The Guilty

by Sean Slater

  Felicia neared Striker, whispered: ‘He looks like he’s already dead.’

  Striker thought the same. Any previous hope of questioning this man had been wishful thinking at best. Felicia moved up to the bed and gently placed her hand on the man’s left arm.

  ‘Sir?’ she asked. ‘Sir?’

  But no response came.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a voice said from behind Striker.

  He turned around and found himself standing face-to-face with a tall thin brunette who was wearing a pale-blue uniform and a pair of matching clogs. In her hands was a clipboard with some charts on it. Striker flashed her the badge.

  ‘Are you Janet?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m the nurse in this wing.’

  ‘We’re here to speak to this man. Is there any way you can wake him for us?’

  The nurse just smiled sadly. ‘I wish I could,’ she replied. ‘But that’s completely impossible, I’m afraid . . . Mr Davies is in a coma.’

  One Hundred and Fourteen

  For the bomber, the drive to the Sunset Grove Care Centre was one of nervousness and fear. With every passing mile, an indescribable desperation grew within him. He felt like there was an unknown organism eating him from the inside out. Sucking away his strength. Devouring his hope.

  When they reached the parking lot, Molly kept the motor running and did not move from her seat. It was her usual passive-aggressive way of telling him she wasn’t coming inside. He offered no reaction to it. She had never come in to see him. Not once in all the time he had been here.

  Why should she change now?

  He fumbled for the latch, found it, and opened the door. Outside, the air was hotter than it had been in the van, and it seemed to beat down on him relentlessly as he crossed the blacktop and approached the entranceway. When he walked inside the front doors of the care home, the interior air washed over him and was a cool relief. Compared to the bright glare of the midday sun, the foyer was masked in darkness, and he took a moment to let his eyes adapt. Splotches of dark browns impeded his vision.

  The world felt distorted. Off-kilter.

  The fever was worsening.

  He moved towards the south corridor, walking on feet that felt swollen and oddly light. Drops of sweat rolled down his brow and neck, tickling his overheated skin in the cold draught of the air conditioning.

  ‘Sir? . . . Sir? . . . Sir!’

  He stopped. Looked left. Saw a very serious woman.

  ‘You must sign in.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He floated left. Fumbled with the pen. Scribbled something in the book.

  ‘You don’t look well, sir. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Tickety-boo.’

  He put down the pen. Turned towards the south hall. Headed down it.

  Ten steps later, he reached Room 12 and came to a hard stop. Standing at the foot of the bed, talking to Nurse Janet, was the one man he had been battling ever since this nightmare had begun – Homicide Detective Jacob Striker.

  The cop had finally found them.

  One Hundred and Fifteen

  ‘How long has he been like this?’ Striker asked the nurse.

  ‘As long as I’ve been here,’ she said. ‘And that’s going on two years now. But I think it’s been longer. He was transferred here some time ago – I’d have to check his records.’

  Striker nodded. He looked down at the pale man lying there, at all the tubes running from his arms to the machines standing bedside, and he noticed something. Where the man’s left hand should have been, there was only a mangled stump of flesh.

  ‘Is something wrong, Detective?’ the nurse asked.

  He explained: ‘I’ve read the police reports. I know Archer was shot. But this,’ – he pointed to the stubby remains of the man’s left arm – ‘this was not in the report. What happened? Did it get gangrenous?’

  The nurse shook her head. ‘We didn’t remove it. That was a result of the explosion.’

  Striker and Felicia shared a glance. ‘What explosion?’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better get the file.’ The nurse left the room, and they were left with nothing but the soft shu-shush sound of the air compressor. She returned a few minutes later with a green folder and continued speaking as if the conversation had never stopped. ‘Ah yes, here it is. The bullet entered the spinal cord at the T11-12 level’ – she glanced up from the papers – ‘that’s the middle of the back.’

  ‘We understand that,’ Striker said.

  ‘Autopsies . . . of course you do.’ The nurse carried on. ‘The bullet left him paralysed, of course. But that was not the reason for the coma. That was brought on by the trauma from the explosion.’

  ‘Again, what explosion?’ Felicia asked.

  The nurse flipped through the pages. ‘It says here an explosion occurred during the incident, but it doesn’t say exactly what.’

  Striker gestured for the report. ‘May I?’

  The nurse gave him an uncertain look, but then conceded. Striker took less than five minutes perusing the material, and by the time he was done, he understood things more clearly.

  ‘Archer was the lead guy and he was trying to breach the door,’ he said to Felicia. ‘That’s the only thing that makes sense. They were attempting entry and something went wrong. The C4 exploded – that’s what happened to his left arm. And somehow in the mayhem he got shot.’

  ‘It’s also why he had the stroke,’ the nurse explained. ‘The force, the trauma, the resultant high blood pressure – it all added up and was just too much for his body to handle as time went by.’

  ‘How serious was the stroke?’ Felicia asked.

  ‘A basilar, I’m afraid. There’s none more debilitating.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Felicia said.

  ‘It’s why he can’t breathe on his own any more. Why he can’t even blink.’

