It was maddening.
Felicia spoke out loud as she thought it through. ‘Larisa was hired by the Vancouver Police Department, not directly by the City. If they’ve privatized her file, then there’s something in it that’s obviously considered sensitive.’
Striker agreed with this. Making a file privatized was not out of the ordinary at the department, especially if it concerned a fellow employee. Most of the time it was done out of a matter of respect – the person in the file didn’t want co-workers knowing the innermost details of their private life. Making the file privatized locked everyone out from reading it.
At times it made sense.
But Larisa Logan’s file had been taken one step further. Not only had the file been privatized, but it been rendered invisible on the system, meaning that only the people with previously granted authorization could even see that the file existed. For all others, it just plain didn’t even show up.
This was a process rarely done, and it made Striker wonder: what exactly had happened to Larisa over the past year?
‘I’ve never dealt with one of these files before,’ Felicia said. ‘How do we even bring it up then?’
‘We don’t.’ Striker gave her a quick glance while driving. ‘Management really doesn’t like to do that – it brings up a whole lot of privacy issues with the Union and Human Resources. Labour law stuff.’
‘Well, someone must have access.’
‘They do.’
‘Inspector Laroche?’ she asked.
Striker laughed at that. ‘Are you kidding me? Laroche would do everything in his power
not
to let us see the file. He’d bury it the first chance he got. Last thing he’s gonna do is sign off on anything that might open a can of worms on him.’
‘Then how are we ever going to see it?’
‘We need a higher power than Laroche for this one. Superintendent Brian Stewart.’
Striker headed for 2120 Cambie Street to speak with the superintendent. Stewart was their only hope of gaining quick access to the file. Otherwise, they’d be forced to deal with one of the deputy chiefs.
And that always took time.
Superintendent Stewart’s office was on the seventh floor of the Cambie Street headquarters and faced out over the North Shore mountains. When Striker and Felicia knocked on the door, the sun was just cresting the far-away peaks and the entire skyline was awash in a wintertime blue.
It was eight o’clock.
When they entered his office, the superintendent was sitting behind his desk with a pile of ledgers on one side and a stack of handmade notes on the other. In front of him sat a cup of coffee and an empty plate with some leftover pastry on it. He pushed the plate away from his big belly and wiped his moustache for crumbs.
‘Morning, sir,’ they both said.
‘Shipwreck,’ he said. ‘Wow, it’s been a while.’
Felicia gave Striker a surprised look, one the superintendent caught. He explained: ‘Your partner and I worked together in our Patrol days. For what – two years?’
‘Seemed like two thousand.’
Stewart let loose a deep belly laugh. ‘Then Mr Hotshot here went to Homicide.’
Striker gestured to the man’s lapels. ‘I’m not the one wearing pips.’
Stewart raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah. Well, maybe you were the smart one. God, look at this mess.’ He gestured to the mass of paperwork on the desk. ‘It’s all CompStat. All of it! Goddam meeting after meeting.
Stats
for City Council.’
Striker could have cringed at the thought. He’d been to one CompStat meeting before when he was an acting sergeant for the day. It had been a morning of drudgery as much as trickery. And as Striker soon learned, statistics could be played one way or the other. Some of the inspectors were wizards at it.
Well, they can have it, he thought. As far as Striker was concerned, there were three rooms in hell – the room with lava, the room with knives, and the room where they held CompStat meetings.
Superintendent Stewart stood up from his desk and extended his hand to Felicia. As he did so, his full girth became more noticeable. His belly hung down over his belt, making his hundred pounds of excess body weight apparent and offering an explanation for the ruddiness of his cheeks.
Felicia shook his hand, then took a seat next to Striker.
‘So what brings you up to the seventh floor?’ Stewart finally said.
Striker explained the whole story, holding nothing back. With every detail, the superintendent’s expression hardened. When Striker was done, the jovial mood had completely left the superintendent and he looked every bit the man who suffered from high blood pressure and cholesterol issues.
‘Can you bring up the file?’ Striker asked.
