by Sean Slater
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, why didn’t you just tell us all this back at the morgue? You saw Keisha. Saw what had happened to her.’
Harry looked down the parkade corridor at nothing that was there and didn’t speak for a long moment. ‘I didn’t make the connection,’ he finally said. ‘I didn’t even know it was the toy shop that had blown up. I thought . . . I thought . . .’ His eyes found Striker’s eyes – ‘Oh Jesus, was it really her, Shipwreck?’
‘It looks like it, Harry.’
The lines in the older cop’s face deepened. ‘Her kids—’
‘Are being taken care of by their uncle,’ Felicia said.
Striker flipped through the pages of his notebook. ‘What about Sharise Owens? You know her?’
Harry thought it over. ‘The cousin, right? Yeah, I remember her. She was the one who called us back then. A doctor or something.’
‘That’s her.’
‘So what about her?’
‘There’s only two names in the no-contact conditions ordered against Solomon Bay – Keisha Williams and Sharise Owens. One of them is now dead from the explosion at the toy shop, and the other is missing . . . We have reason to believe Dr Sharise Owens might have been our victim who was tortured in a warehouse this morning, down by the river.’
Harry’s expression was one of disbelief. ‘And you think Solomon was responsible for all this?’
‘He’s the strongest lead we have.’
Felicia added, ‘He knew both women. There’s a restraining order against him. And he’s shown a history of violence. He’s a perfect suspect.’
‘Any ideas where we can find him?’ Striker asked.
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘I never heard of the guy again. Not once. And we’re talking years here.’
Felicia spoke next. ‘Harry, you’re the only one here who’s ever dealt with Solomon. He was a prick, for sure – we all know that – but was he capable of this level of violence?’
Harry said nothing. He just looked away from them and stared down the drive where a white van had entered the underground parkade. A bunch of the ERT guys – the Emergency Response Team – jumped out and started unloading their gear, most of which was long guns and heavy ceramic vests.
‘Harry?’ Felicia asked again.
The older detective met her stare and his eyes were hard.
‘Anyone is capable of anything,’ he finally said. ‘If they’re pushed hard enough.’
Striker found the comment odd, and he was about to ask Harry to clarify the remark when his cell phone rang. He put the phone to his ear, said, ‘Striker,’ and began crossing the underground in an effort to locate a better signal. When he finally found one, he recognized the caller.
Their weapons expert, Jay Kolt.
‘Where the hell you been?’ Striker asked. ‘Jesus, court ends at four and it’s going on seven-thirty.’
The man sounded drained: ‘Special meeting in Judge Reinhold’s chambers. You don’t wanna know.’
Striker understood that. Special meetings were always dreaded, and Judge Reinhold was a prima donna prick who was hated by every man and woman who had ever worn a blue uniform. He had made life hell for many a member.
‘I know the day you’ve had, Jay, believe me, I do, but lives are at stake here. I need to see you. And I need to see you now.’
Kolt sounded less than pleased. ‘I’m flying out of here in two hours.’
‘Fine. Where are you now?’
‘Triple 2 Main.’
Striker nodded; Triple 2 Main was the address for the District 2 Courthouse. ‘We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Do not leave.’ He hung up the phone and signalled to Felicia that it was time to go.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said to Harry.
They climbed inside the undercover cruiser and wheeled about. As they rounded the first turn of the parkade, Striker glanced in the rear view mirror and stared at Harry. The man was still standing there, completely still, watching them go. He hadn’t so much as budged from the spot.
Felicia caught his stare.
‘I get a weird feeling from that guy,’ she said.
Striker nodded in agreement. ‘He’s holding something back.’
Thirty-Five
Still wearing the grey workman’s suit and a pair of white latex-free surgical gloves, the bomber stood in the kitchen area of Chad Koda’s house and finished taping the entire bay window with thick transparent duct tape. It was a necessary step if he was going to remove the pane and take his place in the preplanned observation point. Now all he had to do was break the outer edges and knock the entire square out onto the rear deck. But before he could begin the process, Molly’s tight voice flooded the radio waves once more:
‘Target approaching from the south. One block out.’