  Felicia made a horrified sound. ‘You mean to say he can think perfectly normal in there, but he can’t even blink?’

  The nurse’s expression was glum. ‘It’s one of the reasons the doctors put him under – the coma was induced. For humane reasons.’

  Striker listened to everything the nurse said, and he felt sick for the man. He wrote down the name and practitioner number of the doctor in charge – a woman he had never heard of. Then he looked back at the nurse. ‘Does anyone come to visit him? A wife or kids?’

  ‘Oh yes, he has a wife. And a son and a daughter too.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Young. Fourteen or fifteen, I would think. To be honest, they don’t come all that often. The wife comes more, and even she is here only once a month. It used to be more, a long time ago, but over time . . . well, she’s been away more and more.’

  Striker nodded. ‘I’d like to talk to them.’

  ‘I can’t give out their personal information.’

  Striker understood the rules and regulations with regards to privacy. ‘Call the wife, please. Ask if she doesn’t mind seeing us. If she’s willing, we’ll meet her at her place, wherever that is.’

  The nurse said she would do this, then turned to leave the room. Striker stopped her with a few words: ‘Is that it, by the way?’

  She turned back. ‘Is what it?’

  ‘Is that all the people who come to see him?’

  She shook her head. ‘Actually, there is one more. A man – he comes every day without fail. Has for almost two months now. It’s just so sad. He just sits there, inside the room, and he talks to him. Sometimes for hours.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Tom Atkins,’ she said.

  ‘Tom Atkins?’ Striker asked. The name sounded familiar for some reason. Had he read it in one of the reports? He wasn’t sure. ‘Is that the name he gives you?’

  ‘Well, he never actually gives me any name. I never really speak to him – that’s just the way he signs the guest book.’

  Striker gave Felicia a quick glance, then focused back on the nurse. ‘This man . . . what do
es he look like?’

  The nurse’s face tightened. ‘I actually don’t know for sure. He’s fiercely private. And I think he might also have injured himself in some way. He always covers himself up. Wears a kangaroo jacket sometimes. Or a baseball hat and sunglasses.’

  Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Call Dispatch. I want plainclothes units here now.’

  Felicia nodded and was already dialling.

  The nurse was clearly taken aback. ‘Is . . . is everything all right?’

  Striker ignored the question. ‘This man . . . when was he here last?’

  ‘Well, just . . . just yesterday.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Yes, I spoke to him. He’s quiet, but he’s really very nice. Really.’

  ‘Does he have an address or a telephone number? How do you get in contact with him if there’s an emergency?’

  ‘I . . . I call him. His number’s right there in the file. On the back page.’

  Striker opened the folder and turned to the back. There, in red ink, was the name Tom Atkins, followed by a 778 number. A cell phone. He called up Info and got the operator to do a search on the number.

  ‘Prepay,’ came the reply.

  In other words, untraceable.

  Striker was not surprised. He turned to the nurse. ‘When exactly did you last speak to this man?’

  ‘Just . . . just a half-hour. After trying to get a hold of Mrs Davies but having no luck, I called Mr Atkins. I told him how sick Mr Davies was, and that now would be the time to give his final respects. He was quite concerned and said he’d be right down.’

  The words made Striker’s hand drop near his pistol. He looked at Felicia, who was now just hanging up her cell. ‘You hear that?’

  She nodded. ‘Got two plainclothes units on the way.’

  Striker was about to ask if the plainclothes units were Fed or city cops when a loud, strident beeping noise filled the room. Upon hearing it, the nurse rushed over to the bed, then out of the room and down the hallway. She was calling for one of the doctors.

  Striker didn’t need to ask what was going on. The answer was obvious.

  Archer Davies had flat-lined.

  One Hundred and Sixteen

  The time of death for Archer Davies was 14:35 hours.

  Twenty-five minutes later, at exactly three p.m., two plainclothes units arrived – federal cops from the RCMP.

  Striker was grateful for their presence. He quickly debriefed them on the investigation and told them his suspicions – that this so-called Tom Atkins might really be one of the bombers. As he did the debrief, Felicia scoured the databases for any Tom Atkins that might be related to the files.

  She could find none.

  ‘It’s got to be an alias,’ she said.

  Striker agreed. For the moment, the name didn’t matter. He got the plainclothes units set up. He placed two men inside the room, one man out of sight in the south corridor, and one man outside the facility in an unmarked car.

  Then the wait began.

  When the clock struck three-thirty and the man listing himself as Tom Atkins had still not arrived, Striker’s sense of excitement slowly gave way to concern. When the clock struck four, his concern collapsed into full-blown disappointment. He signalled to the plainclothes unit that he was heading down the hall, then left the room and found the nursing station. Waiting there nervously was Nurse Janet.

  ‘Is everything going okay?’ she asked.

  ‘How often have you called him?’

  ‘Mr Atkins? Uh, probably eight or nine times this last month.’

  ‘Does he always arrive on time?’

  She nodded. ‘Like clockwork.’

