Being Saturday, the office should have been busy with cops sorting out the Friday night files, but today it was almost empty.
Striker walked right down to his desk. He brought up the call, read for a bit, then leaned back in the chair and felt like he was going to get sick. He gave Felicia a dismal look.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘The bullet that struck Archer Davies entered through his mid-spine and came out his chest; that much is undeniable. Judging from the ballistics report, it’s also true that the bullet was fired from a police sniper rifle. In the report, there’s only one ERT sniper listed.’
She understood the significance of that.
‘Rothschild,’ she said.
Striker nodded. ‘Carlos Chipotle was all coked-out with an assault rifle in his possession. So containment was essential. If Chipotle managed to escape with a weapon like that, who knows what might have happened? There’s a school just four blocks down the road, and a Community Police Office a mile north of there.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is this – in order to contain him properly, there should have been two snipers on the scene. Both in elevated positions. Was Rothschild the only one – or was there another?’
Striker focused back on the computer and began paging through the information. For a Man With a Gun call, it was surprisingly and disappointingly brief, but the information that was there offered clarity.
He read through it:
11:45: The call comes in. A witness reports a man with a machine gun down by the river.
11:51: The first Patrol unit arrives on scene.
11:57: The entire block is cordoned off.
11:59: A request for the Emergency Response Team is made by Car 10.
Striker scanned ahead for the next important time:
12:28: The Emergency Response Team is delayed due to an ongoing incident in the downtown core.
12:29: A city-wide message is sent requesting all Patrolmen qualified as carbine operators to head towards the area.
12:47: With the assistance of the Burnaby RCMP and the New Westminster Police Department, a makeshift team is assembled with Chad Koda as the lead sergeant. Constable Mike Rothschild is the lone sniper. His position is a two-storey elevation from the southeast.
Striker paused. This was what he had been searching for, and upon seeing it he frowned. The breaching team had come in from the southeast – under cover of the sniper. So for Archer Davies to be shot in the back, and on a thirty-degree angle, the bullet could only have been fired by one person.
Mike Rothschild.
Striker scanned through the list of badge numbers, looking for any other officer that had arrived with a long gun, be it another ERT sniper or one of the patrolmen carrying a carbine.
But there were none.
‘Goddammit,’ he said. ‘There must have been another shooter there – someone other than Mike who could have fired that bullet.’
Felicia’s face softened. She reached out and touched his arm for support.
‘I’m sorry, Jacob, but Rothschild was the only cop there with a long gun. You have to face it . . . Rothschild shot Archer.’
One Hundred and Thirty-Five
Oliver stood on the corner of Cambie and West 2nd, directly across from Vancouver Police Headquarters, with his bag of supplies in hand. He wore the police uniform his sister had created for him, and knew that it was an exact replica, right down to the buttons. Feeling the sweat from his brow trickle under the line of his hat, he wiped his brow and flagged down the first marked patrol car that turned the corner.
A short fat mug of a cop with a horseshoe balding pattern rolled down the passenger window. ‘Need a lift there, fella?’
‘Yeah. Leaving early today and I gotta get myself back to Kerrisdale.’
‘Hop in.’
Oliver threw his bag on the floor, then jumped in the passenger side and slammed the door. The cop hit the gas, turned south on Quebec Street, and gave him a sideways stare. ‘Never seen you before – you from the odd side?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Call-out?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You’re sweating up a storm, buddy. You sick or something?’
‘Yeah. Sick.’
‘Man, you look it. Don’t breathe on me, huh?’ The cop guffawed, then grabbed his iced cappuccino from the cup holder and sipped. ‘So where exactly we going here?’
‘Just get me to Arbutus and 41st . . . then I’ll show you.’
The balding cop nodded and they drove on.
As they went, Oliver crossed his arms, slowly, gingerly, to take pressure off the fractured bone in his shoulder. He leaned back in the seat and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy. The cop had the air conditioner going full bore and the draught felt like pins and needles on his skin – painful, yet oddly soothing. Were it not for the man’s constant yammering, Oliver would have zoned out completely.
They reached Arbutus and 41st.
‘Where now?’ the cop asked.
Oliver blinked. Tried to focus. He saw a green Starbucks coffee shop and the blue glare of a Bank of Montreal sign. He got his bearings. Then pointed. ‘Turn left here, then down the lane.’
Soon, they found themselves at the end of a long back alley. Oliver deftly unzipped the bag. Inside it was his SIG P224. The suppressor – seven inches long and nearly as big as the gun itself – was not yet unattached.
The cop finished his iced cap and gestured to the backyard of a tiny rancher. ‘This your place?’
Oliver didn’t answer the man. Instead, he pointed at the floor near the gas pedal. ‘That thing yours?’
When the cop glanced down, Oliver drove the man’s head forward with as much force as he could muster. The cop’s face slammed into the steering wheel and his nose broke with a soft crunching sound. He screamed. Jolted back. Raised his hands in a pathetic display of defence.
Oliver drove his elbow into the man’s face and almost knocked him out. Then he pulled him closer, pinned his face down into the seat, and slammed the base of his pistol onto the back of the man’s skull – once, twice, three times – until the cop moved no more.
Breathing hard, shaking, exhausted from the moment, Oliver closed his eyes and fought against the soft beckoning call of unconsciousness.
It was done.
It was done . . .
The beginning of the end was here.
One Hundred and Thirty-Six
The drive from Main Street Headquarters back to Striker’s house was one of deep thought and consternation. Felicia kept herself busy reading and re-reading the CAD call they had printed out, the reports they’d gathered, and all the history brought up on the numerous police databases. Striker drove on autopilot. Before he knew it, they were stopped behind a marked patrol car outside his house. He sat there and listened to the motor idle. After a while, he killed the engine.
Felicia opened the door. ‘Well? You coming in?’
He nodded. Exited the car. Went inside.
Sitting in the den with his feet on the coffee table was Rothschild. He was nestling a Coke.
‘Hey,’ he said.
Striker sat down in the recliner facing Rothschild. Felicia sat down in the love seat that was angled between the two men. Striker spoke first. ‘The Chipotle shooting years ago . . . how many snipers were on that call?’
Rothschild looked taken aback by the question, and he gave it some thought. ‘Just one,’ he finally said. ‘Me.’
‘No carbines?’
‘Not that I recall.’ His eyes took on a faraway stare. ‘It’s been ten years, man. A long time.’
‘I know that. But think hard. Were there any other long guns there? Something that would fire a .223?’