The Guilty

by Sean Slater

  Felicia wasn’t aware of this, and the news made her eyes narrow. ‘Who?’

  ‘Some guy named Archer Davies . . . I’ve never heard of him before. Maybe he was a Fed cop, I’m not sure. Regardless, he was the breacher for Team Red that day. Not a full ERT member, but a reserve.’

  ‘Did he survive?’ Felicia asked the words almost regretfully.

  Striker turned the page and saw nothing else. ‘He must have survived – he’s listed as Injured, not Deceased. Plus there’s no link to a second homicide report. Either way, we got two people shot at this call – Archer Davies and Carlos Chipotle. It’s an avenue that needs pursuing. Write it down.’

  Felicia did. When she was done, she looked up with a sick expression. ‘This is gonna sound bad, because it’s terrible that this Archer guy got shot . . . but I still don’t see how it necessitates a full internal investigation into the shooting of Chipotle. Once again, we know that Rothschild was the one who shot him. And we know that Chipotle was all coked-out and blasting away with an AK-47 – that much is indisputable.’

  Striker nodded. ‘The problem here is one of timing.’

  ‘What timing?’

  He pointed to various segments in the report. ‘Carlos Chipotle was shot at 14:23 hours – that time was taken directly from the CAD call. Chipotle died not two minutes later at 14:25 – also taken directly from the CAD call.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is this: at 14:24 hours, one of the units went over the air telling everyone, and I quote, “He’s giving up. He’s coming out! Hands clear.”’

  Felicia made an oh-shit sound, and Striker continued.

  ‘When the incident was over, no one would admit to going over the air with that remark, but the dispatcher heard it because she typed it into the CAD call.’

  ‘Can’t they just check the radio number?’

  Striker shook his head. ‘No. Don’t forget, this was before the radios went digital. Back then, everything was analogue. A radio was just a radio. There was no way of linking which unit was broadcasting at any one time. So not only were the radios not encrypted, but people could say whatever they damn well wanted to over the air.’

  He skimmed back through the report pages until he found the police statement of Constable Mike Rothschild.

  ‘In his statement, Rothschild says he heard someone say: “He’s coming out! Heads up!” When Chipotle stepped into the doorway, he still had the AK-47 in his hands. Rothschild says he feared for the safety of his squadmates and he took the shot. End of story.’

  By the time Striker had finished speaking, Felicia’s expression had darkened.

  ‘As much as I hate to admit it, Jacob, the optics are bad here. Real bad. In fact, if someone didn’t know any better, you know what it looks like?’

  Striker nodded gravely.

  ‘A police execution.’

  One Hundred and Nine

  The bomber and Molly drove south, dressed in matching paramedic uniforms. Molly was uncertain and edgy; she had been prepared to wait and reassess their plans. But he would hear nothing of it. He was determined to find Target 1.

  Today.

  His body was against him now. He could not deny that. He felt overheated. Exhausted. Weak. So unusually weak. But that was all okay, he told himself, because they were finishing this entire operation. And despite the failings of his body, a part of him felt good inside. Really, really good.

  Then his phone went off.

  The red cell.

  The ringing sound made his heart flutter, made his stomach clench and his throat dry up. It brought him back an immediate sickness that only the red phone could bring. He put the cell to his ear and heard the nurse’s voice. It was full of regret and concern.

  ‘It’s time,’ she said.

  He listened with fear creeping over him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said again, almost a whisper.

  To his left, Molly looked straight ahead as she drove, refusing to so much as glance in his direction.

  When he finally hung up the phone, his face was slack and his skin looked not only pale but bloodless. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a hollow, gaping darkness he could not hide. He began to shake. Shake as if his fever was finally reaching unlivable temperatures.

  Molly took notice. ‘Is everything okay?’

  He said nothing.

  She reached over and touched his arm.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said softly. ‘He’s dying.’

