‘You need to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth to live here,’ Striker noted. ‘This is
wealth
.’
Felicia didn’t respond, she just kept reading through the files. Finally, she made an
ugh
sound and slapped the laptop.
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Striker said.
‘It
isn’t
good,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been researching this Erich Ostermann guy the entire way here. And aside from driving like an idiot, the man is a five-star human being.’
Striker put the car into Park. ‘Lay it out for me.’
So she did.
‘According to all the files I see here, Erich Ostermann is a psychiatrist well-respected in his profession. He’s won numerous awards for Clinical Leadership and Outstanding Community Support. But his real claim to fame is that he’s the doctor who started EvenHealth.’
‘EvenHealth . . . I’ve heard of that.’
‘You should have. It’s everywhere. Essentially, it’s a platform for equal access for marginalized people who are suffering from mental health disorders.’
‘So it’s treatment for the poor.’
‘Exactly. And Dr Ostermann is the Grand Poobah of the whole thing. EvenHealth is his brainchild.’ She read on. ‘So he works privately in his own practice as well as for the government-subsidized Riverglen Mental Health Facility out in Coquitlam.’
‘Busy man.’
‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘Ostermann further donates time to the Strathcona Mental Health Team – which is where we were earlier, down on Heatley Avenue – and works in the more impoverished areas of the city, mainly the projects on Raymur Street and Hermon Drive.’ She looked over at him. ‘All in all, it’s the résumé of a reputable and amazing man.’
‘Who works with a lot of mentally ill people,’ Striker added. ‘Some of whom are very violent.’
Felicia met his stare. ‘You think the guy you fought with might be one of his patients?’
‘He might be a lot of things.’
Felicia said nothing back; she just flipped through the electronic pages, then let out a bemused laugh. ‘Christ, Ostermann even donates to the PMBA.’
That made Striker pause. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘I wish I was, but no.’
He grimaced. The PMBA was the Police Mutual Benevolent Association. Money from the PMBA went to helping out cops who were down on their luck, and towards special police projects that would have been otherwise fiscally impossible. Inspector Laroche was heavily involved with the PMBA, too. Striker wondered if he and Ostermann had ever crossed paths.
Felicia closed the laptop. ‘All in all, this lead is feeling more and more abysmal.’
Striker reached over and re-opened the laptop. ‘A résumé means nothing. Colonel Russell Williams was commander of our country’s largest air force. He was a highly decorated officer and a good husband for nineteen years – but that didn’t stop him from killing innocent women while wearing their bras and panties.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe nothing. That’s the way it is. And at this point, no one is accusing Dr Ostermann of anything – he’s just a Person of Interest. But I will tell you this:
how
he answers our questions will tell us as much as what he tells us. Will he be honest, or will he lie? That’s always the question.’
Striker put the car back into Drive and drove up to the gates. He hit the intercom, and they waited for the response.
‘Hello?’ a woman finally asked.
Striker shoved his badge up to the camera lens that was built right into the stone wall and spoke loudly.
‘Vancouver Police,’ he said. ‘We need to speak with Dr Erich Ostermann.’
Striker and Felicia were allowed into the house by the doctor’s wife. Striker gave her the once-over, taking his time as he did so. Lexa Ostermann was a beautiful woman. Thick straight hair the colour of honey fell down past her shoulders, framing a face of creamy skin and deep brown eyes. When she offered him a smile, Striker felt her magnetism pull him in. It was impossible not to feel it. Even in her mid-forties, Lexa Ostermann was elegant and breathtaking – no doubt the perfect trophy wife for her husband’s professional parties.
She met Striker’s stare. ‘Right this way, Detective.’
She led them from the entrance hallway to a small library. The room was dark – wooden walls, wooden floor, and wooden shelves. Soft golden track lighting lined the ceiling. In the far corner of the room, next to the bay window, sat a gas fireplace. Lexa Ostermann flicked the button on the wall, and flames shot up behind the glass.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Be comfortable. The doctor will be with you shortly.’
Striker detected a slight accent. ‘Czech?’ he asked.
She smiled at the comment. ‘Let’s just say European. It sounds more modern.’ She reached out and touched his shoulder. ‘I must say, though, I am impressed, Detective. You have a good ear.’
