‘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.
Striker blinked, then looked at Felicia. ‘You get that?’
‘Get what?’
‘Roll back the feed.’
Felicia used the mouse to drag the cursor back a full minute. Dr Sharise Owens’ voice took over the air once more:
‘The bullet round is of the frangible type, which has caused an array of soft tissue complications, most pertinently in the nervous and cardiovascular systems. The entrance wound, a three-inch opening, has destroyed the spinous processes of the eighth and ninth thoracic vertebrae and the subsequent vertebral bodies; the bullet’s exit caused fracturing of the inferior third of the sternum and the subsequent splintering of the ninth and tenth ribs anteriorly . . . This is indicative of a high-calibre, high-velocity round.’
Felicia listened to the woman’s explanation, then nodded. ‘She’s telling us it was a high-velocity, high-calibre round.’
Striker’s eyes darkened. ‘It’s not the calibre or speed that concern me, it’s the type and direction.’ He pointed to the written report. ‘Carlos Chipotle was firing an AK-47. Full Metal Jacket rounds.’
Felicia made an oh-shit sound. ‘Non-frangible.’
Striker nodded. ‘The only guys there with frangible rounds were us – the cops.’
‘Which means Archer got tagged by one of our own guys.’
Striker nodded. ‘And where does the report list Archer Davies’ entrance wound?’
Felicia searched the report. ‘The sternum.’
‘Exactly. But given the size of the posterior gunshot wound, that would be impossible – the entrance wound is always smaller than the exit wound.’
Felicia suddenly looked ill. ‘But if the exit wound was on the front side of Archer’s body, then that would mean—’
Striker nodded numbly.
‘They shot him in the back.’
One Hundred and Thirty-Four
Striker wanted a list of every cop on scene at the Chipotle gun call where Archer Davies had been shot. To do this, he and Felicia stopped in at Main Street Headquarters to use one of the desktop computers. They were linked in to the mainframe and could bring up information that the mobile laptops could not.