Текст книги "The Survivor"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Fifty-One
Over an hour later, Striker stood in the crowded admitting area of St Paul’s Hospital and sipped coffee from a paper cup. The nurse had kindly brought it to him, and it was just as bad as the sludge they cooked up in Homicide.
Striker’s hands shook as he held the cup. Enough to spill some of the brew over the rim and burn his skin. It was a normal reaction, he told himself. Especially after his second firefight in two days.
He only wished he could believe the inner voice.
With almost two days gone, it felt like they were losing ground. Red Mask had escaped again. And Patricia Kwan was now fighting for her life. All they’d found in the gunman’s wake was a stolen Toyota Camry parked out front. Even with a priority rush, the blood results would take weeks, and he had little faith in any prints coming back.
It ate away at him.
Even worse was the woman’s daughter, Riku Kwan. The girl was missing, which was only one step away from the worst possible scenario. When Felicia entered the room, Striker broke from the negativity that was sucking him down and met her in the doorway.
‘Did they find her?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Felicia said. ‘Riku Kwan is nowhere to be found. We got her flagged as a missing person on CPIC, but so far no one’s got a clue.’
Striker ran through the list in his head. ‘What about her father?’
‘Separated from the mom, we think. Turns out he’s an international lawyer. Pretty good one, too. Makes a gazillion dollars a year. He’s away on business right now – somewhere in Asia. We’re trying to get a hold of him, but so far no luck.’
‘We got lots of luck – it’s just all bad. What about the Amber Alert?’
‘On all the stations.’
‘TV or radio?’
‘Both. They’re broadcasting her name on every station.’
‘And photo?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I want her picture up there too.’
‘They’re working on it, Jacob.’ Felicia looked past Striker towards the Fast Track Admittance and bit her lip. ‘The mother in there?’
‘They took her to surgery a while ago.’
Felicia sighed. ‘Let’s hope she knows something when she wakes up.’
‘Let’s just hope she wakes up.’
The words felt heavy. And Striker couldn’t help thinking things might have been different if he’d gotten there sooner. If, if, if. If Deputy Chief Laroche hadn’t told Ich to shelve the feed. If they’d gotten the audio sooner. If he’d pressed just a little bit harder and stood his ground.
There were a million ifs.
Felicia touched his shoulder. ‘You did good in there.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘Jacob—’
He pulled away. ‘I had him, Felicia, I fuckin’ had him. Damn near lined up. If I’d just been a little bit quicker, that prick would be six feet under right now.’
‘And if you hadn’t done what you did, Patricia Kwan would already be dead.’
‘She still might be.’
‘Focus on the investigation,’ she said.
‘Which part? We got yet another crime scene and what has it brought us? Nothing. Just a reminder that we got a bunch of dead kids already, and one more who is targeted and still out there somewhere where we can’t find her.’
‘We’ll find her, Jacob.’
He turned his body so that he was facing Felicia. ‘What we don’t know is, why. I mean, Christ, do we have even one decent connection between these kids?’
‘Three of them were members of the Debate Club.’
‘What about Kwan?’
‘Unfortunately, no, she’s not on the list – but it’s the closest thing we’ve got so far.’
Striker said nothing as he thought it over. Debate Club. It seemed a ridiculous notion. And Riku Kwan wasn’t a member.
Just then, the door to the surgery room opened up and the doctor emerged. His name was Dr Adler – a tall, sandy-haired Australian man with an accent thicker than Vegemite. He had already taken off his surgical cap, but was still wearing the pale green gown. He looked as tired as Striker felt.
‘How is she?’ Striker asked.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Critical, but stable.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I don’t know.’ He scratched his nails down his face, leaving a red mark on his cheek. ‘The bullet didn’t have an exit wound. It fragmented, and the pieces ricocheted off the scapula, then rebounded back off her sternum – like a pinball in her thorax. It did a lot of damage to her liver and lung.’
Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Sounds like a Hydra-Shok round.’
Felicia nodded, and Striker returned his attention to the doctor. ‘We need to speak to her.’
Dr Adler looked at Striker like he’d lost his mind. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘It’s not a request, Doctor.’
‘It doesn’t have to be. I’m sorry, Detective, but my responsibility is to the patient. Mrs Kwan is already heavily sedated, delirious, and in great pain. To try to bring her out of such a state could possibly—’
‘Her daughter’s life depends on it,’ Felicia said.