‘I have a good many things.’
She smirked. ‘I’m sure you do.’ When Striker said nothing back, she touched his shoulder again and continued talking. ‘I came over here when I was very young. I’m surprised you heard my accent at all – most people don’t.’
‘I’m not most people.’
She laughed again. ‘I can see that.’
‘Will your husband be here soon?’ Felicia cut in.
‘My husband . . .’ Lexa Ostermann nodded slowly and the smile fell from her lips. ‘Of course.’ She turned around and walked out of the library. At the doorway, she stopped, fidgeted with her hands and turned back to face them. She looked directly at Striker and the confident look in her eyes seemed to fade. She suddenly seemed smaller and weaker.
Concerned
.
‘Is . . . is everything all right, Detective?’ she asked.
Striker nodded. ‘We just need to speak with your husband regarding one of his patients.’
Lexa Ostermann’s face tightened and her big brown eyes got wider. ‘Dr Ostermann is very protective of his patients,’ she said softly. ‘Please, be careful how you word things with him. He gets upset rather easily.’
‘We’ll be nothing but professional,’ Striker promised.
‘Thank you, Detective.’
‘Of course. It was nice to meet you, Mrs Ostermann.’
‘The feeling is mutual.’
She offered Striker another wide smile – one that appeared forced rather than breathtaking – and then disappeared down the hall. When she was gone, Felicia sat back in one of the reading chairs.
‘You can put your tongue back in your mouth; she’s gone.’
Striker blinked, then looked at her. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Sure you don’t.
I have a good many things . . . I’m not most
people .
. . God, you win the award for corny.’ She picked up one of the magazines from a nearby table and flipped through it.
Striker looked back down the hall to where Lexa had walked only seconds ago. A bad feeling pooled in his guts. She seemed nervous, and she looked almost afraid. It concerned him. After a moment of thought, he turned to face Felicia.
‘Did you find that odd?’
‘Your excessive flirting? No.’
‘I mean Lexa,’ he said. ‘She looked . . . nervous, or something. And did you hear how she referred to him?
The doctor
will be with you shortly. Not
my husband
or
Erich
– the doctor.’
Felicia put down the magazine and nodded. ‘Actually, that was odd. I noticed it, too.’
Striker let the thought sit in his mind for a while as he moved around the small library and assessed the place. Directly ahead of him, to the north, was a large bay window with a seating area and the gas fireplace Lexa had turned on. Everything beyond the window was black – impossible to see with the contrast of the dark outside and the light inside – but Striker knew this area. Out there was the back yard, followed by the cliffs and the inlet beyond.
He continued looking around the library. On the fireplace mantel were four separate photographs. One, he presumed, for each member of the family. Not together in one, he noted, but each on their own.
A family together, but apart.
The first photograph was of Lexa Ostermann. She was smiling back over her shoulder. Seductive, beautiful, confident. Just like she’d been in the foyer. Striker stared at the picture long and hard. The woman was magnetic, and he felt an unexplainable concern for her.
Felicia took note of him staring at the picture. ‘Maybe she has a wallet-size one she can give you for your alone time,’ she said.
Striker ignored the comment. He pulled his eyes away from Lexa’s photograph and studied the next ones. The second photograph was of a young man. Could’ve been seventeen, could’ve been twenty – it was hard to tell. He was lean and wiry, with pale skin and eyes so green they looked like coloured contacts. His jet-black hair was thick and wild.
Felicia came up behind him and stared at the photograph.
‘He looks very serious,’ Striker noted.
‘He looks like a model from an Axe deodorant commercial,’ Felicia said.
‘Now who’s being corny?’ He looked at the next photo.
It was of a young woman. Beautiful, much like Lexa. Same face, same creamy skin, same eyes. Just the hair was different. Her hair was almost as black as the young man’s, and long and thick and straight. Her eyes were dark. Darker than her mother’s – even blacker than Felicia’s. The faint grin on her lips looked forced, crooked somehow, and didn’t show at the corners of her eyes.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Felicia said. ‘Both these kids could be models.’
‘She looks lost,’ was all Striker said.
