The bomber closed his eyes. Despite what he had said, Molly was right, he knew. At least on some level. He was enjoying this. More than anything, he wanted to stay active. In the moment. Engaged. Whenever inactivity returned, bringing with it the passivity and the silence, so too did the awful, awful memories.
It was a strange notion – that peace would be hell, and hell would bring peace. But that was the way it was now. The way it had always been.
Ever since that first explosion in Afghanistan.
The one that took his leg off.
He fought to get up from the heavy metal table and stared at the grey cement walls of the command room. Overhead, the red and blue pipes began making noise again, their rumbling call something between the hiss of snakes and the thunder of a storm.
On the only other table the room offered was the last wooden duck, dressed in a policeman’s uniform.
Number 1.
The most crucial of all.
He reached over and picked it up. Stared at the little white duck. And he smiled weakly.
It was time.
‘Where’s my uniform?’ he said.
One Hundred and Seven
When Striker and Felicia made it to Cambie Street Headquarters, it was going on for eleven. They took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked down the hall to the Deputy Chief’s office.
As Striker turned the corner, he spotted Laroche. The man was on the phone, barking more than talking, and absently brushing his fingers through his thick black hair, trying to keep every strand in place. In front of him, spread out across the mahogany desk, were several inter-office memos.
Striker read a few of the headings: Global TV. News 1130. The National.
All media outlets.
Before being demoted from the Deputy Chief position, Laroche had been known as Deputy Drama Queen by many of the men. Now some of the street cops called him the Superintendent Starlet. It was probably unfair – one of the man’s responsibilities was, in fact, assisting Media Liaison in dealing with the press. But the fact that Laroche so revelled in the spotlight rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.
Striker included.
‘Sir,’ Striker finally said to get the man’s attention.
Laroche looked up. A less-than-pleasant expression spread across his face. There was a certain thinness in his features, the kind brought on by extreme stress, and Striker could see that Osaka’s death was affecting the man.
Laroche didn’t say hello, didn’t so much as nod. He just finished his phone conversation, then hung up – slammed the receiver so hard, the strands of his perfect hair fell out of place.
‘Press is all over this goddam thing,’ he said.
Striker was not surprised. ‘Of course they are. We got bombs going off all around the city. Cops have been targeted. Civilians too. And we still don’t know who the bombers are.’
Laroche’s face tightened. ‘As always, Striker, thank you so much for the wonderful goddam news. Jesus Christ, are you any closer to solving this thing?’
Striker moved out of the doorway into the office. He grabbed a chair for him and Felicia, then sat down and told the Acting Deputy Chief more of what they knew. ‘This might all come back to a police-involved shooting – one that took place ten years ago, involving a Satan’s Prowler member and an integrated ERT squad.’
Laroche’s dark eyes took on a distant look. ‘Ten years . . . you’re talking about Carlos Chipotle.’
Striker was surprised Laroche even knew of the man. ‘We are.’
‘Chipotle was a psychopath and a cokehead.’ Laroche slumped back in his chair with a bewildered look on his face. ‘What makes you believe this might be related?’
‘It’s one of the few links that exist between all the parties involved. We’re still in the middle of the investigation. We’ll let you know what we uncover.’
Laroche’s face remained slack for a long moment, then his eyes turned suspicious as he realized they were here for a particular reason. ‘What do you need of me?’
Felicia spoke first. ‘Clearance.’
Striker clarified: ‘We need authorization to read Osaka’s files – the older ones from when he was working in the Police Standards Section. Osaka was working there at the time of the Chipotle shooting. Those files are essential to this case.’
‘Which files do you need?’
‘All of them.’
‘All?’ Laroche said nothing for a moment, then he nodded his head in submission. ‘PSS files are classified. So I need not remind you that whatever permissions you’re given, the information in those files will be for your eyes alone.’
Striker nodded. ‘Understood.’
Felicia said the same.
Laroche got on the computer and began typing. A minute or two later, he was obviously done, because he sat back and shook his head like he was expecting something bad to happen. He looked up at Striker, and his pale face was tight and grave-looking. ‘Why do I have a feeling you’re about to single-handedly sewer my career for the second time, Striker?’
Striker just smiled.
‘What can I say, sir? Misery loves company.’
One Hundred and Eight
The Police Standards Section, once located in the same building as Cambie Street Headquarters, had recently been moved outside the walls of the department in order to offer the appearance of impartiality. In truth, it made no difference. The investigations were still done primarily by Vancouver Police Department sergeants, with the help of their assistants.
And that was the way it had to be.
Lately, a select portion of special interest groups had been fighting the system, trying to replace the police sergeants with civilian investigators who would then take charge of the investigations.
Striker couldn’t see it happening. Not with all the requirements of the courts and the union and the ability to scour through secret police files. A purely civilian investigation team seemed nothing more than a self-serving, special-interest pipe dream . . . but there was little doubt that some changes would be coming.
It was inevitable.
They parked out front. To most onlookers, the building looked like any other business. No department insignias decorated the tinted glass doors, no signs or inscriptions guided the way. The building was small, plain, and newly built.
A modern facility for a modern force.
Striker and Felicia went inside and found their way to the records room, where they began searching through the files. By the time they were done, almost a half-hour later, they had removed and photocopied twenty-three investigations, several of which were linked to other departmental files.
Felicia looked at the pile. ‘This is a ton of work to go through. Osaka must have been single-handedly working a dozen files back then.’
‘He was a busy man. We’ll start with the most relevant files and go backwards from there.’
Together, they started sorting through the folders.
When Felicia picked up one, she looked at it, then shook her head as if confused. ‘This one is linked to the Chipotle shooting – I thought the investigation had already been done by Homicide?’
‘This is the internal investigation,’ Striker reminded her. ‘Everything they do here is separate from the other police files. It has to be, or else there would be no impartiality. Look around and you’ll find lots of duplicate investigations. The difference is that these reports focus solely on the officer’s actions, not the suspect’s.’