This seemed to shut the doctor up.
Striker nodded solemnly. ‘If we can’t locate her daughter, the girl will be murdered. And right now the only lead we got is the woman in there.’
Dr Adler looked away, thought for a moment. The moment lasted a long time. Finally, after much obvious internal debate, he muttered something Striker could scarcely make out.
‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s it. And any signs of cardiac distress, I shut it down.’
Striker met the man’s stare. ‘Thanks, Doc.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ he said quietly. ‘Just find the girl.’
Fifteen minutes later, Striker stood at the third-floor entrance to the Critical Care Unit. He was dressed in a pale-green smock that barely fit around the bulge of his Sig Sauer, and a green hair-net that looked more like a woman’s shower cap from the seventies than proper surgical attire. The hospital gear clung to his body like green under-armour, testifying to the thickness of his shoulders and chest.
Felicia stood beside him, dressed in the exact same fashion. She looked him over, her eyes resting on his chest.
Striker noticed. He cleared his throat, said: ‘Anyone ever tell you that hair-net really brings out your eyes?’
The nurse appeared – a small chubby black woman. ‘This way,’ she said. She used a key card to open the door and then ushered them into the Critical Care Unit. They followed her down to room four, where Patricia Kwan was recovering.
When Striker entered the room, he was taken aback.
Everything was exactly the same as when Amanda had died two years ago. Not a damn thing was different. And for a moment, he felt sucker-punched by life. He hated this hospital. Hated everything about it.
He suppressed the feeling, got to work.
The room smelled strongly of bleach and disinfectants. Aside from the bleak light that creaked through the brown drapes, everything appeared cold and sterile. Patricia Kwan laid supine on the bed, with both bed railings locked in the up-position. Tubes and wires ran from both her arms into several machines that stood bedside, an array of red digital numbers blinking across their screens.
Her chest barely moved.
Striker moved closer, stared at Patricia. Her face looked unnatural. Swollen. The skin appeared distended and thin, like an overstuffed sausage membrane. Her dark eyes were slightly open. They were glossy, like wet candy. She moaned, a sound that was barely audible in the small room, and Striker wondered if she did this in response to their presence, her pain, or the nightmares she was suffering.
He turned to the nurse. ‘She even awake?’
‘Stupor,’ was all the nurse offered.
Dr Adler entered the room and monitored the machines. The expression on his weary face was one of concern, and he gave Striker and Felicia a look that suggested it was time to get things started.
Striker stepped forward. ‘Ms Kwan? Ms Kwan? Patricia?’
The woman’s eyes blinked a few times, then turned towards him.
‘I’m Detective Jacob Striker from the Vancouver Police Department. I’m the cop that saved you.’
She offered no response, verbal or otherwise. She just stared at him through empty eyes.
‘Patricia, I know this is hard for you right now, but these are questions I have to ask. Do you remember what happened tonight? Back at the house?’
Patricia Kwan shivered beneath the blankets. She tried to speak, only managed to croak, then began to cough. When the fit subsided, the nurse gave her water. She made another attempt to speak, and the voice which came through was low and scratchy and weak.
‘The house . . . was on fire.’
‘On fire?’
‘Fire. There was fire . . . all around me . . . out of control.’
‘Patricia—’
‘Dragons . . . breathing fire . . .’
Felicia looked at the doctor. ‘This is no good,’ she said. ‘The woman is delirious.’
Striker placed his hands on the bed railing, fingers gripping so tightly his knuckles blanched. As he leaned down to hear Patricia better, the smell of her body odour hit him. She smelled bad. Like she was sick. Like a dog ready to be put down. He ignored the smell, continued: ‘Do you know the man who attacked you? Do you recognise him from anywhere?’
Patricia said nothing, didn’t move. And for a moment Striker thought he had lost her altogether. But then her eyes grew wide and regained some clarity. She jolted in her bed.
‘My daughter!’
She tried to sit up, let out an agonised wail, grabbed at her ribs and then collapsed back on the bed. The doctor and nurse immediately stepped forward to check the machines.
As they moved, Felicia’s cell went off. She reached down for it, and the nurse glared at her.
‘Not in here you don’t.’
Striker gestured for her to take the call outside, and she did, leaving him alone with the nurse and the doctor, and he was grateful for it.
‘Patricia,’ he began again.
She gripped his arm. ‘My daughter, please, my daughter.’
