The Guilty (11 page)

He said nothing.

‘Did you hear me? You were too close.
Again
.’

He closed his eyes, tried to bumper back his pinballing thoughts. ‘It . . . it helps,’ he finally said.

‘It does
not
help. You’re scrambling your brains even worse.’

‘Molly—’

‘And enough with the ducks. This isn’t a game – it’s a higher calling.’

The bomber looked away. Grinned bemusedly.

A higher calling . . .

The notion sat in his head like a benign tumour. The whole idea of God was a foreign concept to him, a subject he could not understand.
Codswallop.
At times, Molly’s theological
and emotional conflicts ate away at him. They were good people doing bad things. He got that.

But it changed nothing.

‘Everything went according to plan,’ Molly said softly. ‘
This
time.’

He offered no reaction, he only spoke. ‘With Target 5 dead, we can go back to dealing with Target 6 – the way we intended. Get back on track.’

‘The sooner the better.’ Molly let out a sound of concern. ‘My God, if she escaped—’

‘She’s going nowhere – not unless she can uncuff herself and navigate her way out of that maze.’

For a long moment, only silence filled the cab of the van. When Molly spoke again, her voice was low and soft.

‘I just want this to be done.’

‘It will be,’ he said. ‘Already, one target is down and one is our prisoner. That leaves only four more to go.’

Molly made an uncomfortable sound. ‘We need to use less explosive from now on.’

Her words stirred something within him. ‘Less?’

‘Yes, less. Or we’ll end up killing someone innocent.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Innocent.’

‘Less than a half-kilogram,’ she pressed. ‘It’s enough – these are high-grade explosives, after all . . . Are we in agreement?
Are we?
’

He opened his eyes. ‘Will it make you feel better, Molly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

Normal procedure at any fatality is for the coroner to pronounce death before the body is removed. In most situations, this is gospel. In this case, however, that procedure was
overruled by Inspector Osaka.

For obvious reasons.

As Striker waited for the Body Removal Team to arrive, he gave the victim a cursory look. The blast had all but destroyed the head and neck regions. As for the body, it had suffered extreme
trauma from the percussive force. And the flesh had been exposed to high levels of heat and flame, which had burned away the fat and turned the muscle tissue black. As a result, the remaining limbs
had contracted into something of a foetal position.

But one arm was missing.

Striker examined this. From the yellow line, news media – digging for a front-page storyline – kept taking pictures from every accessible angle. Their usual lack of sensitivity made
Striker angry, and that anger disrupted his thought process. He wanted the body moved to protect the family.

And he got his way.

When the Body Removal Team arrived, they found the victim hidden beneath a blue police tarp. The three orderlies, all dressed in civilian clothing, donned latex gloves and loaded the body into a
generic white van. Body in possession, they drove through the frenetic cluster of reporters and headed for the basement of Vancouver General Hospital.

That was where the morgue was located.

Striker watched them go. When the patrol cops sealed off the road with more yellow police tape, Striker and Felicia assisted in a secondary sweep of the area. This time, they weren’t
looking only for bomb components, but for body parts too.

It didn’t take long.

‘Over here,’ Striker called.

He pulled back a square-shaped chunk of support beam and pointed. Wedged between chunks of wood and concrete was a twisted fleshy mass. Perhaps the remaining limb. It was hard to tell.

Striker got forensics to bag and tag the tissue for the Chief Medical Examiner.

‘Good work,’ Felicia said.

Striker didn’t respond. A deep concern filled his belly. There were too many unanswered questions here. About the case and about the person in the rubble. Not much was known about the
victim so far: the body was that of a female, and – from the few lower-limb parts that weren’t completely burned – the female appeared to be of non-Caucasian ethnicity.

African-American was a possibility.

Felicia touched his arm. ‘Hey, you okay?’

He turned to face her. ‘A black woman is kidnapped and tortured this morning down by the river. Now there’s a black woman killed in the explosion here . . . I hope to God
they’re not related.’

Felicia nodded. ‘I’ve been talking to some of the people in the area. The owner of the Toy Hut is a woman by the name of Keisha Williams. She’s black.’

