by Sean Slater
‘Huh?’
‘How long you been here?’
‘Uh . . . twenty minutes, maybe more.’
Striker nodded. ‘Did you clear the place?’
Wong jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘All the other apartments are unoccupied. In fact, she’s not even supposed to be in here. This place was condemned over a month ago. Everyone was supposed to have moved out by now. Who knows why she’s even here.’
‘She’s in here because she had nowhere else to go. You got the manager’s number?’
‘In the car.’
Striker forced a smile. ‘Well, we can’t read it from here.’
Wong clued in and left the room. When Striker heard the young constable’s police boots clomping down the steps, he focused his attention back on the dead girl before him. He tried to think of her as ‘the body’ or ‘the deceased’.
As anything but Mandy.
It was impossible. His conscience would not allow it. Memories hit him, and all of them sad. He had hoped she would escape this place. This area. This rotten city altogether. But like so many others before her, she hadn’t left. And in the end, she’d found her own way out.
The only way she knew.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I should have done more.’
He reached out and gently touched her face.
And he frowned.
She was still slightly warm.
A thought occurred to him. He stood back up from Mandy Gill’s body, walked into the kitchenette, and approached the stove. On it sat a carton of milk. He touched it.
It was still cool.
Not a lot of time had passed since the woman’s death – too much for any hope of resuscitation, but not a lot in terms of a crime scene. And every Sudden Death had to be considered a crime until ruled otherwise. He took out his pen and notebook, and wrote down: Time? When he looked back up again, his eyes found the throw-rug on the floor and lingered there.
The rug was an old thing, probably something Mandy had snagged from the Salvation Army or the First United Church. Green threadbare fabric, just like the recliner, with dirty yellow flower designs.
But the colour and pattern were not what stole Striker’s attention – it was the strands of the carpet. The indentations in the weave. And the more he looked at it, the more he realized that the chair had been moved from its normal resting spot. Now it was angled westward. Facing out of the window.
It was odd.
Had Mandy wanted to watch the setting sun during her death? The timing would seem to suggest so. And if not, what had she been looking at?
Striker approached the window. Outside, the dusk was slipping slowly by. In the coming twilight, streaks of blood-orange sun blistered the charcoal sky, making the world look warmer than it actually was.
Three storeys down, the next neighbouring lot was vacant.
Striker scanned the area. The lot was filled with construction debris from the demolished house. He was about to focus his attention back on the room and begin sorting through Mandy’s articles when something outside the window caught his eye – a glint of something metallic in the sun’s fading rays. On the ledge, just outside the window, was a small object with a circular glass front.
A camera.
It was facing inside the room.
Striker grabbed on to the window and tried to lift it, but time and rot had caused the frame to swell. As a result, the window was wedged tight. Impossible to open.
Whoever had placed the camera on the ledge had done so from the outside.
Striker considered this. He leaned forward for a closer look, then heard a soft, raspy sound behind him. He spun around, not knowing what to expect.
After a short moment, he relaxed. It was just air escaping the body – a normal occurrence during the beginning of decomposition. Relieved, he turned back to focus on the window once more. What he saw shocked him.
The camera was gone.
Four
The Lucky Lodge was small for a rooming house. Each floor had only three units per side, and each unit was an SRO – Single Room Occupancy. Because of this, there were only six rooms on the third floor, and only three of them faced west – one on either side of Mandy Gill’s unit.
The window ledge where the camera had been set lay closer to the south neighbour than the north, so Striker headed for unit 305. He kept his pistol drawn and made his way towards the hall.
Without the ambience of Constable Wong’s flashlight, the darkness of the complex seemed thicker than before. Deeper. And as if to make the situation even harder for him, the blazing orange light of dusk faded completely as the sun slipped in behind the blackish western cloud banks.
Striker stood behind the cover of the door frame and angled his flashlight. It was a mini Maglite. It didn’t hold a candle to the full-sized ones patrol members used, but it was all he had. He rotated the lens to turn the narrow beam brighter and shone it down the hall.
Everything was still. All the doors were closed.
‘Vancouver Police!’ he yelled. ‘Make yourself known!’
No reply came back, only silence.
For a moment, Striker considered waiting for Constable Wong. Rookie or not, two cops always gave better odds – and that was on the assumption that there would be only one threat awaiting him in the other room.
But thoughts of a suspect escaping ate away at him. He readied his pistol and slowly moved down the hall. When he reached the door to unit 305, he stopped. Listened.
Nothing but silence.
He reached out and grabbed the doorknob. The steel was cold to the touch. When he turned it, the knob refused to move. It was locked from the inside.
‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker said again. ‘I know you’re in there. I need to talk to you about the tenant in the next suite. Open the door.’
Again there was only silence. And then . . . .
A sound.
It took Striker less than a second to identify it – the soft, scraping noise of a window being raised.
He took a quick step back, then jumped forward and kicked the heel of his foot between the doorknob and frame. Entry took only two kicks. The steel lock remained intact, but the rotting wood of the frame let loose a loud snaaaap! and broke inwards. The door flew back, slammed into the wall, and Striker aimed his gun and flashlight all around the room, hitting each of the four corners.
