He shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right. God knows I’ve pissed off someone up there.’ He pushed the button for the third floor. ‘We’ll hit Personnel first. See if
they have a folder on Archer Davies.’
Felicia agreed.
Moments later, they stood in the Human Resources archives reading through the file. The bundle was thin, consisting of a record of employment with the City of Vancouver, a list of mandatory
courses the man had passed to be exempt from Block 3 of the Academy, a statement from his Field Training Officer, advising that Davies was fully competent, and a Deputy Chief release, ending his
probationary period early by six months.
‘That’s unusual,’ Felicia remarked.
Striker agreed. It was unusual, but not unheard of with interdepartmental transfers – especially for employees who brought with them a needed skill set.
Like being able to use C4 explosives to breach barricaded entranceways.
They left Human Resources and headed for the Deputy Chief’s office. Laroche’s secretary gave them the reports that the RCMP had faxed over – the shooting of Archer Davies and
the police-involved shooting of Carlos Chipotle.
Striker felt the thickness of the bundle and nodded approvingly. These were the
full
reports, and he and Felicia wasted no time. They took the paperwork into the hall, found a corner,
and began reading.
The first thing Striker noticed was the call code. The file was marked not as a Homicide, but as an Attempted Murder. It told him one very important fact – that Archer Davies had indeed
survived his wounds.
‘We need to talk to this man,’ he said.
Felicia nodded eagerly. ‘One more avenue to follow.’
Striker continued reading. The report was long and included photographic evidence of the crime scene, a detailed map of the house where the shooting took place, and dozens of printed-out PDF
files, which were mostly civilian witness statements. Once done, Striker handed Felicia the last page and waited for her to finish reading.
‘Well?’ he finally asked.
She stared blankly at the papers and did not smile. ‘It’s pretty much what we already know.’
‘It damn well
mirrors
Osaka’s report.’
‘Almost. Unlike Osaka’s report, this one is pretty poorly written.’
Striker shook his head. ‘I disagree with that completely.’
Felicia gave him an odd look. She fanned out a few of the pages on a nearby filing cabinet and started quoting lines. ‘Chipotle acted erratically . . . He displayed hostile actions . . .
Police responded as required . . . Don’t you see? The author doesn’t explain
how
Chipotle acted erratically, or
what
his hostile actions were, and he doesn’t
even go into detail about how many rounds were fired in the mayhem. Someone should teach this guy a thing or two about detail.’
Striker grinned. ‘On the contrary, I think he knows his details perfectly. In fact, I think he’s expertly written this report without really saying all that much. Pretty hard to
counter it in court, if it ever went that far.’
Felicia took a hard look at him. ‘You think the author was
purposely
vague.’
‘I’d bet my career on it.’
‘Why?’
‘Look at the badge number. Who authored the report?’
Felicia looked down at the header, and a shocked sound escaped her lips. The first two letters were VA, meaning the author was not a Mountie but a member of the Vancouver Police Department.
‘Badge Number 1176? Isn’t that—’
‘Chad Koda.’
Felicia stacked all the papers together. ‘The more we research this file, the more circular it gets.’
‘And the more frustrating.’ Striker punched the elevator button and waited for the booth to arrive. ‘We need to speak to someone who was on scene at ground zero. This breacher,
this Archer Davies guy. Hopefully, he hasn’t moved out of province.’ He looked back at the report. ‘Where does it say he lives now?’
Felicia shuffled through the pages until she reached an updated Entities section, one that listed names and addresses for court subpoena purposes. She skimmed down the list and, after two pages,
let out an excited gasp. ‘You’re not gonna believe this. The last known address for Archer Davies is down on Zero Avenue.’
‘In White Rock?’
Felicia nodded. ‘The Sunset Grove Care Centre.’
It was one-thirty in the afternoon when Harry pulled back into town in his brother’s personal vehicle, a new-model Dodge pickup truck. Black. He drove down Camosun Street
and parked out front of Striker’s house, directly across from the park. By the time he had rammed the gear shift in Park and shouldered open the door, one of the patrolmen guarding the house
was already fast approaching him.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ the young cop asked.