‘Do you have any idea where she might be? We’re trying to locate her.’
‘Find her, please. You have to find her . . . find her . . .’
‘Where does she go? Who does she hang out with? Is there anyone I can call?’ Striker peppered her with questions. But the woman’s eyes glazed, and she retreated back inside her body. Her facial muscles relaxed. She deflated against the bed like a balloon with a fast leak and sweat dappled her pallid skin.
‘Dragons,’ she said one last time, her voice but a whisper. ‘The house was filled with dragons.’
One of the machines to Striker’s left let out a series of beeps, and the doctor motioned for the nurse. She hurried over, adjusted the settings, and gave the doctor and Striker a fierce motherly look.
‘That’s it,’ Dr Adler said to Striker. ‘No more.’
Striker didn’t argue the point. He retreated to the doorway, where he stopped, turned, stared. He watched the nurse and doctor fuss over their patient. Sadness swept through him, so heavy he felt the sorrow deep down in his lungs. The woman on the bed may as well have been Amanda all over again. And Striker recalled with horrifying clarity how he had felt two years ago, knowing his wife was dying and wondering how he was ever going to tell Courtney – their thirteen-year-old daughter – that her mother was never coming home again.
The memory cut into him as deeply now as it had done back then.
He stood in the doorway and stared at Patricia Kwan until the nurse ushered him into the hall. Outside, he met up with Felicia, who snapped her cell phone shut.
‘That was the coroner,’ she said. ‘The autopsy of our remaining gunman is done.’
Striker nodded.
It was the first good thing he’d heard all day.
Fifty-Two
It was late, and the night was dark and cold. It was all Red Mask could do to keep his feet moving and his body from collapsing.
His destination – a barely noticeable hole in the wall – was an old herbal shop, on East Georgia Street. Like every other shop in Chinatown, the banner out front was red on gold: Happy Health and Good Fortune Herbs and Pharmaceuticals.
Sheung Fa had taken him here, many years ago, when he was young. His words had been clear: ‘For you, always will these doors be open.’
And that was what Red Mask was now counting on. For in his deteriorated state, there was nowhere else to go. Certainly not home. He would never go home again. There was nothing more disgraceful a man could do than to knowingly bring evil into his father’s house. And with the amount of people he had now killed, there was evil all around him. He could feel it. Like diesel fumes on his skin.
The thought landed in Red Mask’s stomach like a hard stone, and his eyes welled with tears. He touched beneath his eyes. Amazement flooded him when he felt wetness. Weeping. He was actually weeping. Something that had not happened since childhood.
‘What happens to me?’
The words hung there, exposed as much as the hole in his shoulder.
He killed the thought and moved on. The pain was excruciating now. If not addressed, the injury would overtake him, and he would not last long enough to find the girl.
With the stairway tilting, he descended the concrete steps and stumbled into the darkness of the alcove below. The door was locked. He knocked three times and heard shuffling feet. When the door opened, his legs finally gave way and he collapsed.
‘Sheung Fa sent me,’ he said.
He repeated the words over and over again as he lay on the cold wet concrete.
It was all that he could do.
Fifty-Three
Striker led Felicia out the way they’d come, cutting through the west side admittance area of St Paul’s Hospital. He had just passed the waiting area, where construction was still underway – God knows there was always a renovation underway at St Paul’s – when he spotted the white unmarked police cruiser pulling into the Police Only parking out front.
The White Whale.
Deputy Chief Laroche.
‘Christ, not now,’ Striker muttered. And for an instant, he was tempted to turn down the nearest corridor and escape via one of the rear or side exits. There’d been enough stress over the last two days without having to deal with the white-shirted dictator again. Avoidance would have been a logical choice, for which no one would fault him, but Jacob Striker never ran from anyone.
Especially not Laroche.
‘Gear up,’ Striker warned.
He gave Felicia a quick look, saw the uncomfortable expression masking her tired face, and barged out the exit door, into the brisk night air. The hospital door had barely shut behind him when Laroche exited the vehicle, followed by his lackey, Inspector Beasley.
‘Well, he’s got Curly with him now. All he needs is to find a Moe.’
‘Jacob, please,’ Felicia started.
He ignored her. Stopped walking. Crossed his arms. Stood rooted to the spot.