No one was there.
He quickly surveyed the room. The layout was a mirror image of Mandy Gill’s unit. Kitchenette, cot, washroom and main sitting area, all in one. The kitchen was vacant. The underside of the cot was visible with no one beneath it. And the bathroom had no one inside.
The window was wide open.
‘Fuck,’ Striker growled.
He hurried across the room to the window and looked down at the vacant lot below. With the sun all but gone, the shadows were wider and deeper. Everything was grey and black now. Impossible to distinguish.
There were many places to hide.
Striker assessed it all – from the huge commercial garbage bins of the back lane, to the underground parking lot on Gore Avenue, to the heavy row of bushes that flanked the communal area of the Prior Street Park.
Everywhere he looked there were escape routes.
He spotted Constable Wong returning from his patrol car.
‘Cover the southwest corner!’ Striker ordered. ‘Someone just took off from this room! Call for more units and a dog. I’ll take northwest!’
The young constable froze, though for only an instant, before nodding and racing south. When he disappeared behind the curve of the next building, Striker turned back and ran for the doorway. He was barely halfway across the kitchenette when his shoes caught on something. He stopped running, looked down. In the dimness of the room, the objects he had stepped on were not easy to define, so he shone his flashlight on them.
Not plastic, but wire. Trays of some kind.
Refrigerator trays.
The thought had b
arely crossed his mind when the fridge door came flying open. It hit Striker with enough force to send him reeling backwards. He landed hard on the floor, and rolled. He raised the gun, shoved his back tight against the far wall, and readied himself for an attack.
But none came.
He looked across the room. Racing for the window was a figure – average height. Lean build. Dark clothes.
‘Stop! Police!’ Striker ordered.
But the suspect ignored him.
Striker scrambled to his feet and dived towards the window – but the man was fast. He was already three-quarters of the way out by the time Striker reached him. He grabbed on to the suspect’s hand and yank him back. But it was too late. The suspect slipped out of reach, and Striker was left standing there, clutching one of the man’s black leather gloves.
The man plummeted three storeys down. No scream, just silence. He hit the crabgrass, rolled down the small slope of hill, then got back to his feet.
Striker tried to flood the man with light from his flashlight, but from three storeys up the beam was too weak. All he saw was black clothing. A dark hoodie. And beneath that, what appeared to be a black leather mask. The suspect leaned down and picked up his camera. Then, for a brief moment, he looked back up at the window.
‘Don’t move!’ Striker ordered.
But the man ignored him again; he turned and raced into the shadows of the south lane. And then he was gone.
Five
Five minutes later, Striker looked up and down Union Street for the red and blue glow of the Canine Unit’s lights. When he didn’t see them, he got on his phone and called the Central Dispatcher, Sue Rhaemer.
‘Where the hell’s the dog?’ he demanded.
Rhaemer paused for barely a moment, and Striker knew she was checking the GPS. ‘He’s just a few blocks out.’
‘Well, tell him to get his ass here now.’
Striker had barely ended the conversation when the dogman’s emergency lights tinted the air and a white Chevy Tahoe came racing around the bend of Gore Avenue. The man behind the wheel was Harry Hooch, one of the department’s best dogmen.
The Tahoe came to a sliding stop on the icy road surface and stopped right in front of the Lucky Lodge. Hooch climbed out. He was shorter than most cops, maybe five foot seven, and he was rail-thin, weighing less than a hundred and sixty pounds. But what Harry Hooch lacked in height and weight he made up for with his steel determination. He yanked open the rear door and Sable jumped out. The Shepherd’s colouring was completely black. Even in the grey light of the coming night, her coat glistened.
‘Where’s the scent?’ Hooch asked.
Striker pointed to the area where the suspect had fled. ‘Landed there. On the slope beneath the window.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘None. The area’s clean.’
Hooch said nothing. He got the Shepherd to sniff the glove, then led the dog across the lot and got to work.
Striker watched eagerly as the Shepherd scoured back and forth in search of the trail. When the dog finally picked up the scent, she beelined down the south lane of Union.
Hooch went with her, and so did Striker. The dogman didn’t want the extra protection, and the scowl on his face showed that; like most dogmen, Hooch liked to play the game solo. But Striker wasn’t about to leave him without proper cover. Especially when they had no idea what they were dealing with here.
He ran with the man.
The dog continued the trail southeast, eventually turning down Malkin Avenue. As they ran, Striker mapped out the area in his head, and cursed.
‘What?’ Hooch asked.
‘He’s heading for the train yards.’
Hooch made no reply, but the tightness of his face showed his own frustration. The train yards were always a bitch during tracks. Too many obstacles: the fenced-off areas, the moving freightliners. And, of course, the endless streams of the homeless people who camped out behind the industrial area, or grouped together down by the bottle depot and recycling plant.
All in all, it all made for a difficult track.
When they reached the dead-end stop of Glen Drive, Sable stopped running. The dog dropped her tail low and began running back and forth all along the gated area that led into the train yards. Hooch gave the dog more leash and marched impatiently with her.
