The Guilty

by Sean Slater

  Striker stood to leave. ‘It was good to see you, Sal.’

  ‘Say . . . say hi . . . to Terry.’

  Striker nodded and forced a smile.

  ‘Get some rest, Sal,’ he said.

  One Hundred and Five

  They took Highway 99 back to the city. The road curved gradually through the flatlands, then dipped down into the City of Richmond. Coming this way, the scenery was less appealing visually, but it shaved twenty minutes off their commute. Once back in Vancouver, Felicia spotted a Starbucks on Oak.

  ‘I need a caffeine jolt,’ she said.

  Striker didn’t disagree. The thought of a hot cup of Joe was stimulating, and he pulled over. The Starbucks didn’t have a drive-thru, so he parked on the main drag out front. When he opened his door, Felicia’s cell went off. She looked at the screen and said, ‘I need to take this – my contact with the Explosives Branch.’

  Striker nodded and retreated from the car.

  Felicia had contacts everywhere. It was one of the best things she brought to the partnership – her ability to liaise and schmooze with the best of them. Her contact at the Safety and Explosives Branch of the British Columbia Government was a perfect example of this. And they needed that information badly.

  Striker went inside the Starbucks.

  When he returned five minutes later, Felicia was still on the phone. He put her drink – a vanilla-caramel latte, size Venti – in the cup holder, then passed her one of the egg-white wraps he had bought. She took it, sniffed it, and made a face. ‘Doesn’t smell like a lemon scone.’

  ‘Want me to throw some icing sugar on it? Eat. You need the protein.’

  She just gave him a sideways glance and took a bite.

  Five minutes later, when Striker was half done eating his own egg-white wrap, Felicia hung up her cell and turned to face him. ‘Okay, some interesting stuff here. As it turns out, there was a major recall on PETN the other day – the same explosive your love crush thinks the bombers used to blow up the toy shop and Chad Koda’s place.’

  Striker let the ‘love crush’ comment go. ‘Did your contact say why?’

  Felicia nodded. ‘I don’t understand all the jargon, but in basic terms, the product was unstable.’

  ‘We need to get a list of all the places where that batch was sent.’

  ‘Already requested, they’re working on it now.’ Felicia took a bite of her wrap. ‘And just so we’re clear, next time I prefer lemon scones.’

  Striker said nothing. He was too busy thinking about the bombers’ MO. Now it made sense why they’d switched to home-made explosives. It had been an unforeseen roadblock in their plan – and one they had adapted to with seeming ease.

  ‘So PETN on the toy shop and Koda’s house, then HME on the two vehicles.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Recollections of the bomb that had killed Osaka made the egg in Striker’s stomach feel off. Already, he missed his old friend. And try as he did to treat the bombing like it was just another case, it was not possible. Not only because Osaka had been his friend, and not only because Osaka had been a cop, but because the man didn’t deserve an end like this. One thing Osaka had always been was a good man.

  He deserved better.

  Striker threw the wrapper in the garbage. ‘I still find it strange that Osaka went all the way out there to visit Sal.’

  ‘He was a good friend. And the man’s not well.’

  ‘I understand that. But why now? In the middle of the investigation? Was there not a better time to do it? I mean, think of the hours he’d been putting in with all these bombs going off. Plus the kidnapping in District 4. He must have been running on fumes. Then, two days in a row, he gets up early and drives almost an hour into the valley, just to say hi to an old friend? The timing seems off.’

  ‘You heard the nurse. Sal’s not doing well. Maybe he wasn’t saying hi, maybe he was saying goodbye.’

  ‘I get that,’ Striker said. ‘But I talked to the nurse. Sal hasn’t been doing well for months. I don’t know . . . to me, the timing doesn’t make sense. Not when we have a mad bomber running around the city. Visiting Sal could have waited a few days.’

  He put the car into gear and pulled into the fast lane.

  ‘Where to?’ Felicia asked.

  Striker sighed. ‘White Rock was a bust. But there’s something going on with Osaka, otherwise he wouldn’t have been involved. We need to obtain all his old files – especially ones from about ten years ago.’

  ‘Why? Where was he working ten years ago?’

  Striker gave her a dark look. ‘The Police Standards Section. Internal.’

  One Hundred and Six

  The bomber lay back on the heavy steel table. He was thirsty.

  And cold.

  So cold.

  When Molly wiped him down with more lidocaine, it chilled his overheated skin and stung him at the same time. He flinched when she began removing the packing gauze from the entry wound in his shoulder; it slithered out of him like a bloodied snake and turned the steel bowl pink.

  ‘If you’re going to vomit, let me know.’

  ‘. . . so cold.’

  Molly washed the wound with saline, then injected him with another dose of meds – some antihistamines, some plasma and antibiotics – before patching him back up again.

  ‘You need rest,’ she said.

  ‘. . . out of time.’

  ‘Lay still. You’re tearing your wounds open. Lay still.’

  ‘The operation . . . we’re almost done.’

  Molly held up the bowl of gauze and pointed to the white pus within the blood. ‘It’s purulent. Infection’s setting in fast. Your body needs time. It needs to rest.’

  He refused to look at her.