  Striker cursed. ‘He knows we’re here.’ He said nothing for a long moment, he just stood there and went over everything in his head. ‘Contact him again.’

  ‘Call him?’

  ‘Do it on speakerphone.’

  The nurse made no move to do so. Her face took on a tight look.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t absolutely crucial,’ Striker said.

  The nurse placed a hand over her heart. ‘What . . . what do you want me to say?’

  ‘That Archer Davies has little time left, and that Mr Atkins must come down immediately if he wants to have any hope of saying goodbye. Tell him time is of the utmost importance. Minutes count.’

  The nurse said nothing, but she nodded. And after taking in a deep breath and trying to stabilize her nerves, she walked over to the nearest phone, picked up the receiver and began dialling. Moments later, the call was answered.

  ‘Mr Atkins?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘Put the cop on the phone, Janet.’

  ‘I-I-I’m sorry?’

  ‘Put. The cop. On. The phone.’ His words were spoken slowly. Rhythmically.

  Striker took the receiver. ‘I’m right here.’

  ‘So you are then. Good. Listen up. I’ve killed a cop before – one besides Koda and Osaka. And if I’m forced to, I’ll do it again. Without hesitation.’

  Striker asked the man, ‘What’s your real name?’

  ‘Do you know, Detective, what happens when a bomb goes off at your feet? I’ll tell you. A half-pound of explosives will tear off one limb. A full pound will take off two. And a bomb with three pounds will take off everything. No one survives that.’

  ‘Listen to me—’

  ‘Soft tissue goes first. If you’re a man, the testicles are often torn right from the body. Not that it matters much. The percussive force destroys them internally regardless. As for the ladies – like your lovely Spanish partner there – it’s not uncommon for the breasts to be blown right off. You might want to suggest to Detective Santos that she start wearing her bulletproof vest from now on. Kevlar helps disperse the percussive force.’

  Striker waited till the man finished talking. When there was finally silence on the phone, he asked the one question he needed an answer to.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Walk away, Detective. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here.’

  Then the line went dead.

  One Hundred and Seventeen

  The bomber stood in the woods to the west of the facility, almost directly on the US border, and stared through his binoculars at the man on the bed in Room 12. He looked like he was in there alone, but he was not, of course. The detective was in there with him, and so was at least one plainclothes cop. He couldn’t see them, but they were there.

  He knew it.

  Shivering in the shadows of a giant oak tree, he focused on the man in the bed and a strange stirring sensation slowly overpowered his numbness. It made him want to run. To break free. Like a wildebeest kicking loose at a lion’s claws. So many odd emotions intermingling.

  Anxiety. Desperation.

  Grief.

  Archer Davies was dead.

  Slowly, inevitably, the shield that he had built around himself these past ten years disintegrated. Crumbled like the walls of Babylon. And for the first time since he was a little boy, he panicked. How he longed to go inside that room. To hold that man’s hand one last time. To lay his head down on the man’s chest. And to just tell him that he loved him. That, more than anything.

  Just to tell him he loved him.

  The black cell vibrated in his pocket, and he let it ring. It would only be Molly, and fuck her anyway right now. She had never come to see him. Not once. It was unforgivable. All this violence they had committed, all her goddam faith, and yet in the end she could not face mortality – not even a death that was not her own.

  The more he thought about it, the more angry and lost he became.

  Tommy Atkins went to war

  and he came back a man no more.

  Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.

  He died, that man who looked like me.

  The words seemed to lack punch now as he chanted them.

  With the tears leaking out his eyes, he took one final look at the man on the bed, and realized that hi
s final goodbye would never come now. The detective had made sure of that.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he whispered.

  It was all he could do.

  One Hundred and Eighteen

  When the line had gone dead, Striker knew it was time to change tactics. Tom Atkins – or whatever alias the man was using – would never return to the care hospital now.

  Striker got on his cell and called up the regional RCMP brass who had lent them the plainclothes units. After a lengthy discussion, the RCMP Superintendent agreed to maintain surveillance of the Sunset Grove Care Centre, just in case the bombers returned. With the place now secure, Striker and Felicia headed out to speak with the Davies family. According to the hospital documents, Archer’s wife’s name was Lilly, and she lived in White Rock with her two children, Logan and Rachel.

  It was just a ten-minute drive down the road.

  The lot was small, as was the house on it, which was composed mainly of blue wood trim and old white stucco that was now a dirty beige colour. The place looked like it had been built in the 60s. So did the old Ford jalopy in the driveway.

  They parked and climbed out.

  Striker reminded Felicia, ‘I’ve already instructed the care home not to call Mrs Davies until I tell them to do so. So whatever you do, don’t mention Archer’s death. Right now we need to get information from this woman. We need her calm.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And be ready for anything.’

  Felicia just nodded and adjusted her holster.

  They knocked on the front door, and minutes later were inside the living room with Lilly Davies. She wore ironed slacks and a cream blouse. She was clearly of Eurasian descent, and a Japanese strictness flowed through her in everything she did, from the way she offered them tea and cookies to the way she sat – her back board straight, her hands cupped in her lap, her head held high.