Stewart rubbed his fingers down the sides of his greying moustache and nodded slowly. ‘I can,’ he said carefully, but made no move to do so. He looked at the computer screen for a long moment, thinking, then looked back up at Striker and Felicia. ‘This normally requires paperwork. How are you planning on using this information?’
‘You mean, are we seeking charges?’ Striker asked.
‘Exactly.’
‘No. We’re only trying to find Larisa. For her own welfare as much as anything else. So far we’re coming up blank. We’re hoping that her history will give us something to help track her down – or at least understand what’s going on in her head right now. Because otherwise, we’re pretty much at a standstill here. And to be honest, I’m worried she might be in danger – if not from something in our investigation, then from herself.’
Stewart nodded. He logged into the system and brought up the file. He then printed it out, slid it into a legal-sized envelope, and handed it to Striker. When Striker grabbed it, the superintendent did not let go.
‘I don’t have to remind you this is
extremely
sensitive.’
Striker nodded. ‘It’ll be shredded the moment we’re done.’
‘You shred it yourself, Shipwreck.’
‘Understood, sir.’
Stewart finally let go of the papers, but even as he did, his fingers seemed reluctant. Striker handed the envelope to Felicia, then stood up to leave the office. ‘We were never here,’ he said.
‘I heard nothing,’ Stewart replied.
Striker grinned and left the office with Felicia by his side.
Once back in the cruiser, Striker drove a few blocks away from the station and parked beside Jonathon Rogers Park on Manitoba Street. Felicia opened the envelope, removed the papers and read through them. She did so silently, and the waiting made Striker anxious. He got out of the car and used the moment to call home.
Courtney answered on the first ring.
‘Hey, Pumpkin.’
Her tone was stilted. ‘Were you going through my MyShrine profile?’
Striker frowned; he had expected as much. ‘Yes, well, no – it wasn’t me. Ich from work had to do it—’
‘Oh my GOD, Dad, a guy from your work! I’ve got my personal stuff on there! I can’t believe you did that. It’s, like, totally
private
.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but we didn’t have a choice.’ He explained to her how he had received the message, and it seemed to placate her a little. ‘Do you know this guy? This
Adder
?’
‘No. I’ve never heard of the guy before.’
‘Well, I don’t like it.’
‘It’s no big deal, Dad. You get tons of people sending you messages all the time and requesting to be your friend. I only add the people I know.’
Striker still wasn’t happy with the situation. ‘You had your security levels set to minimum, so anyone there could see your pictures.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m on there. And whoever looks at those photos can connect me to you – I don’t want you exposed like that.’
She let out a soft laugh. ‘After what happened last year, everyone knows you’re my dad.’
Striker nodded as he thought that over. In last year’s case, both of their pictures had been plastered all over the internet, on TV, and in the papers. It had been a full-blown media nightmare. Something few people in this city were likely to forget.
‘Maybe so,’ he finally said. ‘But there’s no point in making it any easier for them. When this is all done, I want you to remove my photos from your site and keep your privacy settings at maximum.’
‘Dad—’
‘I mean it.’
‘Oh my God, fine – but you’re being paranoid.’
‘You’re sixteen years old and I’m your father – it’s my job to be paranoid. Besides, you would be, too, if you knew how many creeps are out there.’
‘Like I said, paranoid.’
‘What time is it anyway – shouldn’t you be on your way to school right now?’
‘It’s a professional day.’
‘Like last week?’
When she didn’t answer, Striker forced a laugh, but the tension never left his chest. He reminded Courtney not to touch the computer, to get her ass to school, and to make sure she was on time for her occupational therapy appointment. Then he said goodbye. When he hung up and returned to the car, Felicia had already finished reading the report.
‘Well?’ he asked. The waiting was eating away at his patience.
She brushed her long dark hair out of her eyes and sighed. ‘It’s all here in black and white, Jacob. Larisa had a total breakdown.’
‘How? Why?’
‘There was a motor vehicle accident,’ Felicia said. ‘Both her parents and her sister were killed in the crash – their car skidded on the ice and went into the oncoming lane. Happened two days before Christmas.’
‘The poor girl,’ he said.
