plan. Nothing significant.

Nothing that could lead them anywhere.

Striker turned on the computer and was happy to see there was no password protection lock. On the screen were three folders:

Patient Reports.

Research.

And Miscellaneous.

He went through all the folders and saw no surprises. In the folder marked Patient Reports, there were over a hundred names. Striker scanned through them, saw nothing that stood out, and emailed himself the list. In the folder labelled Research, there was a string of articles on new surgical techniques. And in the Miscellaneous folder, there were a few links to pro-choice websites, but nothing more.

Striker wrote them all down. Once done, he opened the woman’s email and scanned through it. He saw nothing of note.

Disappointed, Striker called up one of the computer techs he knew well, a man everyone called Ich. After filling Ich in on all that had happened, Striker ordered him to attend the office, seize the hard drives, and start processing the data immediately.

‘Call me if you find anything unusual,’ Striker stressed.

‘Even porn?’

Striker grinned. ‘Just call me, Ich.’

He hung up the phone, gave Felicia a nod, and they left the hospital.

Once inside the police cruiser, with the doors closed, Striker checked to be sure that Sharise Owens was still flagged on CPIC as a Missing Person and a Person in Danger. He had already requested the addition, but mistakes were often made.

Double-checks were good practice.

Once done, he got on the phone with Dispatch and, for the third time that day, had Sue Rhaemer notify all the neighbouring police, ambulance, and fire departments of the updated events. She followed up by once again alerting the hospitals, ferries, buses, and the US border. He even had her call the cab companies.

Nothing could be overlooked.

Last of all, Striker sent out his own personal computer message to all the mobile Patrol units: If anyone comes across Dr Sharise Chandelle Owens, detain her and contact Detectives Striker and Santos immediately. 24/7. He then added both their cell numbers to the message.

He let out a sigh and almost felt relieved. ‘Done.’

He turned to Felicia to discuss their next course of action, and saw that she was on the phone. Her face was tight. ‘We’ll come down right away,’ she said.

Striker gave her a wary look as she hung up. ‘What’s going on?’

‘That was Victim Services. The kids are home at the Williams residence and it’s not going well.’

Striker felt his jaw tighten. He blipped the siren three times to clear the traffic congestion, then hit the gas and U-turned on the busy strip of Burrard. They drove over the bridge into the False Creek area and headed for Creekside Drive.

It was the last place Striker wanted to go, but as always . . .

Duty calls.

Twenty-Nine

They reached Creekside Drive.

Striker got out of the car and looked at the building before them. It was eight storeys high and old – looked like one of the first subsidized family dwelling units in the area. Behind them was the harbour, and less than a quarter-mile east of their position was what remained of the toy shop. Police cars and fire engines still blocked the streets down there, and crowds of onlookers still gathered like prairie dogs, popping their heads up to see the smouldering wreckage.

The proximity of where they were was not lost on Striker. ‘I chased our suspect right up that trail,’ he said, and pointed.

‘One more tiny coincidence?’

‘There are no coincidences.’ Striker was about to say more when the high-pitched wail of a young girl’s voice filled the night:

‘Momma . . . oh, MOMMA!’

The cry came from the building in front of them, high above on the fifth floor. One of the Williams children, no doubt. And it broke Striker’s heart to hear it. Head down, feet feeling heavy, he walked up the sidewalk, entered the apartment building, and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

Once they entered the suite, the sound of crying grew louder.

In one of the bedrooms, a civilian support worker from the Victim Services Unit was huddled in a small circle with the children. They ranged from nine years of age and up. The youngest – a small boy – was hard-faced and looked to be in shock; the rest were all sobbing uncontrollably.

The moment made Striker feel like he’d slipped back in time. Memories of Rothschild’s children sobbing for their mother returned to him, as did the recollections of his own daughter, Courtney, after she’d learned of Amanda’s death. As always, the memories manifested physically.

His stomach felt like it had stones in it.

He studied the children before him. The oldest of the kids, a teenage girl of maybe eighteen, stood in the far corner of the room, separate from the rest. Her eyes stared at nothing, her face was as hard as rock. She looked up as Striker and Felicia entered the room, saw them, and then walked out.

Striker gave Felicia a nod. ‘She shouldn’t be alone.’

‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘Keep her away from the windows.’

‘I know the routine, Jacob.’

‘And the knives.’

‘I know.’

When Felicia was gone, Striker paused for a moment and closed his eyes. He wished he could close off his ears too, because the sound of the children’s weeping was gut-wrenching. Instead, he steeled himself and got to work. He scanned the rest of the apartment and had a hard time believing that six people actually lived there. The place was small – tiny. Certainly not much to look at. Just a narrow strip of kitchen, where a half-eaten sandwich remained on the counter; another two bedrooms at the end of the hall; and a small living room that consisted of nothing but an outdated TV set, a threadbare chesterfield, and some old beanbag chairs thrown in the corner.

The TV was on. The local news.

Striker crossed the room and turned it off for fear of what footage might be displayed. As he did this, the sound of weeping caught his ears. It was coming from the opposite side of the apartment.

One of the bedrooms.

Striker walked down the hall. When he opened the first door and saw nothing but a pair of empty bunk beds and one single bed, he moved on to the next bedroom. When he opened that door, he expected to see one of the children crying, but instead there was a small black man sitting on the bed.

