The Guilty

by Sean Slater

  It made no difference.

  The tall beefy black cop from the Afghan National Police had led them to the site of the IED, and it was in the worst possible location – down a narrow strip of dirt, flanked on both sides by canals and high sweeping hills. As Oliver made the long walk towards the bomb, the unusual tension from his squad was palpable.

  He absorbed it right through his skin.

  He reached the bomb site and felt himself sweating on the chilly valley plain. He scanned his eyes across the hills, east and west, searching for any sign of the enemy. But all he saw was cold blue sky. Sweeping rocky hills of unforgiving terrain. And crevice after crevice, cave after cave.

  The favoured ambush spots of the Taliban.

  With time running thin, Oliver dropped low. Opened his case. And pulled out the tools required for the job – wire-cutters, alligator clips, and a paintbrush of fine horsehair. He lay prone across the dirt and rock, and used gentle sweeping motions to brush away the pebbles and dirt until the rectangular form of the pressure plate became visible.

  This was the first bomb, and that was a good start. But the wand had picked up two signals. So he angled himself to the right and performed the same actions once more until a second plate was uncovered, this one a pressure-release pad.

  Finding the plate was always a relief. And a smile broke Oliver’s lips. The operation was going smoothly thus far. And he felt good. Positive. Optimistic, even.

  And then he saw the line – one long piece of dead wire snaking off to the east canal.

  It was a goddam trap.

  Oliver shoved himself back, spun about, and scampered to one knee in an effort to run. But the blast came. Light exploded, followed by a swelling of darkness as the earth rose up beneath him like some giant creature breaking out of hell. An invisible force tore through his body, and was followed by a thunderous wave. Suddenly he was airborne. Floating, spinning, rolling through the sky. When he finally landed, a wave of agony ripped through his body. He lay there, on the dirt of the path, feeling every inch of his being throb and spasm as he stared out, not thirty feet into the field, and saw the ground being torn apart by gunfire rounds and mortar.

  ‘Sandman down – SANDMAN DOWN!’ Someone was screaming. One of his men.

  Oliver could barely hear the man.

  He managed to turn his head. To look back down the trail. And he saw his squadmates running his way.

  High-calibre rounds rained down from the rocky terrain above. East and west. AK-47 fire. Mowing them down. In the constant drone of gunfire, half his men were ripped apart. Shreddings of meat and tissue and blood exploded from their bodies. The few who survived the assault grabbed him. Lifted him from the ground.

  ‘The path,’ Oliver whispered weakly. ‘Stay on . . . the path.’

  But no one could heard him, and suddenly more bombs were going off. Loud, thunderous booms. One explosion to the east – a one-pounder that tore off the bottom half of his point man’s legs. And one to the west – a definite two-pounder that obliterated two other men completely.

  And for Oliver, everything just sort of sloooowed down.

  Greyed out.

  Muted.

  Even the high-powered chain guns of the Black Hawks seemed soft and distant as the rescue birds came sweeping in from the hills and rained fire on their enemies. To Oliver, none of it mattered now. There was only pain and spasm, and a deep dark hollowness that was sucking him down like an animal in a tar-pit trap, covering his head in suffocating blackness.

  He couldn’t breathe . . .

  Back in the command room, Oliver’s eyes snapped open and he gasped for air.

  His mouth was dusty dry, his tongue felt too large. Sounds from the monitors hit his ears. Talk of bombs and police. And for a moment, he thought it was the ANP cop again, and he reached for his assault rifle. When he found no long gun there, he forced himself to sit up. And all at once, reality spilled over him like a cold wave.

  The news was still on.

  Molly was not there.

  And she would never be coming back.

  Oliver let out a wail.

  A mixture of emotions hit him. His squadmates, gone. His friends, gone. His father and mother, gone. And now Molly . . . she too was gone. Molly. He wanted nothing more than to break down and give up.

  But he did not. The soldier in him would not allow it.