The Deputy Chief closed the car door then looked at his reflection in the side mirror. He adjusted his belt, fidgeted with his tie, then patted and combed his thick black hair back over his head while Inspector Beasley waited for him on the sidewalk. When he finally stopped fussing and stood up straight, his eyes landed on the two detectives. And his face darkened.
‘Striker!’
‘Laroche.’
‘Jesus Christ, everywhere you go I have to set up a new crime scene.’
Striker blinked, couldn’t believe his ears. Not, ‘Good job at the Kwan house,’ or, ‘You were right, Leung wasn’t Red Mask,’ or even, ‘I’m glad to see you’re alive.’ No, he got none of those, and there would certainly be no commendation to follow. Just more bullshit. He cleared his throat and said politely, ‘Just bringing you more zebras, sir.’
Laroche said nothing. His white face turned pink. Striker expected a rebuttal of some sort, but none came. Instead the Deputy Chief swivelled his hips, found Inspector Beasley, and the two of them exchanged a nasty smirk. One that made Striker pause.
Just what the hell are they up to now?
The Deputy Chief gave Beasley a nod, and without a word Beasley returned to the White Whale, popped open the trunk, rummaged around for a second, then returned with a gun case. He handed it to the Deputy Chief, who then turned to Striker with a wide smile stretching his lips.
‘The order no longer comes from me,’ Deputy Chief Laroche said. ‘It comes from the top, this one – right from Chief Chambers himself. And he’s made his decision clear. You have to turn in your gun. Now. It’s evidence.’
Striker shrugged. ‘I never said it wasn’t.’
‘You refused to relinquish it.’
‘I did nothing of the sort; I promised to relinquish my gun once it was safe to do so, when the incident was over, and technically the incident was not over. Like I said before, it was a safety issue, pure and simple.’
Laroche’s smile didn’t falter.
‘Well, there’s no safety issue any more, Detective Striker. The Department will issue you a new gun, now that your old one is being seized.’
Striker dropped his hand down to the butt of his gun and ran his fingers along the grip. It was rubberised – one of the many adjustments he’d made to the Sig – and it had the flashlight attachment on the muzzle, one that needed to be made by special order.
‘I’ve qualified on this one,’ he noted.
‘Chief Chambers understands your concern, so he’s given you an option. If you’re that concerned about being issued the new gun, then you have the right to take yourself off the road and remove yourself from the case, effective immediately, until you’ve requalified. So what’s it going to be, Striker? Relinquishment, or Leave?’
Striker let out a heavy breath. As much as he hated to admit it, the Deputy Chief was right on this one. The exigent circumstances of the incident had long since passed, and for him to argue that the incident was ongoing because the gunman was still out there somewhere was nothing more than a technicality – especially when he was being given a new Sig as a replacement. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was piss off the Chief. Chambers was a good man; Striker respected him.
‘Well?’ Laroche asked again.
Striker said nothing. He ejected the loaded magazine, withdrew his pistol, racked the slide and popped out the final round. He safed the pistol, locked the slide back, then placed it down on the hood of the Deputy Chief’s car.
Laroche seized the gun.
Striker said nothing. He took the new gun case, turned, and walked away. He reached the undercover cruiser, unlocked the driver’s side door and was about to climb inside when Laroche called out to him a final time.
‘And Detective?’
Striker turned, waited.
‘Just so we’re clear, you’re still in breach, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll be submitting my report to Internal before the day’s end.’
‘Good idea, sir,’ Striker said. ‘Do me a favour though. On your way there, keep an eye out for a guy wearing a red hockey mask – you may not have heard this yet, but he shot up a high school yesterday morning.’
Laroche’s face twisted into an angry expression, and he looked ready to say more, but Striker never gave him the chance. He hopped inside the cruiser, slammed the door, and started the engine. Once Felicia closed her own door, he tore off down Burrard Street.
The coroner was waiting.
Fifty-Four
The morgue, located at Vancouver General, is accessible only through the emergency parking on the north side. In the eight o’clock darkness, the doorway looked sinister and dangerous.
Striker parked the cruiser in Police Parking and took the cargo elevator down to the lower levels. As the booth descended, it jarred several times, causing Felicia’s claustrophobia to kick in. She let out a strangled sound.
Striker gave her a smile. ‘Hope it doesn’t get stuck.’
‘You’re such a shit.’
‘I got stuck in an elevator one time. Took over two hours before—’
‘Jacob.’