  One Hundred and Ten

  It was twelve noon by the time Striker and Felicia finished reading the PSS files at Internal. The time spent had been worthwhile – it had brought them more leads, and, with it, a dozen more questions. Most troubling to Striker was the notion that the police-involved shooting of Chipotle could wrongly be viewed as a police execution.

  It gave them a possible motive for the bombers.

  Files in hand, they grabbed a coffee from the next-door café and returned to the car.

  Once seated in the passenger seat, Striker spoke his thoughts aloud: ‘The Chipotle shooting connects Chad Koda and Mike Rothschild because they were involved in the call. And it connects Osaka because he was running the internal investigation on the file. But it still leaves out Harry and the two women.’

  Felicia thought it over. ‘That car bomb was remotely armed,’ she said. ‘The bombers could pick and choose when to detonate. With Koda in the car, he was the obvious target. But with Harry also so close, they might have been trying for both of them. God knows they came in shooting at Harry afterwards.’

  Striker thought it over, said nothing, and Felicia continued.

  ‘As for Dr Sharise Owens, she was Koda’s common-law wife at one point.’

  ‘So what?’ Striker replied. ‘I don’t see them blowing up Pearl Osaka or going after the Williams children, do you?’ When Felicia said nothing, Striker continued. ‘Some of this just doesn’t make any sense. Think about it. If someone was going after cops for revenge, why wait ten damn years to do it? There’s only two reasons I can think of – either they were in jail, or they were in an institution somewhere.’

  ‘Well, lots of Prowlers have been in and out of jail over the last decade. They could have been biding their time.’

  ‘I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ Striker explained, ‘the Prowlers usually contract out their killings. Or they use their underlings to do it. That’s how Sleeves got into the gang in the first place. Which blows the whole jail-time theory right out the window. Why wait ten years when they can order one of the prospects to do it whenever they want?’

  Striker took a long sip of his coffee. He tasted bitterness, and wished he’d added some cream and sugar. ‘Let’s look at some other angles. Bring up this breacher who got shot – Archer Davies.’

  Felicia ran the name. ‘There’s nothing in PRIME.’

  ‘Not even the report for when he was shot?’

  She scanned the various reports they already had. ‘Maybe they lumped it in with the Chipotle shooting.’

  Striker shook his head. ‘They shouldn’t have. Every victim requires his own file. Given the cross-border issues, there’ll probably be some overlap.’

  Felicia groaned. As always, jurisdictional issues and separate databases made for the creation of extra work. At times it felt mind-boggling. ‘Why a federal report for the Davies shooting? He was a Vancouver cop.’

  ‘That’s precisely why. The investigation had to be impartial. That required an outside agency.’

  ‘Right, right.’ Felicia scanned through the reports, both paper and electronic. After a moment, she looked up. ‘We got all the reports here except for the shooting of Archer Davies. It registers nothing on the screen.’

  Striker was unsurprised. ‘It’ll be a Fed file and likely paper.’

  ‘Which means more red tape.’

  Striker felt her pain, and he had reached
his fill of the bureaucracy. He relented, took out his cell phone, and began dialling the one number he wanted to avoid.

  ‘You calling the Burnaby detachment?’ Felicia asked.

  Striker shook his head. ‘Deputy Chief.’

  ‘Laroche?’

  Striker just nodded reluctantly and forced out a weak grin.

  ‘Why does it feel like I’m selling my soul?’

  One Hundred and Eleven

  Improper procedure or not, the moment Acting Deputy Chief Laroche got on the phone with one of his RCMP counterparts, the federal red tape was cut. Within minutes, the two reports – Carlos Chipotle: Homicide and Archer Davies: Attempted Murder – were pulled from federal archives. Because they were both in paper form and there was no electronic copy to send, the reports had to be sent by fax to Laroche’s office.

  Striker and Felicia drove there to pick them up.

  Striker was relieved to be getting them so fast, but miffed as well. He looked at Felicia as they walked up to the main foyer elevator. ‘Why is it the moment the brass needs information, the report is expedited? Yet whenever I – the actual investigator – need something, there’s walls of red tape to climb?’

