The Guilty

by Sean Slater

  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.’

  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 Shar
ise 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.