  Thirsty, exhausted, throbbing with pain and fever, he forced himself to his feet and shuffled like an old man across the room to the costume Molly had created. Her last one. He grabbed the uniform, then a SIG P224, because it allowed for the attachment of night sights, a tactical light-laser attachment, and above all, a sound suppressor – which would definitely be needed for this job to be successful.

  Hot yet cold, and slick with a chilly sweat, Oliver placed the compact SIG behind his waistband, then stumbled and had to grab the wall for support. The fever – and perhaps the infection – was still going strong. A microscopic symphony in his veins. But so what?

  Oliver knew sickness; he had been ill many times before. Been deathly ill. And he knew that without rest, this injury would kill him. But that was okay. He had the uniform. He had the gun. He had the plan. After that, nothing really mattered any more.

  He didn’t plan on surviving the day.

  One Hundred and Thirty

  Striker pulled Felicia from the house.

  ‘We’re going,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere but here.’

  ‘But Laroche—’

  ‘We have a bomber to find.’

  Felicia looked at him curiously, almost cautiously, then smiled.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

  Moments later, they were marching up Trafalgar Street towards the undercover cruiser. As they went, Striker explained what Rothschild had told him about the toy duck. Felicia listened intently, biting her lip with every detail. When Striker was done speaking, Felicia made a point:

  ‘So that gives us one more connection to Williams,’ she said. ‘She was the toymaker who gave Koda the duck.’

  Striker agreed. ‘It’s how she was connected to the squad, yes, but I think her main role was hiding Harry and Koda’s drug money through her accounting practices.’

  ‘But why kill her? The drug crimes are only indirectly connected to the shootings. Unless . . . maybe Oliver doesn’t know that. Maybe he thinks it’s all connected.’

  Striker shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t matter anyway. From everything we’ve seen with this man, it’s obvious his mind is fractured. His belief system is polarized. He treats everything as if they were absolutes. There are no degrees of right or wrong here, no grey areas – only black and white. Either you’re culpable or innocent. There is no in-between. So for Keisha Williams to be funnelling away the money, she was involved. Period.’

  ‘It still leaves us with nothing for Dr Owens.’

  Striker nodded and sighed. ‘The very person whose kidnapping started this whole call.’

  They reached the undercover cruiser and Striker used the remote to unlock the doors. Once inside, he took a moment to think things over, then had an idea. He turned to Felicia. ‘Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We keep assuming that, because Sharise Owens had once been in a relationship with Koda, that this was her connection to it all. But that doesn’t make sense. Harry and Osaka had wives too, and yet none of them have been targeted.’

  ‘Or tortured, for that matter.’

  ‘Exactly. Dr Owens worked at St Paul’s Hospital. But the nurse said she’d been there for, what?’ – Striker flipped back through his notebook to find the answer – ‘seven years. Seven. Yet she’s been a trauma surgeon for twelve. Do we know where the rest of those years were spent?’

  Felicia shook her head, and Striker continued.

  ‘The shooting down by the river . . . it took place on the Vancouver-Burnaby border. So when Archer was injured, what hospital wo
uld he have been taken to?’

  ‘Burnaby General.’

  Striker put the car into Drive and headed that way. ‘We need to read that medical report.’

  One Hundred and Thirty-One

  They walked down the dim corridors of Burnaby General Hospital without speaking, Striker deep in his own thoughts and Felicia checking her iPhone emails. When they reached the Health Records Office, they went inside. The woman behind the counter had dyed auburn hair and far too much blue eyeliner on. She looked up from her newspaper, snapped her gum, and said, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ Striker said.

  He explained the situation.

  After a quick system check, the clerk confirmed the existence of the medical report for a patient known as Archer J. Davies. As expected – and much to Striker’s chagrin – she would not release the documents without the proper authorization, and that meant one of two things: obtaining a warrant, which would require writing an Information to Obtain, or giving the hospital a Release of Medical Documents form, signed by the deceased’s closest living relative.