  Felicia smiled. ‘Karma?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right. God knows I’ve pissed off someone up there.’ He pushed the button for the third floor. ‘We’ll hit Personnel first. See if they have a folder on Archer Davies.’

  Felicia agreed.

  Moments later, they stood in the Human Resources archives reading through the file. The bundle was thin, consisting of a record of employment with the City of Vancouver, a list of mandatory courses the man had passed to be exempt from Block 3 of the Academy, a statement from his Field Training Officer, advising that Davies was fully competent, and a Deputy Chief release, ending his probationary period early by six months.

  ‘That’s unusual,’ Felicia remarked.

  Striker agreed. It was unusual, but not unheard of with interdepartmental transfers – especially for employees who brought with them a needed skill set.

  Like being able to use C4 explosives to breach barricaded entranceways.

  They left Human Resources and headed for the Deputy Chief’s office. Laroche’s secretary gave them the reports that the RCMP had faxed over – the shooting of Archer Davies and the police-involved shooting of Carlos Chipotle.

  Striker felt the thickness of the bundle and nodded approvingly. These were the full reports, and he and Felicia wasted no time. They took the paperwork into the hall, found a corner, and began reading.

  The first thing Striker noticed was the call code. The file was marked not as a Homicide, but as an Attempted Murder. It told him one very important fact – that Archer Davies had indeed survived his wounds.

  ‘We need to talk to this man,’ he said.

  Felicia nodded eagerly. ‘One more avenue to follow.’

  Striker continued reading. The report was long and included photographic evidence of the crime scene, a detailed map of the house where the shooting took place, and dozens of printed-out PDF files, which were mostly civilian witness statements. Once done, Striker handed Felicia the last page and waited for her to finish reading.

  ‘Well?’ he finally asked.

  She stared blankly at the papers and did not smile. ‘It’s pretty much what we already know.’

  ‘It damn well mirrors Osaka’s report.’

  ‘Almost. Unlike Osaka’s report, this one is pretty poorly written.’

  Striker shook his head. ‘I disagree with that completely.’

  Felicia gave him an odd look. She fanned out a few of the pages on a nearby filing cabinet and started quoting lines. ‘Chipotle acted erratically . . . He displayed hostile actions . . . Police responded as required . . . Don’t you see? The author doesn’t explain how Chipotle acted erratically, or what his hostile actions were, and he doesn’t even go into detail about how many rounds were fired in the mayhem. Someone should teach this guy a thing or two about detail.’

  Striker grinned. ‘On the contrary, I think he knows his details perfectly. In fact, I think he’s expertly written this report without really saying all that much. Pretty hard to counter it in court, if it ever went that far.’

  Felicia took a hard look at him. ‘You think the author was purposely vague.’

  ‘I’d bet my career on it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look at the badge number. Who authored the report?’

  Felicia looked down at the header, and a shocked sound escaped her lips. The first two letters were VA, meaning the author was not a Mountie but a member of the Vancouver Police Department. ‘Badge Number 1176? Isn’t that—’

  ‘Chad Koda.’

  Felicia stacked all the papers together. ‘The more we research this file, the more circular it gets.’

  ‘And the more frustrating.’ Striker punched the elevator button and waited for the booth to arrive. ‘We need to speak to someone who was on scene at ground zero. This breacher, this Archer Davies guy. Hopefully, he hasn’t moved out of province.’ He looked back at the report. ‘Where does it say he lives now?’

  Felicia shuffled through the pages until she reached an updated Entities section, one that listed names and addresses for court subpoena purposes. She skimmed down the list and, after two pages, let out an excited gasp. ‘You’re not gonna believe this. The last known address for Archer Davies is down on Zero Avenue.’

  ‘In White Rock?’

  Felicia nodded. ‘The Sunset Grove Care Centre.’