He closed his eyes. One block? He pressed the plunger. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’
‘Follow radio command.’
He sighed. ‘Copy. One block out.’
‘Exit,’ came the reply.
The bomber said nothing. He just stood there going over things in his head. This was too soon. He wasn’t ready yet. And still Molly persisted:
‘You need to exit. Now.’
He said nothing.
‘Now!’
He turned down the volume. Grabbed the crowbar. Began smashing out the glass edges of the pane. When he was near completion and the entire window started to tilt and buckle outwards, he gave it one solid push and the whole structure fell on the deck with a loud, hard, flat sound.
Breathing heavier now – as much from anticipation as exertion – he took the crowbar and raked it all around the windowsill, ridding the frame of any remaining glass shards. It was critical. Even one of those shards could kill him if directed the right way from the bomb’s percussive force; each one was like a glass arrowhead.
Experience had taught him well.
Sweating, shivering, he stopped. And then he smiled.
Done.
It was done.
He turned around and took one final look at the setup before him. The doctor was strapped to the chair, in just the right viewing angle from the front entranceway; the ducks were perfectly positioned on the kitchen island beside her; and, if he moved out to the back patio, he’d be able to discreetly watch the moment unfold from his observation point, then escape in the utility van.
Everything was set.
Almost.
As a final step, he removed a second remote – the one intended for the police to find – from his workman’s suit and placed it in the doctor’s lap.
Molly’s voice came across the radio once more – a barely audible yell:
‘You must exit the building! Now, now, NOW!’
From the front alcove, he heard the excited sound of Koda’s dog barking. It was a young, spritely golden retriever. Oddly, this was the one part of the task that bothered him. He didn’t want the animal to get hurt. He never liked it when animals got hurt.
Koda’s voice penetrated the front door. ‘Down, Jake, down!’
The dog scratched at the wood and barked again; keys jingled.
Out of time.
He grabbed his toolbox, the crowbar, and the remote activator, and quickly made his way across the hard stone tiles of the kitchen floor. He opened the back door and stepped outside. As he closed the kitchen door, he heard the rattle of the front door as it opened and banged into the wall behind it. Then, the scuffling sound of claws on wood.
The dog was coming.
He hurried across the yard until he reached the laneway where the utility van was parked. He obtained his position directly beside the telephone pole, then waited and watched for the moment to come.
It happened quickly.
In one magical moment, the look on Chad Koda’s face turned from relaxed weariness to shocked disbelief. He came to a full stop halfway between the foyer and kitchen, stared at the woman tied to the chair, and then dropped all his mail.
; To the bomber, the moment was all-encompassing. No happiness filled him, just a deep sense of satisfaction out of the knowledge that they would be one step closer to the completion of this horrible job.
He gently thumbed the activator and remotely armed the bomb. When Koda hurried forward and removed the duct tape from the doctor’s mouth, she began screaming something – fast, garbled words. And Koda’s head snapped from the woman in the chair to the two wooden ducks sitting on the kitchen island.
He knew.
He damn well fuckin’ knew.
The bomber wasted no time. He burst forth from his place of cover and raced down onto the back deck, until he was less than thirty feet from the open area where the window had been removed. Until he was staring inside the room at Koda and the woman and the ducks.
Once there, he breathed in deeply.
Closed his eyes.
And hit the switch.
The fusing system arced. And in one giant blast of light and smoke and swirling debris, Chad Koda, the doctor and the ducks were consumed by the explosion, and the bomber felt himself flailing backwards . . . backwards . . . backwards in the percussive blast of the bomb.
It was bliss.