He was older, mid-forties, and balding in a horseshoe pattern of curly hair that was greying at the sides. He was holding a family picture, weeping openly, and looked up at Striker with lifeless eyes. ‘Why?’ he asked between sobs. ‘Keisha was good, she was so good. Always so good.’

Striker stepped into the room and left the door open behind him. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he offered. ‘I’m Detective Striker with the Vancouver Police Department. And you are?’

‘Gerome,’ the man said between sobs. ‘Her brother.’ His face took on a desperate, wild look. ‘Are they sure it’s her? I mean, do they really know for certain? One hundred per cent?’

Striker said nothing at first. His mind flashed through the facts of the case: Keisha Williams was the shop owner. She was black like the victim. She had left for work fifteen minutes before the explosion had gone off. She hadn’t returned home. And wasn’t answering her cell phone.

‘DNA tests will need to be done,’ he finally said. ‘But with the information we have at this point, I believe it’s her. I’m sorry.’

The man on the bed looked like he’d been stabbed in the heart. For a moment, he looked ready to cry again, but then he gathered himself. Stiffened. Set his jaw. When he stood up from the bed, Striker saw that he was short – barely 165 centimetres – and he looked even more weak and fragile in his broken-down state. He gently placed the picture of Keisha and the children back on the dresser, then angled it to face the room.

Striker spent fifteen minutes discussing with the man everything from the woman’s job, her relationship with her cousin, and her past personal relationships. The answers were all straightforward. As far as her brother knew, Keisha Williams had loved her job as a toymaker, and she had gone into work seven days a week. Yes, Sharise Owens was her cousin. And yes, the two women were close.

Always had been.

As for more intimate relationships, Keisha Williams’ deceased husband, Chester, had been the only man for her. The two had met at a toymakers’ convention in Seattle two decades ago, and had been married happily ever since – until a drunk driver had ended their hopes and dreams.

‘Any other men since then?’ Striker asked. ‘Any at all?’

A dark look distorted the man’s features. ‘There was one.’ He spat the words with venom. ‘Solomon . . . But she got away from him.’

Striker took notice of the wording.

‘What do you mean, got away?’

The man wiped away a tear. ‘He beat her. In front of the children. I don’t know all the details – Keisha wouldn’t talk about it. And every time I tried to get her to open up, well, it just created a distance between us. So I stopped.’

Striker nodded. Looked around the room. ‘Was this her bedroom?’

‘It is.’

‘I have to search it.’

Gerome looked like he resented it, but made no objection. He just nodded in a resigned sort of way, as if he understood that this had to be done. ‘I’ll check on the children,’ he said, and left the room.

The moment he was gone, Striker got to work. He approached the dresser and looked at the picture of the once-happy family. In it, five children – all of them younger – smiled wide. They were half giggling, as if sharing some kind of joke. Three girls and two boys. A big family. In behind the children stood a tall bald man with a full beard and a great, wide, captivating smile.

Chester, Striker figured.

The father.

Wrapped in Chester’s left arm stood Keisha Williams. Big golden hoops hung from her earlobes and a red floral shawl draped across her shoulders. She looked wonderfully alive. Happy. The sight of them was difficult to see. A once-perfect family destroyed by a drunk driver in the past and now by a highly suspicious explosion today.

Life could be cruel.

Striker put down the picture and started going through the drawers, one by one. They were sparse, filled with few clothes. And the apparel that was there was clearly old, but clean and folded neatly. Keisha Williams may not have had a lot of money to spend on herself, but she clearly respected what she had.

Striker finished searching the drawers. He found nothing but clothes, a few cheap necklaces, and some pill bottles with Zestorol on the label. He used his iPhone to Google the medication name, and learned it was a blood pressure drug.

He moved on.

In the closet, he found much of the same. Old shoes that had been recently polished, faded jeans ironed and draped over hangers, and two women’s suits, one of which still had a Value Village tag on it. On the top of the shelf was an organizer. Striker pulled it down.

As he fanned it open, several of the tabs caught his eye: Gas Bill, Phone Bill, and Rent Receipts made up the first partition. Taxes, Child Credits, and Family Allowance Receipts made up the last half. At the very back of the organizer was a letter-size envelope.

Striker took it out and looked at it.

On the front was the name ‘Solomon’ in thick black felt, and right beside it someone had written ‘VPD 105419 – CHRO’. Striker immediately made the connection: Vancouver Police Department. File number 105419.

A Criminal Harassment Restraining Order.

He removed the paperwork and read it through. Within two pages he saw an image that gave him a bad feeling. The photograph was a booking shot of a short-haired Caucasian male with narrow eyes, a square prominent jaw, and a wide thick forehead. He looked very Eastern Bloc.

Solomon Bay.

Striker was surprised to see the man was white; he’d assumed he’d be black.

As he studied the photo, Felicia entered the room. ‘These poor kids,’ she said softly. Her voice struggled for emotional neutrality.

Striker offered no response. He just stared at the photograph in the file. At the man’s hard face. At his distant stare. At his dark eyes – glazed and lifeless and hollow.

Felicia saw the file. Then the photo. ‘Who is that?’

‘Solomon Bay,’ Striker said. ‘Our next lead.’