  ‘You’re making this personal,’ she said.

  He heard that, and he laughed. ‘Personal? It always was personal, Molly. We were kidding ourselves to think it wasn’t.’

  ‘Maybe so . . . but you’re enjoying it.’

  ‘Feelings and emotion have nothing to do with it. The world is black and white, not grey. You’re either guilty or innocent, right or wrong, alive or dead . . . You used to see that once, a long time ago.’

  The bomber closed his eyes. Despite what he had said, Molly was right, he knew. At least on some level. He was enjoying this. More than anything, he wanted to stay active. In the moment. Engaged. Whenever inactivity returned, bringing with it the passivity and the silence, so too did the awful, awful memories.

  It was a strange notion – that peace would be hell, and hell would bring peace. But that was the way it was now. The way it had always been.

  Ever since that first explosion in Afghanistan.

  The one that took his leg off.

  He fought to get up from the heavy metal table and stared at the grey cement walls of the command room. Overhead, the red and blue pipes began making noise again, their rumbling call something between the hiss of snakes and the thunder of a storm.

  On the only other table the room offered was the last wooden duck, dressed in a policeman’s uniform.

  Number 1.

  The most crucial of all.

  He reached over and picked it up. Stared at the little white duck. And he smiled weakly.

  It was time.

  ‘Where’s my uniform?’ he said.

  One Hundred and Seven

  When Striker and Felicia made it to Cambie Street Headquarters, it was going on for eleven. They took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked down the hall to the Deputy Chief’s office.

  As Striker turned the corner, he spotted Laroche. The man was on the phone, barking more than talking, and absently brushing his fingers through his thick black hair, trying to keep every strand in place. In front of him, spread out across the mahogany desk, were several inter-office memos.

  Striker read a few of the headings: Global TV. News 1130. The National.

  All media outlets.

  Before being demoted from the Deputy Chie
f position, Laroche had been known as Deputy Drama Queen by many of the men. Now some of the street cops called him the Superintendent Starlet. It was probably unfair – one of the man’s responsibilities was, in fact, assisting Media Liaison in dealing with the press. But the fact that Laroche so revelled in the spotlight rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.

  Striker included.

  ‘Sir,’ Striker finally said to get the man’s attention.

  Laroche looked up. A less-than-pleasant expression spread across his face. There was a certain thinness in his features, the kind brought on by extreme stress, and Striker could see that Osaka’s death was affecting the man.

  Laroche didn’t say hello, didn’t so much as nod. He just finished his phone conversation, then hung up – slammed the receiver so hard, the strands of his perfect hair fell out of place.

  ‘Press is all over this goddam thing,’ he said.

  Striker was not surprised. ‘Of course they are. We got bombs going off all around the city. Cops have been targeted. Civilians too. And we still don’t know who the bombers are.’

  Laroche’s face tightened. ‘As always, Striker, thank you so much for the wonderful goddam news. Jesus Christ, are you any closer to solving this thing?’

  Striker moved out of the doorway into the office. He grabbed a chair for him and Felicia, then sat down and told the Acting Deputy Chief more of what they knew. ‘This might all come back to a police-involved shooting – one that took place ten years ago, involving a Satan’s Prowler member and an integrated ERT squad.’

  Laroche’s dark eyes took on a distant look. ‘Ten years . . . you’re talking about Carlos Chipotle.’

  Striker was surprised Laroche even knew of the man. ‘We are.’

  ‘Chipotle was a psychopath and a cokehead.’ Laroche slumped back in his chair with a bewildered look on his face. ‘What makes you believe this might be related?’

  ‘It’s one of the few links that exist between all the parties involved. We’re still in the middle of the investigation. We’ll let you know what we uncover.’

  Laroche’s face remained slack for a long moment, then his eyes turned suspicious as he realized they were here for a particular reason. ‘What do you need of me?’

  Felicia spoke first. ‘Clearance.’

  Striker clarified: ‘We need authorization to read Osaka’s files – the older ones from when he was working in the Police Standards Section. Osaka was working there at the time of the Chipotle shooting. Those files are essential to this case.’

  ‘Which files do you need?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘All?’ Laroche said nothing for a moment, then he nodded his head in submission. ‘PSS files are classified. So I need not remind you that whatever permissions you’re given, the information in those files will be for your eyes alone.’

  Striker nodded. ‘Understood.’

  Felicia said the same.

  Laroche got on the computer and began typing. A minute or two later, he was obviously done, because he sat back and shook his head like he was expecting something bad to happen. He looked up at Striker, and his pale face was tight and grave-looking. ‘Why do I have a feeling you’re about to single-handedly sewer my career for the second time, Striker?’

  Striker just smiled.

  ‘What can I say, sir? Misery loves company.’

  One Hundred and Eight

  The Police Standards Section, once located in the same building as Cambie Street Headquarters, had recently been moved outside the walls of the department in order to offer the appearance of impartiality. In truth, it made no difference. The investigations were still done primarily by Vancouver Police Department sergeants, with the help of their assistants.

  And that was the way it had to be.

  Lately, a select portion of special interest groups had been fighting the system, trying to replace the police sergeants with civilian investigators who would then take charge of the investigations.