Thirty-Six
Striker and Felicia reached the District 2 Courthouse, located at Triple 2 Main Street. All proceedings had long since ended and the building was now empty, save for the odd sheriff left wandering the halls and the night-time security guards, most of whom were killing time by reading books and chugging coffee.
Striker and Felicia entered the foyer. Lying down on one of the benches was Jay Kolt. On the ground next to him was a brown leather briefcase and, on top of it, a folded trench coat. Kolt saw them coming, let out a groan, and sat up, adjusting his glasses as they approached.
‘My friggin’ back,’ he said.
‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Felicia offered.
Kolt nodded but did not smile. He got right down to business. ‘This suspect of yours, he’s using an electrical torture weapon?’
‘It would appear so,’ Striker said.
‘Opened or closed?’
Striker had no idea what the man was talking about, so Kolt explained.
‘An open device is essentially a rod with two wires coming off it. One wire is always taped in the victim’s mouth. If the victim is a man, the other wire is placed around the testicles; if it’s a woman, then the wire is often connected to a pad of steel wool, which is then inserted into the vagina.’
Felicia’s face tightened. ‘Sick.’
Kolt smiled. ‘It’s not exactly an aphrodisiac. This completes the circuit for an open device. On the other hand, a closed device is essentially wireless, like a cattle prod or a violet wand.’
Felicia shook her head. ‘Violet wand?’
Kolt grinned, almost mischievously. ‘Small handheld device. Used by S&M lovers to give each other shocks – that is an aphrodisiac. A sexual stimulus.’
Striker looked at Felicia. ‘That doesn’t sound like any of your toys.’
She gave him one of her cross looks – definitely a warning – and he let the joke go.
Kolt continued: ‘A picana looks like a long metal stick with two electrodes at one end. The electrodes are of different polarity, of course, and the circuit completes when they’re driven into the victim’s flesh. Essentially, it’s like a longer version of a stun gun, but one that delivers much more voltage – up to thirty thousand volts – all while keeping the amperage down.’ He looked directly at Striker. ‘Is this more along the lines of what you saw?’
‘I’m not sure. I only saw pieces of the device, not the entire thing.’
Kolt blinked behind his thin glasses. ‘Then how—’
‘The totality of the evidence suggested it,’ he explained. ‘The chair was metal and had straps. The floor beneath it had water stains. And sitting beside the chair was a bucket of water, a crescent-shaped piece of rubber with wires coming off it, a yellow sponge, and an industrial-size battery.’
Kolt nodded. ‘Electrical torture.’
Felicia spoke up: ‘But why all the gear? That’s what I don’t get. Why not just use a TASER instead – they deliver up to two hundred thousand volts.’
‘It’s because of the current,’ Kolt explained. ‘By keeping the amperage down, the torture can go on for hours. Days, even. And with little fear of the victim dying.’ He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. ‘Odd though, normally the use of a picana involves two people – one to apply the baton and the other to regulate the voltage.’
‘I only saw one suspect down there,’ Striker replied. ‘The other person had to be the victim.’
Kolt took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a silk rag from his coat pocket. ‘One person can operate a picana. It’s not unheard of. Just unusual. The operator would have to be very . . . skilful.’ He put his glasses back on, and continued. ‘The thing with a picana is that it’s also a very powerful psychological tool. A lot of insurgents use them – like the Taliban. But most of the domestic cases I’ve seen have been linked to either the cartel or the mafia. Or the high-end gangs from the south or the east – the Tongs, the Triads, the Banditos.’
‘What about around here?’ Felicia asked. ‘There must be some persons of interest.’
Kolt was quiet for a bit. ‘A lot of the gangs do use electrical torture,’ he said. ‘But an actual picana? That is rare. The only one I can think of is the Satan’s Prowlers – they were known for using one against the Renegades a while back, but we’re talking ten or more years ago, and I believe that was back East in Toronto.’
Felicia nodded. ‘Well, one of them might have turned active again.’