He moved up to the last photo.
It was of an older man. Late forties or early fifties, but in good shape. Reddish-brown hair that was kept short, yet still managed to curl on him. It matched his goatee. His eyes were an unnatural green – matching that of the boy’s – and were hidden behind a pair of round tortoiseshell spectacles. Overall, the man looked quite astute, orderly.
‘The good doctor,’ Felicia said.
Striker agreed. He walked back across the hardwood floor. To his left, the walls were lined with wooden shelves containing leather-bound books on psychiatry. Titles with syndromes – Conduct Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, and more.
Striker grinned. ‘Looks like the study guide for getting promoted at the Vancouver Police Department.’
Felicia laughed softly.
On the right side of the room, on more rows of wooden shelves, sat sections of non-fiction books, ones unrelated to the profession of psychiatry. Striker saw that they were set in rows by category: True Crime, Homicides, Police Procedurals. A lot of books on police investigation and procedure.
He was leafing through one he recognized from his earlier training days –
Integrated Practical Homicide
– when a voice spoke to him from behind.
‘Good evening, Detectives.’
Striker turned around and saw a scholarly looking man – the man from the picture on the mantelpiece. Dr Erich Ostermann. In person, he was far fitter than his picture suggested, and he had a certain presence in the room.
‘I am Dr Ostermann,’ he offered. His eyes focused on the book in Striker’s hands. ‘Brushing up on your skills, I see.’
Striker smiled. ‘Surprised to see a book of this kind in your library – it’s one we actually use for training purposes.’
Dr Ostermann waved a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, that’s just Dalia. That entire shelf is hers.’
‘Dalia?’ Felicia asked.
‘My daughter. She can be excessively morbid at times, though I will admit to leafing through the pages once myself. Grim to be sure, though a bit compelling. I can understand her fascination, but I do try to steer her away from it.’ He smiled at them both. ‘We all have to deal with death eventually, but right now there is life. We should live it.’
‘I won’t argue with that,’ Striker said. He reached out and took hold of the doctor’s hand. Shook it firmly. The action made the man flinch and, after the handshake, he stepped back awkwardly.
Striker took note of this. ‘Are you all right?’
‘This? Oh, I pulled my back a little, is all.’
Striker forced a grin and pushed the issue. ‘Tough session at the clinic, I guess?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Something like that,’ Striker repeated.
Dr Ostermann merely nodded. ‘Lexa tells me this visit has something to do with one of my patients?’
‘Yes,’ Striker said. ‘A woman named Mandy Gill.’ He watched the doctor’s face for a reaction.
‘Mandilla Gill?’
Striker nodded. ‘She was your patient.’
‘Oh yes, for some time now. A constant work-in-progress, I’m afraid.’ He sighed and appeared tired all of a sudden. ‘What has she done this time?’
‘She’s killed herself.’
The doctor’s face paled and he froze for a moment. ‘My God, I didn’t know. No one told me . . .
When?
’
‘This afternoon,’ Felicia said.
Dr Ostermann rubbed a hand through his goatee, his face turning red. ‘She was depressed again . . . I should’ve sectioned her . . . I
should
have!’
Striker spoke up. ‘Mandy was very troubled for a long time,’ he said. He explained the most basic details of what they knew to Dr Ostermann – leaving out the camera and the physical altercation he’d had with the suspect – then got down to the business of the BMW X5 being in the area. ‘Were you anywhere near there today, Dr Ostermann?’
The doctor took a moment to think. ‘Well, no, not near Ms Gill’s place – she lives down on Union Street. But I was in the Downtown East Side today. I had to drop by the clinic for some rather important files.’
‘Which clinic, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Strathcona. On Heatley.’ Dr Ostermann adjusted his glasses, then looked over at Striker with a concerned look on his face. ‘May I ask why this is important?’
Striker nodded but did not answer the question. ‘What were you driving today?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘My own personal vehicle.’
‘Which is?’
‘A BMW. An X5. It’s black.’
‘And were you alone?’
‘Yes, completely. Detective, have I done something wrong here?’
Striker looked up from his notebook and met the man’s stare. ‘We’re just verifying things, sir. We have to. And these are all pretty standard questions.’