Striker followed. Once in the hall, the stale smell of old paint and dampness hit him. The building was old. The morgue, equally so. He walked down the long dim corridor, turned right, and stopped at a drab grey door. This was the main entrance to the morgue.
Where he had identified Amanda.
The moment hit him hard. So many memories. All bad. This was a sad and despondent place, one he never wanted to see again. And yet here they were, like always.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
On the nearest examination table lay the body of Mandilla Gill. Nineteen years young. A plastic white sheet covered her body and neck, but her face was exposed, which was abnormal. Clearly, the Medical Examiner, Kirstin Dunsmuir, was prepping the body for examination.
Striker looked around; didn’t see the woman anywhere.
‘You see Dunsmuir?’ he asked Felicia.
‘The Death Goddess?’ Felicia shook her head. ‘No. And I’m thankful for it. Small miracles, you know.’
Striker didn’t disagree. Were it not for the heaviness of the moment, he might have smiled at that. Felicia didn’t like Kirstin Dunsmuir, which was unsurprising. Most people didn’t like Kirstin Dunsmuir. And he was included in that group. The woman was colder than the stiffs she worked on, and equally fun at parties.
He killed the thought. He gloved up with fresh latex and moved towards the body on the steel table. In the harsh brightness of the examination lights, Mandy Gill’s skin looked almost ashen. Her face was slightly deflated from the draining of fluids, but the muscles around her eyes were still somehow tight. Striker had hoped the woman would look more peaceful in death, but she did not.
He pulled back the sheet and studied the body below. The prep work had already begun.
Felicia saw this, too. ‘Dunsmuir’s probably tagging the undergarments right now. Maybe we should wait for her before touching anything – you know how she is with this stuff.’
Striker didn’t really much care. ‘I’m not touching anything just yet. I’m just looking at a few areas.’
‘For what?’
‘Signs.’
He reached up, grabbed hold of the examination light, and tilted the face of it downwards, so that the brightness of the light shone directly on the body. Lividity – the pooling of the blood – was showing like a faint purplish line now, running all along the lower fifth of Mandy Gill’s body. Her facial muscles were stiffening, mainly the eyelids and cheeks.
Rigor was setting in.
Striker looked past all of this and focused on the skin. He swept his eyes around the most common injection areas first – the shoulders, the arms and wrists. When he saw nothing out of the ordinary, he started back at the toes, then slowly, patiently, worked his way up the body, looking for anything that stood out as irregular.
When he reached the neck, he found it. A small mark, almost imperceptible, even with the bright glare of the examination light – definitely impossible to detect back in the dimness of the victim’s room.
‘Right here,’ Striker said to Felicia. ‘Left side, just lateral to the base of the neck. Over the first rib area.’ He pointed out the area of skin to Felicia, and she shook her head.
‘I don’t see it.’
Striker took out his pen and pointed to a small precise area where the skin had a slight mark on it.
‘See that?’ he said. ‘The tissue is slightly swollen here. Just barely, but when compared to the right side, you can see there’s a difference.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, I believe, she was injected here.’
Felicia made a face. Looked again. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. And the swelling indicates Mandy was alive when it happened – otherwise there’d be no immune response. If you look close enough, there’s a small mark right
here
.’
He pointed and Felicia shook her head. ‘Since when do injections leave a mark like that?’ she asked.
Striker gave her a dark look. ‘They don’t – unless someone’s resisting and the needle tears the skin.’ He was about to say more when a cold voice filled the room.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Striker looked up to see a very unhappy Kirstin Dunsmuir. One look at the medical examiner and Striker could see that she’d had more work done to her face. Cosmetic surgery. The woman was addicted. She crossed her arms over her breast implants and sneered at them through her collagen-filled lips.
‘Why are you touching my subject?’
Striker just pointed to the area he was looking at. ‘I think she was injected here, can you take a look for me?’
Dunsmuir said nothing for a moment, her icy blue contacts staring Striker down. She strode across the floor with her blue autopsy gown flapping behind her like a cape. Once beside the table, she gave him a long hard look before seeming to relax a little. She put on her glasses, examined the skin, then nodded slowly.