Kolt let out a long breath. ‘I sincerely hope not. The kind of person that uses a picana is generally either a fanatic or a professional – someone with a specific cause. Definitely not your ordinary everyday criminal.’
Striker wrote all this down in his notebook.
‘Anyone come to mind?’ he asked.
‘Fanatics?’ Kolt asked. ‘No. But professionals that are capable of this? Many. There was a guy named Burns who worked for the Satan’s Prowlers back East. Everyone called him Sleeves. He did some time for torturing one of the Renegades. Check him out.’ Kolt stopped talking for a moment and eyed Striker up. ’Whoever you’re dealing with, this guy has some rather unusual experience. Be ready for it.’
Striker didn’t like the sound of that. He wrote ‘Burns (Sleeves)’ down in his notebook, then his cell went off. He drew it from his belt, put it to his ear.
‘Striker,’ he said.
The man on the line was Inspector Osaka. His tone was low, his words clipped and direct: ‘We got another explosion.’
‘Where?’
‘Pacific Avenue,’ he said. ‘Chad Koda’s house.’
Thirty-Seven
By the time Striker and Felicia reached Pacific Avenue, it was well after eight. The entire strip was blocked off with patrol cars and police tape, and the red and blue gleam of emergency lights filled the darkening skyline.
Halfway down the block, on the east side of the street, was Chad Koda’s residence. As Striker approached it on foot, he was surprised to see that the exterior of the house looked no different from before. The structure appeared to be sound, and no smoke filled the air, indicating there had been no resultant fire. Aside from the shattered windows, everything looked relatively unchanged.
Then he went inside.
The moment Striker walked through the front door, the waxy, smoky smell hit him. In the living room, the sofa’s upholstery was destroyed, and in the kitchen, the dining table had been overturned. All the windows on the south and east sides of the house had been blown out, with giant parts of the old plaster imploded, like moon craters in the wall. The remains of a cooking island sat centre stage, looking now like the blown-apart entrance to a World War Two bunker.
Without a doubt, it was the epicentre of the explosion.
Throug
h the strange white smoke that was slowly thinning, Striker looked down the hall and spotted Inspector Osaka. The man walked gingerly towards them, his narrow eyes filled with concern. ‘What a goddam nightmare,’ he said.
Striker looked past the inspector. Somewhere back there, down near the end of the hall, a dog was barking wildly and scratching at the door. ‘That a dog? It’s lucky to be alive.’
Osaka let out a long breath. ‘Yeah, great. Our only guaranteed survivor is a golden retriever. The Chief will be happy to hear it . . . I locked the dog in the bathroom to keep him out of the way.’ He looked around the room, assessing. ‘Definitely no gas leak this time. And the second explosion in one day.’
Striker nodded gravely. ‘We got a bomber on our hands.’
Osaka pointed to the den area. ‘Parts of a fusing system have already been located by the search team – the components were stuck in the rock and stone of the fireplace.’
‘I want to see those components,’ Striker said.
Osaka muttered, ‘Yes, yes,’ as if it was a good idea, but the bewildered expression remained on his face. ‘Corporal Summer has them now. She’s out back, escorting one of the victims into the ambulance.’
Felicia looked from Striker to Osaka. ‘One of the victims?’
‘We have two. One male – Chad Koda – may yet survive the blast, though he’s in a real bad way. The female – name unknown at this point – did not.’ His expression darkened. ‘She really had no hope of it.’
Striker looked through the windowless frame and spotted the ambulance driving down the alley. A second later, red emergency lights filled the air and a siren wailed. ‘You got a guard on Koda?’
Inspector Osaka nodded. ‘Two. From Patrol.’
‘How bad is he?’
Osaka shrugged. ‘He’s alive. And damn lucky to be. From what I know, he’s concussed and bloodied and shaken to shit – the blast knocked him right out. But he seems to have pulled through without his vital areas being hit by shrapnel. It’s a miracle, really.’
Felicia looked at all the damage. ‘How is that even possible?’