Striker did not. He just took all this in, somewhat numbly, and images of the explosion returned to him in quick, jarring patches. Like broken video clips. He sensed Felicia’s eyes on him – her unwarranted concern – and was relieved when Corporal Summer approached them from the side.
‘I’m concerned,’ the bomb investigator said without preamble. ‘This is a completely different signature from before.’
Felicia stopped covering her mouth. ‘Meaning?’
‘Usually, a new signature suggests a new bomber.’
Striker shook his head. ‘It’s the same two as before – I saw them firsthand. Hell, I tagged one of them.’ He explained what had transpired, and Corporal Summer listened intently. When Striker was done talking, she nodded, but the concern never left her eyes.
‘Still,’ she said. ‘It is unusual for a bomber to change method halfway through. Here . . . glove up and check this out.’
Once Striker and Felicia snapped on some latex, Corporal Summer called over one of her technicians and took from the woman two evidence bags. From the first one, the Corporal withdrew a blackened piece of U-shaped steel.
‘You can touch it,’ she said. ‘It’s already been swabbed for DNA – not that we expect to get any. If we’re lucky though, we will get some residue samples.’ She held up the bracket – a broken mount for the BirdDog tracking unit – and made a concerned sound. ‘Someone had GPS on our police car.’
An oh-shit feeling flooded Striker, and he fessed up. ‘The GPS unit was ours.’
‘Both of them?’
Striker and Felicia exchanged glances, and Striker spoke:
‘What do you mean, both?’
Corporal Summer opened up the second evidence bag. Inside it was another U-shaped bracket, twisted and blackened. ‘We’ve already identified the manufacturer. This one comes from a company called Lowry Systems. It’s the base part of one of their handheld tracking systems – GPS.’
Striker found it difficult to accept what he was hearing. ‘So just to be clear here, this car had two GPS tracking systems on it.’
‘From two different companies, yes.’
Striker mulled it over. ‘That would explain how the bombers found them.’
Felicia took the bracket and analysed it. ‘Where would they get a Lowry GPS unit from?’
Corporal Summer shrugged. ‘Anywhere. So much has changed the past five years. Global Positioning is nothing new any more. God, you can bid for one of these things on eBay.’ She took back both brackets and put them into their corresponding evidence bags. Then she directed Striker and Felicia to the corner of the parking lot where they examined a piece of V-shaped steel that was roughly the size of a large cooking pot. ‘This was the base, what held the explosives.’
Striker crouched down to examine it. The V-shape would direct the explosion upwards, making the explosion more focal and directed. Striker looked up at the corporal. ‘Was this shape used to increase the damage to the victim – or to limit casualties?’
‘Only the bomber knows that,’ Summer replied. ‘But that’s not what concerns me. What does is the actual size of the base. What it signifies.’
‘And that is?’ Felicia asked.
‘They’ve switched to home-made explosives.’
Striker thought this over. ‘And you’re sure of this?’
‘Positive. If they’d used this much professional grade, nothing would be left of the car. We’ll have to get the lab to test the residue samples to be one hundred per cent certain. But this much is true – a commercial or military explosive would never require this size of a base. The bombers are using HME now. I’d stake my career on it.’
Striker thought of the smoke pouring from the car. ‘That would explain the greyer colour of the smoke, would it not?’
‘Completely.’
Felicia interjected: ‘These are all nice tidbits. But it doesn’t explain the most fundamental question of all – why the change?’
Corporal Summer hazarded a guess. ‘It could be something simple. Maybe they ran out. Maybe their black-market supplier fell through. Who knows for sure? Maybe they underestimated their need.’
Felicia shook her head. ‘I can’t believe that. Not these two. They’ve been completely prepared for every job. I mean, think about it: electrical torture, scuba gear, laser tripwires – we’re talking organized here. There has to be a reason for the switch. These are professionals we’re dealing with, not some hacks.’
Striker nodded. He had to agree.
He looked at the leftover blackened shell of the undercover police cruiser that was still smoking in the parking lot. Aside from the actual frame, almost nothing remained.
‘This is going to sound like an odd question, but I don’t suppose you found any dolls in that debris?’ he asked. ‘Like a miniature policeman.’
Corporal Summer gave him a curious look and shook her head. ‘No. Anything that was in that car has long since been burned up.’
Striker nodded half-heartedly. ‘Let me know if you find anything.’
Before she could respond, he turned around and headed for the exit. Harry was still on scene, being treated by a paramedic in the back of one of the ambulances.
Hard questions needed to be asked of the man.
Eighty-Seven
Striker and Felicia made their way out of the A&W parking lot and headed across Semlin Drive towards the primary crime scene where Sleeves had been executed. Behind the yellow row of tape, a gaggle of reporters were squawking out his name: Detective Striker. Detective Striker! Detective Striker!
He ignored them all.
Two uniformed patrolmen guarded the entrance to the lane, one at each end. In between them, Noodles was busy snapping pictures.
Striker took a moment to examine the bloodied spot of pavement where Sleeves had died. ‘If someone had told me three hours ago that Sleeves was going to be dead, I’d have thought this nightmare would be over.’ He met Felicia’s stare. ‘But he’s not the bomber, Feleesh. He never was the bomber. We’ve been chasing a lie.’
Felicia had a confused look on her face.
‘Maybe not,’ she admitted. ‘But he was part of this in some way. He had to be – at least through his gang affiliations.’
Striker thought of the Satan’s Prowlers. Then of Sleeves. And finally of the latest name that they’d been hearing a lot of lately – Carlos Chipotle. The more Striker thought it over, the more something bothered him.
‘Something doesn’t mesh here.’
‘What?’
‘The Satan’s Prowlers. They may be an outlaw motorcycle gang, but they still have their own set of rules to abide by – and they take them very seriously. Disrespect your colours and you can be killed; no Blacks or Jews in the club; never bring the gang unwanted police attention—’
‘And no women, either,’ Felicia said. ‘Women are just property to them.’
Striker nodded. ‘Exactly. But there’s one rule the gang follows that’s above all the others – no family members targeted. And no children.’
‘Not ever,’ Felicia agreed.
Striker reasoned it out. ‘I’ve heard of some ex-members getting burned to death and others having their dicks cut off, but never once have I heard of the gang going after another member’s family – and especially not the children.’
Felicia shook her head. ‘Where are you going with all this?’
Striker met her stare. ‘Not only did Sleeves blow up Chipotle’s family, but the Prowlers actually sanctioned the killing. Why? What could this man possibly have done for the gang to break their most fundamental rule? To implement such a horrific penalty? I can think of only one thing.’
Felicia let out an excited breath. ‘Being a rat.’