Striker listened, but the information somehow didn’t connect. He was tired. The day felt long, yet it was only four-fifteen. He looked at the different pods of forensic and search crews,
and tried to keep track of everything. There were so many divisions. Multiple departments. It was an inter-agency nightmare.

‘Come on,’ he finally said. ‘We need to round everyone up and make sure we’re all on the same page here.’

Felicia agreed.

Striker gathered together all their counterparts. Once everyone was listening, he began listing the tasks of all the associated units. He ended the speech by discussing the role of Victim
Services. They would be escorted by Patrol to the Williams residence for two reasons: One, to verify that Keisha Williams was not, in fact, safe at home and alive. And two, to prepare the family
for the worst case scenario. The thought of telling the family left Striker ill – it always did – but he fought to suppress his emotions.

There was work to do.

With the primary and secondary scenes now contained, Striker gave Felicia the nod to get going, and they headed back for the car. He wanted to attend the morgue, not only to inspect the body,
but to ensure that extra tests were conducted – complete swabs of all body tissues for explosives residue, and full-body X-rays to determine what kinds of shrapnel were lodged inside those
same tissues. Grim though it seemed, it was an absolute necessity.

Striker looked at Felicia and spoke the words they had both been thinking but wanting to avoid. ‘We may just have a bomber on our hands.’

Ten minutes later, Striker and Felicia reached Vancouver General Hospital. They took the freight elevator down to the sub-levels, feeling the booth chug and jerk with every
foot descended. Felicia made a nervous sound when the booth stopped for a moment, her claustrophobia kicking in. She switched the portable laptop from her left hand to her right, and looked at
Striker. ‘Hopefully, the ME will find something to connect the explosion to the torture scene at the concrete plant.’

Striker nodded. ‘Maybe there’ll be some explosives residue on the body. Otherwise, we’ll be waiting on word from Kami.’

Felicia cast him a cool glance. ‘
Kami
, is it?’

‘What?’

‘Forget it, just you and your ego again.’

‘My
what
?’

‘Oh please, Jacob. Like you don’t know, with all the cheesy lines you threw out there.’

‘What lines?’

‘“
I’m Striker – with an S.”
“
I like to dabble.
”’ She shook her head. ‘You’re an obsessive-compulsive
flirt.’

‘I wasn’t flirting—’

She held up a hand. ‘Spare me.’

Before Striker could say more, the booth jolted, descended to the next level, and the doors opened. In silence, they walked on with the only sound being the clicking of their heels against the
floor. They reached Examination Room 3. Before Striker could so much as knock, the large grey door opened, revealing Kirstin Dunsmuir, the Chief Medical Examiner.

Kirstin Dunsmuir looked as artificial as she always did. An overabundance of injected collagen caused her chiselled lips to perpetually purse, and the muscles between her eyes had been Botoxed
so many times that her face showed little emotion, even on those rare occasions when she actually expressed any.

Striker forced a weak smile. ‘Hello, Kirstin. Still the life
and
the death of the party?’

Dunsmuir said nothing. She just stared back through icy-blue contacts – ones that matched the blue shade of her smock and surgical cap. ‘Come inside, Detectives.’ She wheeled
about and walked deeper into the room, expecting them to follow.

Once inside, Felicia placed the laptop on the nearest counter and brought up all the information they had on the toy shop address. As she read, Striker approached the examination table, where
the body of their victim lay.

Against the dull metallic glimmer of steel, the blackened tissues stood out and appeared terribly fragile. The face and head regions had been completely obliterated by the blast, and the rest of
the remains looked somewhat inhuman.

‘God in heaven,’ he said.

‘God has no part in this.’ Dunsmuir smiled bleakly. ‘This is
my
domain.’

Striker offered no response. The more he looked at the body, the more disconcerting it became – had these remains really been a living, breathing person just a few hours ago? It
didn’t seem possible.

He worried about the woman’s family.

‘I want this one done right away, Kirstin.’

The medical examiner’s lips parted enough to suggest a weak grin. ‘You obviously haven’t heard about the shootings this morning.’