Harry did not recognize the man. He was tall and thin, and had a look of no-nonsense about him. Harry flashed the badge and the man nodded.
‘Detective Striker isn’t here,’ the cop said.
‘I know that; I’m here to see Rothschild.’
The patrolman looked at him somewhat uncertainly, and Harry realized it was probably because of his appearance; he was unshaven and dishevelled today, wearing yesterday’s clothes –
all gifts from a night spent sleeping in the truck.
‘Long shift,’ he finally said.
The cop just nodded.
Harry opened the wooden gate and stepped into the yard. He hiked the cement walkway, climbed the porch steps to the front door and knocked three times. Moments later, he heard the sound of
footsteps inside and sensed someone looking through the peephole.
A lock clicked, a chain rattled, the door swung open.
Mike Rothschild stood in the doorway. It had been a while since Harry had seen the man, maybe eighteen months, and the time had not been kind. The lines on Rothschild’s face were cut deep
into his flesh, like little dugout trenches on a battlefield. Like Harry, the man looked worn thin.
Rothschild took a half-step onto the balcony. ‘What are you doing here?’
Harry did not smile. He just took a step forward and met Rothschild’s stare.
‘You and I have to talk,’ he said.
The first thing Striker did upon returning to the Sunset Grove Care Centre was head for the front desk. Seated there, glossing over the newspaper with a steaming cup of coffee
in her hand, was a new woman who looked terribly serious. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight that it tugged at her eyes and made her face look like she’d had one too many lifts.
Striker showed the front-desk clerk his credentials, then grabbed the sign-in book. As he flipped backwards through the pages, Felicia watched eagerly beside him. The book was relatively new,
and he reached the first page quickly. He looked at the clerk. ‘Do you have the previous book?’
Her eyes flitted up from her paper. ‘
Previous
book?’
‘For signing in.’
She stared back through steely dark eyes. Said nothing. And then finally moved off her stool as if this required all the energy she had left in her body. She slowly wandered over to the filing
cabinet that sat behind the front counter, scoured through the top drawer, and eventually returned with another binder made up of imitation black leather.
‘It cannot leave the front desk.’
Striker offered no comment. He took the book, snapped it open to the end, and began turning back the pages, one by one. He found Osaka’s name only three pages back. And this time the
signature was not beside Sal Hurst’s room number, but beside another name they were looking for.
Archer Davies.
Felicia smiled. ‘There it is. Archer Davies. Room 12.’
Striker looked up at the woman behind the desk. ‘Did you ever have any dealings with Inspector Osaka?’
‘No.’
Striker thought of the nurse he’d spoken with during their previous visit. ‘Did anyone else?’
The woman glanced down at the book. ‘Room 12 is Nurse Janet’s rounds. She’s in today. Probably somewhere down the hall. Ask her; she would know.’ She looked back down at
her newspaper as if the detectives no longer existed.
Striker paid the woman no heed. He closed the book and slid it back to her, then proceeded down the hall. A nervous tension filled him, and for some reason the hall looked longer and narrower
than it had the first time he’d been here. Everything felt dark and heavy.
He reached Room 12 and went inside.
A man occupied the bed. He was hooked up to an air compressor of some kind, and a soft intermittent
shu-shush
sound filled the room.
One look at the man and any person could tell he was not well. His face had an aged appearance. The colour of his skin was off, like cream gone bad, and the skin rimming his eyes was a faint
purple colour. Beneath the stubble of his face, and under the faded tattoos of his arms, the meat and fat were gone, eaten away by time and sickness. It gave his body the appearance of a deflated
balloon, one that had long since lost its resiliency. Compared to this man, Sal Hurst looked ready to run a marathon.
Felicia neared Striker, whispered: ‘He looks like he’s already dead.’
Striker thought the same. Any previous hope of questioning this man had been wishful thinking at best. Felicia moved up to the bed and gently placed her hand on the man’s left arm.
‘Sir?’ she asked. ‘
Sir?’
But no response came.
