Seventy-Four
When Striker and Felicia reached the front alcove of the Ostermann mansion, they each took sides. Striker glanced at the broken shards of glass that covered the front lawn and driveway, then at the table lamp that had broken apart when smashing into the BMW. Lastly, he looked at the room above, where curtains now hung out of the window.
‘Watch our backs,’ he told Felicia and gestured towards the window.
‘Copy. You take the door.’
Striker did. He moved up to the front door and knocked hard.
‘Vancouver Police!’ he yelled. ‘Dr Ostermann, it’s Detectives Striker and Santos – come to the door!’
No response.
He pressed the doorbell and heard the chimes go off inside the house.
‘Dr Ostermann! Lexa!’ he called, then added, ‘Dalia? Gabriel?’
But again there was no response.
‘Fuck this,’ he said.
He stepped back from the door and gave it a quick once-over. The door was made from solid oak with steel hinges, and the surrounding frame looked strong. It was going to be a bitch to kick in, but what other option did they have?
Striker turned around and gave the door three heavy donkey kicks, placing the heel of his shoe between the lock and frame each time. On the third kick, the frame cracked. On the fourth, it splintered. And on the fifth, the entire structure broke apart and the front door went crashing inwards.
Striker pulled out his pistol and used the broken frame as cover. ‘Chunk out,’ he told Felicia. ‘Chunk out!’
She nodded and drew her pistol.
And they headed into the house.
They swept into the foyer and quickly took sides; Felicia got the east, Striker took west. Striker strained his ears to detect anything besides the blaring car alarm out front, but heard nothing.
The house was dead silent.
‘It’s too quiet in here,’ Felicia said.
‘Just be ready,’ Striker told her.
Together they cleared the bottom of the house, starting with the living room and den area, then carrying on into the kitchen, a sitting room and the library.
At the far end of the hallway was the last room, the office. Striker reached it, tried the doorknob, and found it locked. He didn’t so much as hesitate. He simply took a step back, then swung his leg forward and kicked the door in with one try.
The lock snapped and the door broke inwards, revealing a small secluded office. There were no windows in the room. No closets. And no other doors. Just a huge old wooden desk with a computer on it, a pair of chairs on one side, and the doctor’s chair on the other.
A place for private sessions? Striker wondered. The emptiness of the room seemed odd.
‘It’s clear,’ Felicia said.
Striker nodded. ‘Upstairs then.’
They spun about and made their way back down the hall. When they reached the foyer, they turned and started up the stairs.
Felicia spoke. ‘We should have a second unit for this. Patrol cops will be here soon.’
‘Not soon enough,’ Striker replied.
He pressed on, up the stairs.
When they reached the landing, they stepped into a hallway that led in both directions. Striker paused. A strong smell filled the hall – clean, floral, earthy. After a moment, he figured it to be herbal additives from the bath Lexa had been taking. Lavender. Or juniper, maybe.
‘Hold west,’ he said. ‘Make sure no one comes up behind us. I’ll clear the east end first.’
‘Got it,’ Felicia said.
Striker made his way down the hall. He came to a bathroom, complete with shower and tub, but this was not where the smell was coming from. Once cleared, he made his way down the hallway, clearing two more bedrooms along the way. The smaller one belonged to Dalia, Striker presumed, for the clothes on the chair were almost Goth in style, dark and drab, and all the same. The pictures on the wall were equally morbid. Posters of Marilyn Manson and the like.
The second bedroom was the exact opposite. A guest bedroom of sorts that looked made for a queen. The bed was immense, a king-sized, four-poster number, covered with a thick burgundy quilt that matched the colour of the drapes, which now hung out of the broken window. In the far corner of the room was a pair of high-backed floral Victorian-style chairs, and opposite them was a small bar, complete with fridge and an ice-cube machine.
Striker cleared the room then made his way down the hall, and came up beside Felicia. She still had her pistol aimed down the other side of the landing.
‘It’s all clear,’ he said. ‘You ready?’
‘Just go.’
Together, they made their way down to the west end of the hallway. They passed an old storage room, which was empty save for a few piles of boxes and an older-style television set. Then they cleared a reading room with a huge bay window that looked north over the cliffs and harbour below. Out there, the night was black and the waters below looked deep and violent.
Striker had no time for the view, and he carried on. So far they’d cleared almost two out of three floors in the house, and they had yet to run into one member of the family.
Striker didn’t like it.
When they reached the only other bedroom on this floor, Striker paused. It was the master bedroom. He knew this from the way Lexa had gestured to it during their earlier conversation in the foyer.
Through the door he could smell that strong, earthy scent.
He gave Felicia the nod to make sure she was ready, then pushed open the door. Inside, a king-sized bed owned the middle of the room, unmade. Next to it, the drawers of the credenza had been opened and dumped.
‘It looks like the place has been ransacked,’ Felicia said.
‘Or like someone was getting ready to run away in the middle of the night.’
Striker stepped into the room. He cleared the walk-in closet to his left, then made his way towards the last door, which led to an ensuite. When he reached it, Striker readied his pistol and slowly pushed the door all the way open with his foot.
What he saw inside the bathroom shocked him.
The windows were fogged, and the air was hot and humid. Along the far wall sat a Jacuzzi tub, filled to the rim with hot foamy water. The foam was not white, however, it was a deep brownish-red colour – because in the centre of the tub lay Dr Erich Ostermann.
His eyes were like a doll’s eyes, wide open and unfocused, and his skin was ghostly white. One of his arms lay beneath the discoloured water of the tub; the other draped over the side. One look at it and Striker saw the meaty razor gash running down the length of the forearm, on into the wrist and palm. There were several, in fact.
Deep, grooved lines that no longer bled.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said. ‘He killed himself
‘Just watch our backs,’ Striker said.
He stepped carefully into the room and looked around the area. On the floor, by the foot of the tub, lay an old razor knife. The blade was brownish-red.
On top of the toilet-seat lid was a note and a key.
Striker moved over to it. The paper was folded, and on the face were the two handwritten words:
Detective Striker
He gloved up and picked up the note. Opened it and read. The message was brief and direct:
Dear Detective Striker
I have spent over fifteen years perfecting the EvenHealth programme, dedicating countless hours of my time in the selfless service of others. I have sacrificed all for the lost and the ill, and would ask you only to consider this before destroying my legacy.
Before you act too rashly – before you tell the world what I have done – please consider this . . . intimately. The videos. They are not proud of them. Or of my weaknesses. To be blunt, I simply couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried, or how bad I felt afterwards.