He let it go. The elevator continued down, stopped hard, and the doors clanked opened. Felicia sighed with relief and bolted out like she’d been shot from a cannon. Striker followed, and they walked into the morgue antechamber.
The first thing Striker noticed was the caustic stink of body cleansers. The scent was unmistakable – almost flowery, in a sick sort of way. Then he saw the three rows of refrigerated storage chambers. Each one was devoid of nameplates – except for the final three, which read Sherman Chan, John Doe 1 and John Doe 2.
John Doe 1, the headless gunman, had originally been labelled Que Wong, but that name had been crossed out with thick black felt after the discovery of the real Que Wong down by the docks.
Striker had no idea who John Doe 2 was.
He stared at the chambers, losing himself, and his thoughts fell back to the past. The last time he’d been here, standing within these dreary grey walls, under the fake illumination of the humming fluorescent lights, was two years ago – just a few days after Amanda had finally succumbed to her injuries. He’d come here to identify the body – a legal necessity – and hopefully find some peace with all that had gone on.
He had found none, and to this day nothing had changed.
Felicia caught his expression, or maybe it was his posture, or maybe she just knew – she was a woman after all; they were good at that – and she gently touched his arm.
‘You okay?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Hasn’t been that long since you’ve been here. And after all you went through, well . . .’ Her lower lip hung open as if she’d lost the words, and she gave him a distant look before speaking again. ‘You really need to tell Courtney about Amanda, Jacob.’
‘Jesus Christ, you’re bringing that up now? Here?’
‘She needs to know.’
‘Look, Felicia,’ he started, but a voice interrupted him.
‘Detectives?’
Striker turned and found the coroner standing in the doorway that led to the autopsy room. She was a tall woman, almost six foot, and thin – supermodel, finger-down-your-throat thin. Her long auburn hair was rolled up into a bun and tucked under a blue hairnet. The glasses she wore were large and only magnified her deep blue eyes. Morgue apparel aside, she was a Death Goddess. A knockout, but in a superficial way. Everything about her looked fake, cosmetic, manufactured. All plastic and paint.
Striker recalled her from his previous time of being here.
She walked to within a few feet of them and displayed her perfectly capped teeth. ‘Kirstin Dunsmuir. Medical Examiner.’
Felicia introduced herself. When Dunsmuir looked at Striker, her eyes narrowed and she asked, ‘Have we met before?’
‘You worked on my wife; she died two years ago.’
‘Oh.’ She uttered the word without emotion, then got down to business. ‘I don’t have time to talk. I’m needed at Burnaby General.’
‘Burnaby General?’ Striker said. ‘You don’t got enough on your plate now?’
‘It’s personal.’
He gave her a hard look. ‘Important enough to override school shootings? Your evidence will help me catch this prick.’
She said nothing back, and only offered him an icy stare. Striker could tell he would get nowhere with her. He wasn’t into wasting his time.
‘You at least get the report done?’ he asked.
Dunsmuir took off her gloves, the latex snapping against her skin. ‘It’s not my final issue, but it’s as near complete as it can get without the toxicology results.’
‘I need to see it,’ he said.
‘It’s in there,’ she told him. ‘Black binder on the counter, right next to Sherman Chan’s body. Feel free to look through it, but leave it where you find it. Call me if there are any questions. I should be done in a couple of hours.’
As Dunsmuir turned to leave, Striker called out to her, ‘You get a time of death on Raymond Leung yet?’
She never stopped walking. ‘Wednesday,’ she said. ‘Sometime between three and eight in the morning.’
That was the morning of the shootings. The time of death was the last detail Striker had needed for him to confirm that Raymond Leung was not in fact Red Mask. He looked over at Felicia and saw that she had made the connection.
‘Wrong blood type and outside the time of death,’ Striker said, and couldn’t help but feel angry that no one had initially listened to him. He stared down the hall at Kirstin Dunsmuir who was still walking away from them, her high-heeled shoes clicking oddly on the painted grey cement. It was all he could do to look at her without being irritated. Maybe it was the ici-ness of her emotions. Maybe it was just him, frustrated and tired. He wasn’t sure. She got in the elevator, the door clanged shut, and the booth made loud grinding noises as it went up.
‘Probably scheduling her boob job,’ Felicia said.
Striker smiled, then turned and walked into the autopsy room.
The area where the bodies were located was labelled Examination Room B. Striker and Felicia stopped inside the doorway, smocked up, and put on latex gloves. Once done, they moved over to the nearest examination table. This one was labelled John Doe 1.