‘Can I help you?’ a voice said from behind Striker.
He turned around and found himself standing face-to-face with a tall thin brunette who was wearing a pale-blue uniform and a pair of matching clogs. In her hands was a clipboard with some charts
on it. Striker flashed her the badge.
‘Are you Janet?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m the nurse in this wing.’
‘We’re here to speak to this man. Is there any way you can wake him for us?’
The nurse just smiled sadly. ‘I wish I could,’ she replied. ‘But that’s completely impossible, I’m afraid . . . Mr Davies is in a coma.’
For the bomber, the drive to the Sunset Grove Care Centre was one of nervousness and fear. With every passing mile, an indescribable desperation grew within him. He felt like
there was an unknown organism eating him from the inside out. Sucking away his strength. Devouring his hope.
When they reached the parking lot, Molly kept the motor running and did not move from her seat. It was her usual passive-aggressive way of telling him she wasn’t coming inside. He offered
no reaction to it. She had never come in to see him. Not once in all the time he had been here.
Why should she change now?
He fumbled for the latch, found it, and opened the door. Outside, the air was hotter than it had been in the van, and it seemed to beat down on him relentlessly as he crossed the blacktop and
approached the entranceway. When he walked inside the front doors of the care home, the interior air washed over him and was a cool relief. Compared to the bright glare of the midday sun, the foyer
was masked in darkness, and he took a moment to let his eyes adapt. Splotches of dark browns impeded his vision.
The world felt distorted. Off-kilter.
The fever was worsening.
He moved towards the south corridor, walking on feet that felt swollen and oddly light. Drops of sweat rolled down his brow and neck, tickling his overheated skin in the cold draught of the air
conditioning.
‘Sir? . . . Sir? . . .
Sir!
’
He stopped. Looked left. Saw a very serious woman.
‘You
must
sign in.’
‘Of course.’
He floated left. Fumbled with the pen. Scribbled something in the book.
‘You don’t look well, sir. Is everything okay?’
‘Tickety-boo.’
He put down the pen. Turned towards the south hall. Headed down it.
Ten steps later, he reached Room 12 and came to a hard stop. Standing at the foot of the bed, talking to Nurse Janet, was the one man he had been battling ever since this nightmare had begun
– Homicide Detective Jacob Striker.
The cop had finally found them.
‘How long has he been like this?’ Striker asked the nurse.
‘As long as I’ve been here,’ she said. ‘And that’s going on two years now. But I think it’s been longer. He was transferred here some time ago –
I’d have to check his records.’
Striker nodded. He looked down at the pale man lying there, at all the tubes running from his arms to the machines standing bedside, and he noticed something. Where the man’s left hand
should have been, there was only a mangled stump of flesh.
‘Is something wrong, Detective?’ the nurse asked.
He explained: ‘I’ve read the police reports. I know Archer was shot. But this,’ – he pointed to the stubby remains of the man’s left arm –
‘
this
was not in the report. What happened? Did it get gangrenous?’
The nurse shook her head. ‘We didn’t remove it. That was a result of the explosion.’
Striker and Felicia shared a glance. ‘What explosion?’
‘Perhaps I’d better get the file.’ The nurse left the room, and they were left with nothing but the soft
shu-shush
sound of the air compressor. She returned a few
minutes later with a green folder and continued speaking as if the conversation had never stopped. ‘Ah yes, here it is. The bullet entered the spinal cord at the T11-12 level’ –
she glanced up from the papers – ‘that’s the middle of the back.’
‘We understand that,’ Striker said.
‘Autopsies . . . of course you do.’ The nurse carried on. ‘The bullet left him paralysed, of course. But that was not the reason for the coma. That was brought on by the trauma
from the explosion.’
‘Again, what explosion?’ Felicia asked.
The nurse flipped through the pages. ‘It says here an explosion occurred during the incident, but it doesn’t say exactly what.’
Striker gestured for the report. ‘May I?’
The nurse gave him an uncertain look, but then conceded. Striker took less than five minutes perusing the material, and by the time he was done, he understood things more clearly.