  There was no time for writing an ITO at this point, so Striker spent an uncomfortable ten minutes on the phone with Lilly Davies, explaining the need for police access to the medical records. After getting her consent, he spent another half-hour waiting for the papers to be faxed.

  ‘We’re wasting so much time,’ he griped.

  ‘We’re saving time,’ Felicia countered. ‘It would take us four hours to write an ITO – and that doesn’t include getting some judge to approve it.’

  He knew she was right, but he grumbled anyway. Moments later, the clerk motioned them over to the counter. In her hands was a deep red folder marked:

  Trauma Surgery Report.

  Striker wasted no time. He signed the form and grabbed the medical report. With Felicia peering over his shoulder, he sat down in the same chair he had been waiting in and opened the report. The first thing he noticed was the author’s name.

  Dr Sharise Owens.

  It gave him hope for a new lead.

  Together, they started reading through the medical report, skimming through the Procedural Summary and finishing with the full Operative Narrative. Once done, Striker sat back and looked at Felicia. The glum look on her face told him she had learned the exact same thing he had.

  Nothing was amiss.

  ‘It’s all standard procedure,’ she said. ‘A very detailed and thorough report. In fact, it looks like she went beyond the call with this one – probably because Archer was a cop.’

  Striker nodded. He went to snap the folder shut, then paused. He looked at Felicia. ‘What are the odds that Koda’s common-law wife would be the trauma surgeon working at this hospital when the call came in?’

  Felicia thought it over. ‘Low?’

  ‘Definitely low.’

  He got up and approached the front-desk clerk again. Her hair had fallen out of place and she was struggling to pin it back again. She gave him a queer look when he asked her for a copy of the shift schedules for the night of the shooting.

  ‘That was, like, ten years ago,’ she said.

  Striker nodded. ‘They still should be archived, shouldn’t they?’

  She gave him an exasperated look, but nodded. She muttered something about archives, then disappeared around the corner. When she returned some ten minutes later, she had a ten-by-fourteen photocopied page in her hand.

  ‘This is it, Your Highness.’

  Striker smiled and thanked her for it.

  He and Felicia analysed the page. In the left column were the shifts and times. In the right was a list of doctors’ names, each one followed by their practitioner number. Next to Sharise Owens’ name were the letters ‘CO’ in brackets.

  Striker showed it to the clerk behind the counter. ‘What does this mean?

  ‘CO?’ she asked. ‘Called Out.’

  ‘So this was not her normal shift?’

  ‘That’s what called out means.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Striker said. He looked at the shift schedule, then at the medical report Felicia was holding. He asked the clerk, ‘Tell me . . . how come there are no recordings in the medical file?’

  ‘Recordings?’

  ‘Last time I checked, there were audio tapes made as well.’

  The woman gave him another queer look. ‘Audio tapes are standard procedure on autopsies, not surgeries.’

  Striker shook his head. ‘They were with Dr Owens. The woman was meticulous. I’ve seen the copies she keeps back at her office.’

  ‘Hold on, let me check.’ The clerk spoke the words with irritation but she swivelled her chair around and began typing on the keyboard. After a while, she made a hmm sound. ‘There’s something here that says “micro”.’

  ‘Those would be the audio tapes,’ Striker said. He explained the situation to the clerk. ‘Everything may be digitally recorded nowadays, but ten years ago it was all put on mini-tapes.’

  ‘I can’t give you those.’

  ‘I’ll take a copy.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  She started to turn away from the computer, then stopped. Chewing her gum harder and faster, she leaned back towards the computer, studied the screen, and frowned. ‘That’s odd . . . Is this the second set of copies the police have acquired?’

  Striker shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of. Why?’

  ‘Someone else obtained a copy of these tapes just two months ago.’

  ‘You got a name?’ Striker asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Tom Atkins.’

  One Hundred and Thirty-Two

  The police property office was open from seven to five, Monday to Friday, and closed on the weekends. Harry needed to get in there to seize the burn records from Montreaux. Being Saturday, it left him with two options – get Car 10 to come down and open the office, or call the property office supervisor at home.

