Striker just nodded and left the office.
On the way back to the car, the Sarj’s words bore into him. The man was right. Larisa was a good person, and she had suffered a terrible tragedy. At a time when everyone should have stood up and been counted, they had all stepped back into the shadows. In essence, they had all failed her.
Him included.
Felicia looked over as they approached the car. She offered him a soft smile. ‘You okay there, Big Guy?’
Striker barely met her stare. ‘She became a goddam missing person, and no one noticed. Not even me.’
He climbed inside the vehicle and slammed the door shut.
They headed for Car 87 headquarters, the Vancouver Police Department’s Mental Health Team. Striker was determined to see if they had any files on Larisa Logan.
He was betting they had.
‘That’s odd,’ Felicia said as she read through the computer reports.
Striker drove eastward into the fast lane of West Broadway Street and turned south on Main. ‘What’s odd?’ he asked.
‘Larisa Logan’s already been run through the system this morning. Real early, too. Actually, there’s a CAD call for her from yesterday. And Mandy Gill as well.’
This piqued Striker’s interest. ‘Run? By who?’
She read through the electronic pages. ‘Car 87.’
‘Who’s in the car today?’
‘Hold on, it’s slow in coming . . . okay, here it is. Well, that figures. Just your favourite person in the whole wide world – Constable Bernard Hamilton.’
‘Bernard, huh.’ The words left a bad taste in Striker’s mouth. ‘So he gets off work real late last night, and already he’s out this morning, running people. Our victim and Larisa, no less.’
‘We worked late last night, too,’ Felicia replied. ‘And we’re out early this morning.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Striker explained. ‘We
need
to be out this early. We’re in the middle of an investigation here. Car 87 works regular hours unless something big comes up. So the question here is, what’s going on that made Bernard get off his lazy ass for once?’
Felicia made no response, and Striker thought about it as they drove on. The question felt heavy in his mind.
As they passed 29th Avenue, Striker looked at his watch. It was quarter to seven now, and the Thursday morning rush-hour traffic showed it. Cars were already lined up bumper to bumper all along the main drive, but at least they were moving. The sun was rising in the east, barely breaking up the heavy darkness of the night with a slash of light grey.
They sped up and drove down 41st. When he reached their destination, Striker pulled over and stared at the old house in front of him. It was an old heritage home, three levels, and beautiful with big white shutters and a double door in the front. To most people, it looked like a private residence. But anyone in policing knew the truth. This was the headquarters of Car 87 and the rest of the psychiatric nursing team. They had arrived.
Striker parked the car. Without a word, he climbed out and made his way towards the front door. Bernard Hamilton was somewhere inside the house, and Striker wanted to speak to the man.
Bernard had a few questions to answer.
The double front doors of Car 87 headquarters were always locked for security reasons, so Striker had to be let inside. His knock was answered by the very man he was looking for. Bernard Hamilton pulled open the door, saw them, and put on a wide smile that didn’t move the rest of his face.
‘Striker,’ he said. ‘Felicia. Good morning. You’re certainly up early.’
‘Same can be said of you,’ Striker replied.
He gave Bernard the once-over. As usual, the man had dressed with flair. The dress shirt he wore was made from pastel red silk – a hideous floral pattern – and the accessory band he used to braid his ponytail matched.
Striker stepped inside the foyer without an invitation, and Bernard automatically stepped back. As Striker turned around, he bumped into a pile of boxes on the floor. Each one had a label and a date on it. He looked at them.
‘Macy’s Day Sale?’ he asked.
‘We’re relocating,’ Bernard said. ‘Out east with everyone else.’
Striker nodded. He recalled hearing something about that. He turned the conversation to more immediate matters. ‘You research Dr Ostermann yet, like we asked?’
Bernard said nothing for a moment, but looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and then turned his head towards the den area where three women – all psych nurses Striker had never seen before – were having coffee and going over files from the previous night. ‘Perhaps we should take this discussion elsewhere.’
Striker didn’t much care. ‘You got an office?’