  Striker couldn’t see it happening. Not with all the requirements of the courts and the union and the ability to scour through secret police files. A purely civilian investigation team seemed nothing more than a self-serving, special-interest pipe dream . . . but there was little doubt that some changes would be coming.

  It was inevitable.

  They parked out front. To most onlookers, the building looked like any other business. No department insignias decorated the tinted glass doors, no signs or inscriptions guided the way. The building was small, plain, and newly built.

  A modern facility for a modern force.

  Striker and Felicia went inside and found their way to the records room, where they began searching through the files. By the time they were done, almost a half-hour later, they had removed and photocopied twenty-three investigations, several of which were linked to other departmental files.

  Felicia looked at the pile. ‘This is a ton of work to go through. Osaka must have been single-handedly working a dozen files back then.’

  ‘He was a busy man. We’ll start with the most relevant files and go backwards from there.’

  Together, they started sorting through the folders.

  When Felicia picked up one, she looked at it, then shook her head as if confused. ‘This one is linked to the Chipotle shooting – I thought the investigation had already been done by Homicide?’

  ‘This is the internal investigation,’ Striker reminded her. ‘Everything they do here is separate from the other police files. It has to be, or else there would be no impartiality. Look around and you’ll find lots of duplicate investigations. The difference is that these reports focus solely on the officer’s actions, not the suspect’s.’

  Felicia just nodded as if making the connection; they now had access to secondary independent reports.

  Rather than leave the office, they took the paperwork to one of the unused meeting rooms, and locked the door behind them. The desk inside was oval and long, designed to seat twenty people. Striker took his position at one end, and Felicia the other.

  Then they got to work.

  Twenty minutes later, Striker was skimming through some of the attachments – Civilian Statements, primarily – while Felicia was reading the Chronological Timeline that Osaka had entered on his own investigation into the Chipotle shooting.

  ‘One thing about Osaka,’ she said. ‘He was thorough.’

  Striker nodded. ‘Public image. He had to be on a file like this. The shooter was Rothschild – one of our own guys. Nowadays, the Vancouver Police Department wouldn’t even investigate the call. We’d send it to an outside agency, probably Abbotsford or Delta.’

  ‘For impartiality.’

  He nodded. ‘Optics are everything.’

  When Striker finished reading the complete narrative of the shooting, he re-read the bombing report on Chipotle’s wife and kids. After a long while he looked up and frowned. ‘Everything appears to be on the level. At exactly nine o’clock in the morning, Chipotle’s house is blown sky-high.’

  ‘From a bomb Sleeves set.’

  Striker nodded. ‘The wife and two daughters are killed, and no one can find Chipotle anywhere. Then, at two in the afternoon, a civilian calls in. She sees a man with a machine gun down by the river. He’s crying, screaming, aiming the gun at people.’

  ‘And she calls 911.’

  Striker ran his finger down the timelines on the page. ‘First, Dispatch thinks it’s just some crazy guy wandering around. They send Patrol. But then they realize it really is an automatic weapon, so they call in the Emergency Response Team.’

  Felicia knew the file well, and she chimed in:

  ‘But the Vancouver ERT unit is already on another call in District 1. And this call is right on the Vancouver-Burnaby border, so they order in the Integrated Unit.’

  Striker held up his finger. ‘But . . . they’re still short on bodies for a full team. And with the information about an AK-47, there’s no time to waste. So they throw together an impromptu team usi
ng reserves. They lock down the block and the river, but by now Chipotle’s gone inside one of the houses. They try to call him out. But he’s having none of it.’

  Felicia looked at the medical section of the report which held the cocaine levels. ‘Not only is he grieving, but he’s all coked-out. Completely irrational.’

  ‘And he blames the cop several times for selling him out after he “gave them the information they wanted”.’ Striker read back through the narrative. ‘He blames the police for the death of his wife and kids.’

  The words hit him like a hammer. He stopped reading and looked over at Felicia with a sick look on his face. ‘So, essentially, what we have here is an agent, regularly selling information about the Prowlers back to the police, and then accusing his handlers of selling him out.’

  She winced. ‘It sounds bad.’

  ‘Does it get any worse?’ He took a moment to write this information down in his notebook, then continued: ‘So the stand-off with Chipotle goes on for over an hour with no progress made whatsoever. Koda is the sergeant at the time, and he makes the decision to breach.’

  ‘And Chipotle opens fire.’

  ‘Massive gun battle.’ Striker turned to the conclusion. ‘In the end, the fatal bullet comes from Mike Rothschild’s rifle; this was verified by ballistics. Mike is cleared of any wrongdoing and receives the highest award for bravery the department can give – the Award of Valour.’

  ‘As he damn well should,’ Felicia said. ‘They all should. Their lives were on the line out there. And the shooting was basic. I don’t see why it went to a full internal investigation anyway.’

  Striker turned past the conclusion page. At the end of the report was one page of miscellaneous notes:

  Injuries – Police Constable Davies.

  ‘Oh boy,’ Striker said. ‘This is why . . . Chipotle wasn’t the only one who got shot that day – that prick tagged one of our own.’