  Knowing he was supposed to be nonexistent since the press release and also on paid leave pending the investigation, Harry avoided contacting Car 10. Instead, he called up property office clerk Larry Smallsy and gingerly explained that he needed some stored records for a walk-through warrant. Upon hearing the request, Smallsy made a tired sound. ‘Geez, can’t it wait, Harry?’

  ‘Not on a walk-through.’

  ‘Then just call Car 10.’

  Harry cleared his throat. ‘The road boss is Laroche . . . I’d rather keep him out of this, if you know what I mean. The only reason I’m writing the warrant is to cover my ass on a mistake I made last week. Last thing I need is King Tight-ass finding out.’

  Smallsy laughed at that. He understood it well. ‘Fine, fine, fine. I only live in Kits. I’ll be right down.’

  Harry was relieved. He waited on the south side of the property office – away from the main traffic of the report writing room.

  Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Larry Smallsy buzzed himself through the back doors. He plodded down the hall, adjusting his John Lennon spectacles and sipping a frothy latte. When he was close enough, Harry could smell the hazelnut flavouring.

  ‘I really appreciate this, Larry.’

  Smallsy just unlocked the door and guided him inside. He walked down the corridor, in between the tall stacks of boxes that columned the passageway. When he reached the back end, he put his paper cup down on the counter and looked up at the array of binders that lined the shelves. ‘Which one do you need, Harry?’

  ‘There’s a few of them – burning records from a decade back. From Montreaux.’

  ‘Man, between you and Striker, you guys are bleeding me dry.’

  Harry stiffened. ‘Striker?’

  ‘Yeah, he came in and took a bunch of these too. Five binders in all. He legally seized them.’

  Harry felt ill. ‘Which years?’

  Smallsy showed him the dates and then gestured to the top row, where a large portion of the shelf now sat empty. Harry saw this and fell slightly back against the counter.


  Gone, he thought. Fucking seized.

  ‘Hey,’ Smallsy asked. ‘You okay?’

  But Harry said nothing. He just turned around and left the property office without another word.

  One Hundred and Thirty-Three

  The audio recordings Dr Sharise Owens had made were on one single tape, yet it took three-quarters of an hour for the clerk to have it copied by the tech out back. When Striker complained about the lengthy delay, she shot back, ‘You’re lucky we can do this at all today – only one guy knows how to transfer the files and burn the disc, and he’s not normally in on Saturdays. You should count yourself lucky.’

  Properly chastised, Striker sat back down and waited for the CD.

  When the clerk finally returned, she held a single bubble-wrapped envelope. Striker signed the Medical Information Release form, stating that he was now in possession of the material, then took the envelope and left the hospital with Felicia by his side.

  Once in the car, Striker removed the CD from the envelope and powered on the radio. He slid the disc into the tray and nothing happened. When the LCD mini-screen flashed the message ‘UNREADABLE FORMAT’ he swore.

  ‘What the hell now?’ he asked.

  ‘Wrong format,’ Felicia replied. ‘It’s probably an MP3 or a FLAC or something. This radio’s ancient. Plays only regular audio.’ She loaded the CD into the laptop and waited. Seconds later, the Windows Media Player initiated and the voice of Dr Sharise Owens came over the speakers.

  At first it struck Striker odd to hear her voice, this woman whose disappearance and death had triggered the investigation. Over the cheap speakers of the laptop, she sounded eerily faraway and tinny, but her voice was also filled with confidence and professionalism:

  ‘This is Dr Sharise Owens, regarding file number 71139. My practitioner number is 15572 and the patient’s name is Archer Jeffery Davies, Medical Number 4050 030 9019.’ She then gave the date and location of the writing.

  As they listened to the feed, Striker opened the written file. Together, they compared the written report with the audio. For the first twenty minutes, everything matched perfectly, and Striker was growing antsy. When the tape timeline hit 21 minutes, 42 seconds, everything changed.