  One Hundred and Twelve

  It was one-thirty in the afternoon when Harry pulled back into town in his brother’s personal vehicle, a new-model Dodge pickup truck. Black. He drove down Camosun Street and parked out front of Striker’s house, directly across from the park. By the time he had rammed the gear shift in Park and shouldered open the door, one of the patrolmen guarding the house was already fast approaching him.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ the young cop asked.

  Harry did not recognize the man. He was tall and thin, and had a look of no-nonsense about him. Harry flashed the badge and the man nodded.

  ‘Detective Striker isn’t here,’ the cop said.

  ‘I know that; I’m here to see Rothschild.’

  The patrolman looked at him somewhat uncertainly, and Harry realized it was probably because of his appearance; he was unshaven and dishevelled today, wearing yesterday’s clothes – all gifts from a night spent sleeping in the truck.

  ‘Long shift,’ he finally said.

  The cop just nodded.

  Harry opened the wooden gate and stepped into the yard. He hiked the cement walkway, climbed the porch steps to the front door and knocked three times. Moments later, he heard the sound of footsteps inside and sensed someone looking through the peephole.

  A lock clicked, a chain rattled, the door swung open.

  Mike Rothschild stood in the doorway. It had been a while since Harry had seen the man, maybe eighteen months, and the time had not been kind. The lines on Rothschild’s face were cut deep into his flesh, like little dugout trenches on a battlefield. Like Harry, the man looked worn thin.

  Rothschild took a half-step onto the balcony. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Harry did not smile. He just took a step forward and met Rothschild’s stare.

  ‘You and I have to talk,’ he said.

  One Hundred and Thirteen

  The first thing Striker did upon returning to the Sunset Grove Care Centre was head for the front desk. Seated there, glossing over the newspaper with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand, was a new woman who looked terribly serious. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight that it tugged at her eyes and made her face look like she’d had one too many lifts.

  Striker showed the front-desk clerk his credentials, then grabbed the sign-in book. As he flipped backwards through the pages, Felicia watched eagerly beside him. The book was relatively new, and he reached the first page quickly. He looked at
the clerk. ‘Do you have the previous book?’

  Her eyes flitted up from her paper. ‘Previous book?’

  ‘For signing in.’

  She stared back through steely dark eyes. Said nothing. And then finally moved off her stool as if this required all the energy she had left in her body. She slowly wandered over to the filing cabinet that sat behind the front counter, scoured through the top drawer, and eventually returned with another binder made up of imitation black leather.

  ‘It cannot leave the front desk.’

  Striker offered no comment. He took the book, snapped it open to the end, and began turning back the pages, one by one. He found Osaka’s name only three pages back. And this time the signature was not beside Sal Hurst’s room number, but beside another name they were looking for.

  Archer Davies.

  Felicia smiled. ‘There it is. Archer Davies. Room 12.’

  Striker looked up at the woman behind the desk. ‘Did you ever have any dealings with Inspector Osaka?’

  ‘No.’

  Striker thought of the nurse he’d spoken with during their previous visit. ‘Did anyone else?’

  The woman glanced down at the book. ‘Room 12 is Nurse Janet’s rounds. She’s in today. Probably somewhere down the hall. Ask her; she would know.’ She looked back down at her newspaper as if the detectives no longer existed.

  Striker paid the woman no heed. He closed the book and slid it back to her, then proceeded down the hall. A nervous tension filled him, and for some reason the hall looked longer and narrower than it had the first time he’d been here. Everything felt dark and heavy.

  He reached Room 12 and went inside.

  A man occupied the bed. He was hooked up to an air compressor of some kind, and a soft intermittent shu-shush sound filled the room.

  One look at the man and any person could tell he was not well. His face had an aged appearance. The colour of his skin was off, like cream gone bad, and the skin rimming his eyes was a faint purple colour. Beneath the stubble of his face, and under the faded tattoos of his arms, the meat and fat were gone, eaten away by time and sickness. It gave his body the appearance of a deflated balloon, one that had long since lost its resiliency. Compared to this man, Sal Hurst looked ready to run a marathon.