‘Right over here.’ Bernard showed them the way, then ushered them inside. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’
Striker didn’t argue the point, and Felicia nodded eagerly. When Bernard turned the corner and was gone from view, Striker shut the door and gave Felicia a hard look.
‘Good old Bernard doesn’t seem too happy to see us,’ he noted.
Felicia agreed. ‘You see that smile he gave us at the door?’
‘More plastic than a Ken doll.’
Felicia laughed at that, and Striker looked around the office. On the wall was a picture of James Dickson – a well-known cop who had received the Officer of the Year award for his work with the sex-trade workers in the Downtown East Side. Next to the computer, which was locked, sat a pen and clipboard. On it was a piece of white paper with two lists written down. On one side were Bernard’s accomplishments and commendations. On the other side was a list of all James Dickson’s achievements, leading up to his Officer of the Year award.
Felicia saw this, too, and laughed.
‘He wants to be cop of the year,’ she said.
Striker nodded. ‘No big secret there. Bernard always has. Too bad the guy doesn’t get it.’
‘
Get
it?’
‘Yeah, get it.’ Striker turned to face her. ‘The cops who win that award are never
trying
to win it. They get it, ’cause they’re good cops and they do a good job, and eventually they get recognized for it. It’s not a checkbox list.’
Felicia looked at the list one more time. ‘You never know. Bernard might get it; he is pretty ambitious, after all.’
‘Well, let me know when he does. I’ll start playing Russian roulette with six bullets.’
The door opened, and Bernard Hamilton walked in. He handed them both a cup of coffee, each with sugar and powdered cream, and they both thanked him for it. Felicia sipped hers; Striker just held the cup.
‘So: Dr Erich Ostermann,’ he said immediately.
Bernard let out a heavy breath. ‘Look, I tried to dig up some stuff on the man, but the file’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
Bernard nodded. ‘Like I said, they got rid of most of the personnel files a while back, after the leak. Department shredded every single one of them.’
Felicia stepped forward. ‘But there should still be a copy of Dr Ostermann’s employee record,’ she said.
‘Exactly,’ Bernard replied. ‘That was what I was looking for, but I can’t seem to find it.’ He looked around the small office and gestured to the boxes at each corner. ‘It’s probably here somewhere, but with the move going on, everything seems to be everywhere. Half the boxes are already in storage. I’ll keep looking though, and I’ll call you if I find something.’
‘
When
you find something,’ Striker said.
‘Sure. When.’
Striker watched Bernard avoid eye contact, and had little faith in ever receiving a phone call from the man. ‘So Ostermann’s out. What about this Dr Richter?’
Bernard shrugged and raised his hands. ‘Same thing. I can’t find any of the files right now, not with all this mess around here. For all I know they’ve already been taken out east.’
‘This isn’t helping us,’ Striker said.
Bernard sighed. ‘Look, I know Dr Ostermann well, and I have the utmost respect for the man. He’s a good man and he’s connected to management – he donates quite heavily to the PMBA, you know. As for this Dr Richter though, I’ve never heard of him.’
Striker nodded. He took out his notebook and wrote this information down – for the sole purpose of showing Bernard that everything he did was documented. ‘We’re trying to find Larisa Logan. You ever deal with her?’
For a quick moment, Bernard looked lost. Frozen. His fingers tightened on the Styrofoam cup he was holding. Then he blinked and sipped his coffee.
‘The name is familiar,’ he said.
‘It should be,’ Striker said. ‘You ran her this morning.’
Bernard said nothing, but his face turned red.
‘I know, Bernard. I saw the call.’
‘Well, so what if you saw the call?’ Bernard threw his cup into the garbage and moved around to the other side of his desk. ‘That call should never have been put on the board in the first place. It was
private
. Goddam dispatchers.’
‘So what’s going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘Then why all the sensitivity?’
Bernard sat down at his desk and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. His long drawn face looked even longer at that moment, and the muscles beneath his sagging skin looked tired and flaccid. ‘I can’t say too much on this one.’
‘Can’t, or won’t?’
‘Both,’ he finally said, and the irritation in his voice was audible. ‘There are rules, Striker. Privacy issues.
Sensitive
ones.’