Felicia met his stare. ‘It gets
worse
. Her younger sister was burned badly as a result, and held on for nearly three weeks before succumbing to her injuries. Third-degree burns to eighty per cent of her body.’
Striker thought this over and felt so bad for Larisa. ‘No wonder she broke down. So much grief. All three of them.’
‘Not just grief. Guilt.’
‘Guilt?’
‘Larisa was the one driving the car. And she escaped without so much as a scratch. CIU said it was a miracle she lived, much less escaped unharmed.’
CIU. The Collision Investigation Unit.
Striker let this thought settle in, and he felt a tightness spread all through his core. Such a tragedy. He looked over at Felicia. ‘Please tell me she wasn’t drinking and driving.’
‘Not a drop. Stone-cold sober.’
‘Thank God.’
‘But the report does say that speed was a factor. Larisa was driving too fast for the road conditions. It was wintertime, after all. Icy out. And dark. Happened around eleven o’clock at night, after she’d already worked a long shift.’
‘She fall asleep?’
‘No one knows – not even Larisa. She couldn’t recall anything about the accident. Who knows, maybe that was the beginning of her breakdown.’
‘I’ll bet it was. Let me see that.’
Striker took the bundle of papers. The words were harsh and it felt like he was being sucked into a real-life nightmare. It was all there, police statement after police statement. Ambulance crew reports. Medical reports. The file was
thick
. And at the end was an addendum from the assistant to the police psychologist.
The name was Richter, and at the top of the page was a stylized MVC:
Mapleview Clinic
.
‘There it is again,’ Striker said. ‘Dr Richter. That’s the same doctor that gave the prescription to Mandy Gill. That message Larisa left might not be entirely off the mark. She might actually have known Mandy then. The connection is there.’
Felicia shrugged. ‘That’s not too surprising. The police psychiatrists and psychologists deal with all sorts of mental health problems. And both Mandy Gill and Larisa Logan suffered from depression. They might have met through the counselling sessions at the clinic.’
Striker nodded. ‘It just seems awfully coincidental to me. I mean, what are the odds? Mandy Gill is our first file, and we know from her medication that she was given prescriptions by Dr Richter at Mapleview Clinic. Then this whole thing with Larisa goes down, and she was seeing Dr Richter, too.’
‘It’s not odd,’ Felicia said. ‘In fact, it’s quite the opposite – it makes perfect sense. It’s not that they both needed the police because they went to Mapleview; it’s that they had mental health problems that Mapleview was dealing with, and those same mental health problems were what brought them police attention.’
Striker said nothing back, he just thought things over.
‘The message from Larisa,’ he finally said. ‘She said she knew Mandy had been murdered.’
‘And once again, her message came
after
we’d been seen on TV; she probably saw us, right? Just like you said about the message from this Adder loon. He saw us on TV after the incident occurred, and then reacted. It’s standard.’
Striker thought over her logic; she was right about that. And for the first time, he wondered: was his connection to Larisa clouding his judgement?
‘Read through the police psychologist report,’ Felicia continued. ‘It also says that Larisa suffered from paranoia. Some of the medications she was on were to counter that.’ She reached out and touched his arm. ‘I know you don’t like to think this, Jacob, but Larisa isn’t the same person you remember. Seeing her family killed like that, it obviously put her over the edge. She had a breakdown. The woman is
sick
.’
Striker nodded. ‘I won’t deny that. But just because she’s sick doesn’t mean she doesn’t know something. She might have evidence on Mandy’s death – it is possible – and if that’s the case, then we need to know what. Keep reading through the files. Run every alias and associate the woman has. See if you can find a connection somewhere. Nothing is too small.’
Felicia let out a tired sound, as if she was sick of reviewing the same reports over and over again, but did as requested. Meanwhile, Striker got the phone number of Dr Richter from the details page and called it. The phone rang once then went straight to a standard pre-recorded computer greeting:
The
person you are trying to contact is not available
. . .
Striker waited for the beep, then left a message, telling the doctor who he was and that he needed to speak to him about a particular patient. When he finally hung up, Felicia was also finishing reading the reports. She made a
hmm
sound.