Striker took the moment to scan the area and catch his breath. The cold air stung his lungs and it was dirty, stinking of diesel gas fumes and smoke from the industrial plants. Not twenty yards away stood a tall chain-link fence that separated the federal land of the national railway with that of the City. Behind it were pockets of homeless people. Small fire-lit camps dotted the rail yard.
‘Tracks gonna get messed up in there,’ Striker noted.
Hooch shook his head. ‘Track doesn’t lead there anyway.’
‘Then where’s it go?’
‘Right fucking here.’
Striker looked all around the immediate area. There was nothing here except a dead-end street, a gravelly roundabout, and a row of old vacant warehouses.
‘It’s a dead fucking end,’ Hooch griped.
Striker watched where the dog was pin-balling back and forth on a small strip of gravel, less than twenty feet long. Using his flashlight, he lit up the area and focused on the road’s surface. It was a mess of concrete and rock and dirt, and there were no discernible tyre tracks.
Hooch’s posture slumped, and he began reeling in the dog. ‘He had wheels parked here, Shipwreck. No doubt about it.’
Striker nodded in agreement.
‘Or a ride waiting for him.’
He looked all around the area for witnesses, or better yet, video surveillance. But aside from the video cameras that CP Rail owned – all of which faced inwards towards the train tracks – there were none to be seen.
Hooch reeled in his beast. ‘It’s done, man. He got away.’
Striker shook his head. He offered the dogman a weak grin and held up the black leather glove.
‘Not completely,’ he said.
Six
By the time Striker made it back to the Lucky Lodge, Felicia was on scene. She was speaking with Constable Wong – although from Striker’s vantage point, it looked more like an interrogation than a discussion.
A smile broke his lips; Felicia was always so intense. It was one of the things he loved about her.
Under the pale light of the street lamp, her breath looked like steam. Striker hoped she wasn’t grilling the kid too hard. Wong was only a rookie. Had just a few months of road time under his belt and was now stuck in the middle of a strange Sudden Death call that made no sense.
Welcome to the Force, kid.
Felicia spotted Striker and her expression turned even more serious. She stopped talking mid-sentence, left the young constable hanging, and came marching up the sidewalk towards him.
‘Any luck?’ she asked.
Striker nodded. ‘Lots. All bad.’ He relayed the entire call to her from the second he’d heard the dispatch over the air until the moment when the dogman had lost the track out by the train yards. When he was finished speaking, Felicia made a sour face.
‘Train yards, huh?’
‘Yeah. He had wheels, too. I’m sure of it.’
She thought this over. ‘Long way off to park his wheels.’
‘For sure. And yet the safest place, too. Who’s gonna notice anything going on down there at Glen and Malkin? It’s the industrial area. Dead-end streets. No video of any kind. Only people down there are the homeless, and they don’t want to get involved. When you think about it, it’s actually a perfect place to hide some wheels.’
‘Which leaves us with jack.’
‘Not entirely.’ Striker held up the glove once more. ‘Got this from the suspect. Ripped it right off his hand during the struggle.’
‘We’ll have to hit the lab.’ She grabbed the keys from his pocket, hurried back to the trunk of the police car, and returned with a brown paper bag. She wro
te the time, location and incident number on the outside of the bag in thick black felt, then held it open for Striker to drop the glove inside. When he did, she put the bag back in the trunk and handed him the keys.
It wasn’t until she had marked the time of transfer in her notebook – continuity was always a bitch in court – that she took a long look at Striker and assessed him. The skin around her brow tightened and her eyes turned soft.
‘Your forehead,’ she said, and reached out to touch it.
He leaned back. ‘Leave it.’
‘It’s been bleeding, Jacob.’
‘I know that. And it stopped.’
‘What happened? You get hit? He hit you? You need someone to look at that.’
‘I’ll live, Feleesh, really.’
She gave him another one of her long, drawn-out motherly looks, and Striker ignored it. Before she could say more, he turned back towards the Lucky Lodge.
In the five o’clock darkness, the building looked even more dilapidated. He took out his flashlight and set the cone to the halfway setting for equal amounts of intensity and expanse. Then he began scouring the crabgrass, taking slow careful steps – the last thing they needed right now was to step on and destroy any trace evidence.
Felicia came up beside him to assist in the search.
‘He ran this way,’ Striker explained. ‘Landed right over there beside the power box. Look for footprints and any electrical stuff, too. Wires, a lens, whatever. Maybe he left something behind.’
They moved closer to the area where the suspect had landed.
‘It’s so cold, the ground is like rock,’ he said. ‘When he landed, he must’ve landed hard.’
Felicia kept looking. ‘He get hurt?’ she asked without looking up.
‘Dunno. He could’ve – though you’d never know it from the way he raced out of here.’
‘I’ll call the hospitals.’
‘That’s not a bad idea.’ Striker pointed to the east. ‘Maybe he sprained something. Broke a bone, if we’re lucky.’
Felicia thought this over. ‘If he was high, he could’ve fractured a bone and not even known it – but he will later when the juice wears off.’ She got on the phone and called Central Dispatch. She got them to flag all the hospitals for patients coming in with injuries that could possibly be related to a high fall.