‘I’m aware of the legal issues.’
Bernard laughed bemusedly. ‘Not just legal ones. And not just departmental policy. There’s also the Mental Health Board to consider.’
Striker said nothing; he just looked at Felicia, saw the hard expression on her face, and knew that she wasn’t falling for the stream of bullshit either. She stepped forward, came right up to the desk, and looked down at Bernard.
‘We’ve gone through all the PRIME files,’ she explained, ‘and all the CAD calls, too. We know you’ve been running the woman through the system. But there also seems to be something missing here. Something happening
behind
the scenes. We were hoping your file could connect the dots.’
‘Our file?’ Bernard said. ‘What file?’
‘She’s had depressive issues,’ Striker said. ‘Surely, the Mental Health Team—’
‘There’s nothing here,’ Bernard said. He brushed his hand over his ponytail, as if making sure the braid was still in place.
Felicia turned to Striker and frowned. ‘The woman’s got to have a mental health file,’ she said. ‘Given what’s happened. But I’ve been through the database three times. There’s nothing there to be seen.’
To be seen
.
Her words clicked something in Striker’s mind, and he smiled at Felicia.
‘I know why,’ he said. ‘You can’t find the file in PRIME because the system won’t let you. The file has been hidden. It’s
privatized
.’
There was much to do. Plans –
good
plans – always took time. Preparation. Rehearsals. Risk management.
The Adder took nothing for granted.
The morning sky was finally turning blue when the old clerk from Home Depot shuffled up the walkway in his bright orange work apron and unlocked the front doors. The Adder watched him go, then waited for a few minutes until other customers entered the store. When at least ten had gone in – a high enough number to blend in with as an ordinary shopper – he adjusted his hat, put on his glasses, and entered the store.
He made his way under the harsh artificial lights of the warehouse as the PA system broadcast details of all the great sales that were available today. Something to do with bathroom renovations. He wasn’t really listening; his mind was focused on the supply list.
He found Aisle 6: Building Materials, and bought himself one hundred ten-inch wood screws and six steel brackets.
He found the lumber yard and grabbed himself three two-bysixes, cutting each one into six-foot lengths. Then he found a solid oak door. It was heavy as hell and by far the most expensive item on his list.
Lastly, he picked up five large canisters of Steinman’s wood varnish – this was essential.
On his way to the checkouts, he passed the power tool section and stopped. A thought occurred to him. Sound; it was ever so important. He steered his buggy of lumber and supplies into the area and found the cordless drill section. There were many brands to choose from – Bosch and Milwaukee and Ridgid – but each unit was not what he was looking for.
A young sales clerk came over and spoke to him uninvited. ‘The DeWalt there has the most power, if that’s what you’re looking for – 450 unit watts of power. But the Makita has the longest battery life.’
The Adder picked up each of the screw guns and hit the triggers on each, one at a time. He heard the loud, high-pitched whirr of the motors and shook his head. ‘No good,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for one that’s
quiet
.’
‘Quiet?’ the clerk asked.
‘Ear problems.’
‘Oh, we have hearing protection in Aisle—’
‘I’ll look through them myself, thanks.’
The clerk nodded, then walked down the aisle to assist another customer. With him gone, the Adder turned back to his task. He took his time, testing each one of the drills. It was the seventh one that made him smile. A simple Black & Decker. Less power than some of the others, but still plenty enough for the task that was required. But most important was the noise level. The Adder hit the trigger and listened to the soft whirr of the motor.
It was almost negligible.
He threw it into the buggy, walked to the checkout and rang his items through. Excluding the door, the cost came to one hundred and ninety-eight dollars and ninety-seven cents. The Adder smiled at that. Less than two hundred bucks.
Not bad for a murder kit.
Striker left the mental health office of Car 87 feeling angry and frustrated with the whole situation. Ever since he had joined the Vancouver Police Department, he had noticed that there had been a lack of communication between all of the health emergency services – the police, the paramedics, the fire fighters, the hospitals and psychiatric wards. Although a damned nuisance, it was understandable.
But how in the hell were they supposed to do their job when even their
own
department hid files from them?