‘Yes, it would appear she’s been injected.’
She stood back and put on a forced smile, one that showed every one of her capped teeth. ‘Excellent detail,’ she said to Striker, ‘and if I ever again catch you touching one of my subjects before the autopsy is done, I’ll have you banned from the lab.’
Striker felt his jaw tighten. His first instinct was to tell the woman off – he had every right to be in here. Mandy Gill was his victim first; her subject second. He could have argued that point and won.
But what was the point in that? He knew Kirstin Dunsmuir well. The Death Goddess had earned her reputation for a reason. And fighting with her would only complicate the investigation.
‘I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘I wasn’t trying to overstep my bounds here. It’s just that . . . I
knew
this woman. She was a good person. She didn’t deserve this.’
The medical examiner didn’t blink. ‘If you knew her, you should remove yourself from the case.’
Striker let the comment go. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to step on your toes or break your lab policies. I’m just worried that this is more than a simple suicide.’
Kirstin Dunsmuir made no immediate reply. But Striker’s words seemed to placate her. Her posture relaxed. ‘I’m just starting my assessment now,’ she said.
‘Good. Can we get some toxicology on this one?’ Striker asked.
‘I always do tox tests – when it’s warranted.’
Striker nodded. ‘What are we looking at for timeline here?’
‘For the tox tests? I’ll expedite them. But we’re still looking at a while. Twenty-four hours, for sure.’
‘It’s appreciated,’ Striker said. The smell of the body cleaners was getting to him. So were the memories. He handed Dunsmuir one of his business cards with his personal cell number on it. ‘Call me the moment you know.’
Dunsmuir took it and said she would. Then Striker gave Felicia the nod to leave, and they did. Once back in the hall, Felicia looked over at him. Nodded approvingly. ‘I thought you were going to tear her head off in there.’
Striker shrugged. ‘More flies from honey,’ he said softly.
He walked down the hallway, the hard sound of his heels echoing against the walls. With every step, the lighting seemed to grow darker and the long corridor narrower as they closed in on the cargo elevator.
Striker couldn’t wait to get outside. He needed some space, some fresh air. A moment to think. But more than anything, he just needed to get out of the morgue and away from Kirstin Dunsmuir.
He was suffocating on the darkness.
Striker got the car going immediately. Got himself focused. Again, they headed for the headquarters of Car 87, with one purpose – to see if the clinic had a personnel file on Dr Erich Ostermann.
At this point, anything on the man would be helpful.
It was going on for eleven o’clock now, which didn’t matter as far as the headquarters were concerned because they were open twenty-four hours a day. Whether it was a nurse, a counsellor, or one of the officers involved, someone would be there.
They drove on. The traffic was surprisingly bad, given the time of night. And it thickened the further they went.
When they got stuck at a red, Striker pulled out his cell phone. He tried calling Courtney to tell her not to wait up for him, but then got directed immediately to the answering machine.
She was already on the line.
That usually meant at least a half-hour wait, so he left her a brief message, then hung up the phone. Felicia hung up her own phone as well. When she let out a long sigh, Striker didn’t like the sound of it. ‘What now?’ he asked.
‘I just tried their office. A few of the nurses are there, but Car 87’s gone home for the night. We can’t get to any of their files till morning.’
Striker cursed and thought this over.
‘Screw it. We’ll drop by the office anyway. See if anyone else there can help us. Maybe one of the nurses has access to the files.’
The light changed from red to green and Striker hit the gas. Not ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of the building, just in time to see a familiar figure emerging.
Constable Bernard Hamilton was sneaking out of the front door.
Striker knew it was Bernard. He was the only cop around that owned an entire wardrobe of pastel-coloured dress shirts, complete with matching ties. He was a strange-looking man. He was thinning badly on top, and in an effort to divert attention away from his baldness, had grown the rest of his hair into a long ponytail, which he then braided down his back.
Striker didn’t like the man. Never had. As far as he was concerned, Bernard Hamilton was a lot like Inspector Laroche – a by-the-book guy, but only when it served his purpose. Bernard Hamilton cared more about stats and commendations than honest-to-God police work, and his only goal in life was to see his face on the Officer of the Year plaque.