‘What shootings?’

‘Just the latest round of gang warfare.’ Dunsmuir spoke the words without emotion. ‘I have two dead from the Sharma gang in Rooms 5 and 6, and one unknown in Room 1. And with
both my assistants away at the body farm, we’ve got no one extra for coverage.’

‘Meaning?’

She met his stare. ‘If I get to your body at all today, consider it divine intervention.’

‘Fuck the gangster. This woman comes first.’

‘That’s not how it works down here, Detective, and you know it. We’re looking at tomorrow morning – at best.’

Striker cursed under his breath. He was about to further debate the issue when the door to the examination room opened and Detective Harry Eckhart walked through.

‘Harry,’ Striker said, somewhat surprised to see the man. ‘What are you doing here?’

The detective shrugged. ‘Was picking up some medical release forms at the pick counter when I saw you two come down. After this afternoon’s chase I thought I’d pop in and see
what was what.’

Striker said nothing. With the exception of the chase this morning, he hadn’t seen Harry in a long time – not since Harry had transferred to the General Investigation Unit at Cambie
Street Headquarters, away from Main Street’s Major Crimes Section.

Despite the time that had passed, not much had changed in the man. Harry was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, and the silvering lines on his light-brown hair were a testament to his
years on the job. The red rash of broken blood vessels that coloured his cheeks made his blue eyes look cold and were framed by a jowly chin and padded cheekbones. He always looked worn thin, and
today he looked especially beaten down.

Harry looked at the examination table. Moved forward. Stared down at the body.

‘Jesus mercy,’ he said.

Striker nodded. ‘You got some information on her?’

Harry said nothing for a moment, then blinked. He looked away from the body on the table. Splayed his hands in frustration. ‘I lost sight of the suspect behind the Starbucks building. With
all the traffic jammed up on the bridge, I just couldn’t get around, Shipwreck. I’m sorry.’

Striker nodded. ‘It was chaos.’

‘Yeah, chaos . . .’ Harry let out a long breath. ‘Listen, I’ll send you my notes through the internal mail. Need a police statement?’

Striker nodded. ‘Mandatory.’

‘Okay.’

The room went quiet; Harry said nothing else. His face took on a deep, despondent look as he stared at the body on the table. ‘Jesus mercy,’ he said one last time. Then he gave
Striker a nod and left the room without so much as another word. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Felicia finally looked up from her laptop.

‘That was weird,’ she said.

‘
Harry
is weird,’ Striker replied. ‘But a good man – he’s been through an awful lot. How’s it coming over there?’

Felicia just shrugged and looked back at the laptop. ‘Things are slowly coming together. We got some history on the toy shop.’

‘Do tell.’

‘Six months ago, Patrol was called to deal with a stubborn panhandler who kept harassing all the customers. The complainant’s name was Keisha Williams, and at the time, she was the
store owner. So that matches what the other business owners were telling me. She’s the one.’

‘You run her name through the other databases?’

Felicia nodded. ‘Yeah. She comes up as a black woman, one hundred and eighty centimetres tall and a hundred kilos. Big woman.’

‘Any tattoos?’

‘None listed.’ Felicia kept reading down the page. After a moment, her face tightened. ‘Oh boy. She’s a single mother of
five
.’

Striker felt like he’d been sucker-punched.

‘And look at this,’ Felicia continued. ‘Guess who’s listed under her Associates tab? Dr Sharise Owens. They’re
cousins
.’

Striker beelined to her side and stared at the screen.

‘This is too much to be a coincidence.’ He looked back at the medical examiner, who was now in the process of detailing a body chart. ‘This changes everything, Kirstin. I want
the works done on this one. Full swabs, tox tests, X-rays – you name it.’

Dunsmuir gave him a cool look, as if warning him not to tell her how to do her job. But, eventually, she nodded silently.

‘Is there any way you can move this examination up?’ Striker pleaded. ‘I’m desperate here.’

The medical examiner said nothing in reply. She just completed the chart she was holding, then snapped closed the metal binder. When she looked up and met Striker’s stare, her eyes
remained uncommunicative and cold.