Better known as White Mask.
Striker studied him. To his frustration, when he scanned through the report binder, he found nothing new – save for one exception: the strange scars alongside the man’s ribs were listed as possible shrapnel wounds. Interesting. Mode of death had been a gunshot wound. Not surprising, considering the man’s head had been blown right off.
Identity remained unknown.
Striker bypassed the body and approached the second examination table. He studied the thin boy on it. There was a bullet-hole in his right cheek, the skin around the area blackened and pulled inwards. The skin of his face was looser than when Striker had last seen him, and a large Y-incision had been carved in his chest, then sewn back together.
It was Sherman Chan. Black Mask. The one Laroche had deemed ‘possibly innocent’.
This was the kid Striker had killed.
He looked down at the boy. Here, dead on the table, he looked so young. Too young to be the monster he had turned out to be. He smelled bad. Of old blood and strange-scented body cleaners.
Felicia took the black binder from the counter top and flipped it open. Striker gave her time to read the report. He looked over the body and waited for her word. After a good ten minutes, she finally spoke.
‘How many shots you think you fired?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I can’t even recall changing mags.’
‘Me neither, it’s all a friggin’ blur,’ she agreed. ‘Not that it matters. He took it twice. The Forensic Firearms Unit hasn’t confirmed the round yet but, according to Doctor Beautiful’s notes, they’re going to have to test your gun first to see if the bullets match. Right now they’re proceeding under the assumption that everything matches.’
‘Of course.’ Striker picked up a pointer from a nearby tray and placed it perpendicular to the bullet-hole in the boy’s cheek. The path through was about a 120-degree angle.
‘Read me the path-following entry,’ he said.
She found the relevant section. ‘Entered through the zygo-matic arch, passed through the nasal cavity, deflected medially and inferiorly, and eventually, the remainder of the round got wedged in the rear of the skull at the posterior fissure of the parietal bone.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘I think that means head.’
Striker held his hand flat to the boy’s chest, right at nipple level, angled approximately ninety degrees.
‘And the second bullet?’ he asked.
‘Entrance wound was between ribs four and five, left side, right at the costo-vertebral joint – that would be the back of the rib, near the spine.’
‘I know where it is.’
Felicia nodded like she didn’t care, ran her finger down the page as she read: ‘Says here that Black Mask must’ve been spinning after you got him with the first round, because the second one hit almost dead centre. It passed right through the left lung and aorta, then exited through the costal cartilage. Says here, “The resultant shock from such an injury would most likely have been fatal”.’
Striker let the pointer drop to his side, then looked at the body for a long moment before finding Felicia’s eyes again.
‘The paragraph about the first bullet,’ he said. ‘It say anything about tissue damage inside the body?’
She scanned the notes. ‘Yeah, she’s listed a few things damaged by the bullet fragments. Occipitalis and trapezius muscles – and there’s a few notes here on brain matter. Why?’
‘What about the second bullet?’
She looked through the pages, shook her head. ‘None yet.’
He said nothing for a long moment, then called her over. She put the black binder back on the counter and joined him beside the dead body of Sherman Chan. When she was set, Striker pointed to the bullet-wound beside the boy’s sternum.
‘Look at that. Not the first entry hole – I have no problem with that – but the second one.’
She did. ‘Okay.’
‘Now look at this.’ He placed one hand under the boy’s left shoulder and one under the boy’s hip, rolled him onto his right side, then used a hand to stabilise him. ‘Look at the exit wound of the second bullet.’
‘Okay,’ she said again.
‘Describe the exit wound for me,’ he said.
She gave him an odd look, but said, ‘It’s probably a half-inch in diameter, I guess, and almost perfectly circular, except for the distended skin. And it’s relatively clean with distinct edges.’
‘That sound like a hollow-tip round to you?’
She paused. ‘Well, no, actually it doesn’t – but I doubt the pathologist—’
‘With all the killings over the past two days, she’s had even less sleep than us. She’s done her examination assuming the rounds were hollow-tips. But they weren’t.’
Felicia looked over the wound, noting, ‘That would explain why there was less internal tissue damage from the bullet fragments.’
‘Because there were no fragments – it wasn’t a frangible round.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense.’
‘It makes perfect sense. Sherman Chan was shot in the back – and by a Full Metal Jacket round. They shot their own, Felicia.’