Whether he deserved it or not.
Striker had done the man some favours in the past, covering him when he needed a day off for personal reasons – which was, of course,
not
by the book. Bernard Hamilton owed him one for that, and for many other things over the years. It was time to collect.
Striker rolled down the window. Cold air blustered inside the car. Striker ignored the chill and waved the man down. ‘Bernard! Hey,
Bernard
!’
Hamilton looked up, unwelcome recognition filling his face. ‘Striker,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Planning my retirement. You got any room in there?’ When Hamilton didn’t so much as break a grin, Striker got right down to business. ‘We’re here about the Mandy Gill suicide down on Union Street.’
Bernard shuffled his feet and blew into his hands. ‘Yeah, I figured as much. I heard the call.’
‘What do you know of her?’
Bernard Hamilton shrugged as he came closer. ‘Not much more than’s already in her file. No family or friends. On social assistance. Suffered from depression. And she self-medicated, like everyone else down there. You know how it is.’ He pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one up.
‘What kind of self-medication?’
‘What kind ya think? Crack, mostly. Some heroin too, though. She could be a little speedball queen.’
Striker made a note of this for the toxicology tests, then texted the information to Kirstin Dunsmuir. While he made the text, Felicia interjected.
‘What about this doctor Mandy was seeing – Dr Erich Ostermann?’
Bernard blew out a trail of smoke. ‘Ostermann? Don’t know him personally. But he’s a good man, from what I hear. Created EvenHealth, you know – he’s won awards for that. Got some publicity from it. Good stuff. Front page stuff. TV, too. BCTV news, I think.’
Striker didn’t much care about the accolades. He put his phone away and asked, ‘What do you know of the man’s work?’
Bernard bundled up the top of his coat, hiding a pastel blue shirt and matching tie, and turned away from the wind. ‘Fuck, it’s cold out here. Can we do this later?’
‘Just answer the questions,’ Striker said.
Bernard took another quick puff and cursed. ‘Ostermann does a lot of work with high-risk offenders. The criminally insane. The mentally ill. Stuff like that. Works mainly out at Riverglen.’
‘Can I see his file?’
Bernard said nothing for a moment, he just stared back blankly.
‘You mean his
personnel
file?’
‘What other one is there?’
Bernard shook his head. ‘Sorry, man, they did away with all that after one of the patients stole a folder. One of the docs complained about it and the board ruled it a breach of privacy. The office got rid of all the staff’s private data six or seven months ago. Shredded everything.’
Striker gave Bernard a queer look. ‘
All
of it?’
Bernard asked, ‘Why are you so interested in Dr Ostermann anyway?’
‘Because he’s not being entirely forthcoming with us. I think he’s protecting one of his patients. Billy something. I need you to look into it. And while you’re at it, keep an eye open for a Dr Richter. His name was seen on Mandy Gill’s referral pad.’
Bernard bit his lip. ‘I dunno. We’re pretty busy right now.’
‘I’m not asking.’
Bernard let out a heavy breath. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘You owe me one,’ Striker reminded him.
Bernard threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot. ‘Fine, then, fine. Tomorrow, maybe.’
Striker nodded his understanding. This was Bernard Hamilton’s passive-aggressive way of trying to get out of doing the job. Striker pretended not to notice.
‘No maybe,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Uh sure.’
‘Track you down if I have to.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ Hamilton said, the irritation in his voice now audible.
Striker smiled. ‘You’re a saint, Bernard.’
Felicia always giggled at that joke, and Bernard just scowled.
‘Whatever, Striker. I’m freezing my balls off here, and I’m not getting paid for it.’ Bernard Hamilton turned about, his ponytail snapping across his upper shoulders, and stormed down the road towards his car.
Striker watched the man climb into a new-model Audi located on the east side of the road. The lights turned on, the motor revved, and Bernard Hamilton took off down the road. He was just barely out of sight when Striker’s cell vibrated against his side. He plucked it up and saw that he had voicemail. He scrolled back through the received calls and frowned when he saw the name: