by Sean Slater
The Doctor was calling.
And that was never good.
The Adder felt a shiver run through his body, and he quickly regained his senses. He closed the silver box and gently placed it back in the hollow. Then he took hold of the cabinet and slowly, carefully, slid it back into place, hiding the hole in the wall.
He scrambled up the ladder and undid the latch.
When he stepped inside the study, the contrast between the rooms was alarming. His was cold; the Doctor’s so very hot. His was dark and gloomy; the Doctor’s so bright and glaring. And his room offered a safe, protected feeling, one that may have been false and imagined, but one that was there nonetheless. Here, in the Doctor’s office, there was always a sense of danger. Of threat. Of despair.
And it was very, very real.
The Doctor was already there, sitting in a high-backed leather chair. The darkness made the world out there appear hidden, indistinct.
It matched the mood.
‘I am not happy,’ the Doctor finally said.
The Adder looked down. ‘I know.’
‘You have been very foolish.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. The police . . . they were just suddenly there.’
‘Did they see your face?’
‘They know nothing.’
‘Did they see your face?’
‘No.’
‘They had better not. We’ve got a lot of work to do, you and I, and I can’t have you getting into trouble like this.’
The room was silent for a long moment – a time that could have been minutes or seconds to the Adder, for time rarely flowed normally. Then the Doctor spoke again. Simple words. Brief and direct.
‘You know the rules.’
The Adder’s head snapped up. ‘But it wasn’t my fault!’
‘Fault?’ The Doctor laughed. ‘What does that matter? Fault? Was it William’s fault?’
The Adder said nothing, and he began to shake all over.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘No,’ he said again.
And he did as he was told. He followed the rules. He succumbed.
He went to the well.
Thirteen
‘We need to do more research on Mandy,’ Striker said.
It was one of his own personal rules. Know the victim. This was crucial. And to a point, he already did. He had known Mandy years back when she had attended the same school events as Courtney, and he had dealt with her a few times just last year when he had filled in for Bernard Hamilton.
Hamilton worked in the mental health car – which was essentially a mobile unit, composed of one officer and one social worker, who partnered up to help the mentally ill people of the Downtown East Side.
All the past connections helped, but they weren’t enough. Striker wanted to know everything about the girl.
Especially her recent history.
Felicia buckled up her seat belt as Striker pulled out on the main road and headed for the downtown core. ‘I’ll go through the CAD calls,’ she said. ‘See what else was going on in that area when Mandy’s call came in.’
Striker nodded in agreement.
CAD was the Computer Assisted Dispatch system that was used whenever 911 calls and general requests from the public were made. It was documented every time a patrol member took a call. Maybe they could find some connections there.
God knows, it was as good a place as any to start.
They headed for headquarters. While en route, Felicia grumbled about the day never ending. Striker took a quick look at her. Her eyes appeared heavy and were underlined. Seeing that, he took a detour through the Starbucks drive-thru on Terminal for some much-needed caffeine. He grabbed himself a tall Americano, black, and a protein bar.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘Eggnog latte. With a slice of raspberry loaf with lemon-cream-cheese icing.’
‘Why don’t you get something decadent for a change?’
‘I’m low on carbs and sugar and caffeine, Jacob, now is not the time. And after that little stunt you pulled at the lab, this treat is all on you.’
He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
When the coffees and food came, Striker paid for them and handed the cardboard tray to Felicia. Then he headed for 312 Main Street. Headquarters.
Destination: Homicide.
It was less than a mile away.
A half-hour later, Striker sat back in his office chair and rubbed his eyes. They were dry and grainy. How could they not be? The computer screen assigned to his desk was an outdated piece of junk. The monitor was on the fritz – the colours all seemed a tint or two off – and it was not even a widescreen.
He glanced over at Felicia. She had a better chair, one made from leather and high-backed, and also a brand-new widescreen monitor. A twenty-four incher. And newer technology. LED. Striker looked at it.
‘How the hell d’you ever get that anyway?’ he asked. ‘I’ve had a requisition order in for six months.’
‘Connections,’ was all she said, and went back to her reading.
Striker said nothing. He just stretched his hands high above him and felt his back crack. He stared at the window. Outside, everything was black and deep and cold.
He was glad to be inside the office.
His thoughts turned to Courtney, and he made a call home and hit the Speakerphone button so he could talk while he worked. The phone rang six times before the answering machine picked up. As usual Courtney had changed the voice message again, like she did every week:
‘If you like it then you better . . . leave a message,’ she sang.
The words were familiar, but Striker couldn’t place them. Some song on the radio, he guessed. It usually was.
‘It’s Dad,’ he said. ‘Pick up.’
When Courtney didn’t answer, he repeated himself, then finally gave up. He hit the End button and disconnected the call.
Felicia swivelled around in her chair. ‘“Single Ladies”,’ she said.
‘Huh?’
‘The song on the machine. It’s “The Single Ladies”. By Beyoncé.’
Striker just nodded. ‘Sure.’
She stared him down. ‘You have no clue, do you?’
‘Sure I do. Beyoncé – lead singer from Guns N’ Roses.’
Felicia laughed out loud, and Striker smiled weakly back at her.
‘My eyes are turning to sand,’ he said.
She tore off a piece of her raspberry loaf and stuffed it in his mouth. ‘You at least getting anything?’
‘Besides a headache? No, not really.’ He swallowed the loaf and glanced back at the computer screen where he had opened four different pages from PRIME.
PRIME was the Police Records Information Management Environment – a huge, widespread database that contained everything from basic police reports to hidden intelligence files. It was but one of a dozen different databases the cops used.
All of which were essential.
Striker spoke again. ‘There’s a ton of stuff here on Mandy. File after file, and most of it is Mental Health Act. She was a very sick person. Listed EDP everywhere.’
EDP – Emotionally Disturbed Person.
‘And then there’s a dozen more street checks,’ he continued. ‘She was run by Patrol tons of times, just for acting strange. Then there’s the rest of the standard calls – a lot of Disturbances and Suspicious Circumstance incidents, most of which were because she was off her meds again. Acting all loopy. She’s also done a dozen different voluntary transports to the psych ward at St Paul’s. So she was at least cognitively aware that she was having problems.’
Felicia glanced at the list of files and frowned. ‘Hey, you authored some of these reports.’
Striker nodded. He told her about the times he had replaced Bernard Hamilton in the mental health car, and also about how he knew the girl from before. From when Mandy had attended the same school as Courtney.
‘Wow. So she went from Dunbar to Ditchville,’ Felicia
said. ‘The poor kid. Did she have any family?’
Striker threw his pen on the blotter. ‘Her mother died of cancer a few years back. As for her father, he’s in jail.’
‘Jail? What for?’
Striker didn’t want to get into it, but he explained anyway: ‘After Mandy’s mother died, when she was still living in Dunbar, she was going to the same school as Courtney. St Patrick’s High. They knew each other.’
‘How?’ Felicia asked.
Striker gave her a cross look. ‘From hanging out and smoking outside the school fence – I could have killed Courtney when I caught her.’
Felicia grinned at that.
‘Anyhow,’ Striker continued, ‘that was when Mandy’s depression really deepened. I must have picked her up a half-dozen times when she’d run off. And every time, I took her back to her father and told her she had to keep taking her meds. It was a never-ending cycle.’
Felicia shook her head. ‘So?’
‘So, what I didn’t know at the time was that Mandy’s father was abusing her. Sexually. Which was one of the reasons for her growing depression, why she kept taking off all the time.’ He shook his head as he relived the moments. ‘Every time I picked her up, I was taking her right back to the monster. I’ll never forgive myself for that.’
‘She never told you?’
‘No, but I should have seen it. There had to be some signs. There had to be something. I was so preoccupied with Amanda’s depression problems at the time, I never saw it . . .’
‘It was a bad time for you, Jacob.’
‘Bad for her, too.’ He pushed the keyboard away and rubbed his eyes. ‘Either way, Mandy’s father was caught, but by that point in time the damage had been done. Mandy was put under government care for a bit, but you know how it is. She bounced around a lot, and to be honest, I lost track. If it weren’t for the problems we were having with Amanda, I would have taken the kid in . . . Ah fuck, I should have taken her in!’
Felicia reached out and touched his arm. ‘You can’t save the world, Jacob.’
‘She was one girl.’ He looked back at all the reports and felt sick to his stomach. ‘Anyway, she had no siblings. And only one cousin, a guy named James John Gill. You’d know him better as Jimmy J.’
‘Jimmy J? – You mean Gonzo?’
‘The one and only.’
Felicia thought it over. ‘Didn’t he die over six months ago? In that meth lab explosion on Blenheim?’
Striker nodded. ‘Damn near obliterated himself.’ He thought it over for a while, then added, ‘They never did recover all the money.’
‘Because it was blown to shreds.’
‘Was it?’ he asked. That was probably the case, but there were no absolutes in this world. Definitely not in the business of policing. He took a moment to write this down in his notebook, then picked up his half-full coffee cup and rolled it back and forth in his hands. He was just about to return to reading the computer screen when Felicia made a hmm sound.
‘What you got?’ he asked.
‘Maybe something, maybe nothing. Listen. There was a driving complaint. Brand-new SUV, a Beamer—’
‘Probably an X5.’
‘Sure, whatever.’ Felicia was terrible with makes and models. ‘Anyway, the complaint came in just five minutes after you went over the air requesting a canine unit. This guy was really flying. Doing nearly a hundred, according to the complainant. And he blew right through a stop sign. Almost caused an accident. Never even stopped.’
Striker thought this over. ‘Where?’
‘Vernon Drive and East Hastings Street.’
‘That’s not far from Mandy’s place,’ Striker noted. ‘Just a few blocks east and north.’
Felicia nodded. ‘It’s real close. Vehicle was racing north, then made a hard left turn on Franklin. That’s when the complainant lost sight.’
‘Any details?’
She read on. ‘The vehicle was dark, maybe black, with shiny chrome mags.’
‘That’s standard dress, right from the factory. Any plate?’
Felicia just shook her head. ‘Not even a partial.’
Striker thought this over and dumped out his cold coffee. He sat up in the chair and smiled.
‘No plate yet,’ he said. He stood up and grabbed his notebook.
‘Where are you going?’ Felicia asked.
‘Put on your coat,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Vernon and Hastings. I’ve been there before. That intersection has a Chevron on the southeast corner.’ Striker’s smile widened. ‘They got video.’
Fourteen
The Chevron gas station located on the corner of East Hastings Street and Vernon Drive was a magnet for trouble. Had been ever since Striker joined the VPD. And the details showed that: the front door was always locked after ten; the front window was made out of safety glass; and the bathroom used a black light source for illumination, not white, because it made it harder for junkies to shoot up in there when they snuck inside. All in all, Striker had been to the Vernon Drive Chevron more than a hundred times, kicking out the junk monkeys and drunks, and chasing down shoplifters and armed robbers.
Because of this, he knew the staff well.
‘Hey, Wanda,’ he said as he entered the store.
The large woman with the wild hair looked up from behind the register and beamed. ‘Detective Striker!’ she said in an overly loud voice. ‘Now just where have you been, my big beautiful man?’
‘Cloud eight,’ he replied. ‘Still trying to work my way to Nirvana.’
Wanda laughed in big heavy gusts, then hurried around the counter. She was a big woman. Her hips were so wide they barely fitted through the desk opening, her knees were knocked, and her breasts were so large and heavy they came close to popping the buttons of her uniform. She gave Striker a bear hug that lasted embarrassingly long, then let go almost unwillingly.
Felicia stood there watching the show with a half-smile on her face. She gave Striker an odd look, and he just shook his head. He’d known Wanda Whittington for over ten years now, and the woman would never change. At five foot five and nearing two hundred and forty pounds, no one would ever be accused of calling the woman dainty. But her build was never what he noticed; it was her heart. Wanda was a good person.
Striker introduced the two women, then got right down to business.
‘We need help,’ he said to Wanda. ‘A big SUV came rampaging through here, sometime between four-twenty and four-forty earlier today.’
Felicia nodded. ‘The driving complaint was called in at exactly four twenty-eight.’
‘Do you remember it?’ Striker asked. ‘This guy was apparently driving balls to the wall.’
Wanda Whittington thought it over, her big brown eyes taking on a faraway look behind her chubby, freckled cheeks. She scratched at her hair, then let out a frustrated sound and shrugged.
‘It was just so damn busy today,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ Striker said. ‘Either you saw it or you didn’t. Was anyone else on shift with you at that time?’
She absently rubbed the knuckles of her left hand. ‘Well, Davie was supposed to be working with me today, but he never showed – he’s probably drunk again. You know how he is. Called in three times last week saying he was sick, but everyone knows he’s on the sauce. And on the cheap stuff, too. Likes the red can.’
Striker just nodded. He’d known Davie for almost as long as he’d known Wanda. A nice, harmless guy. But he had a problem, no doubt. Like half the population down here.
He looked past Wanda, past the black-light washrooms, at the manager’s office. The door was painted blue and had a brand-new peephole installed. It was closed and more than likely locked.
‘You still got video back there?’ Striker asked.
Wanda nodded. She returned to the register, locked the till, then grabbed the office key they kept hidden behind the moneydrop box. She rounded the counter and passed Striker by.
‘Follow me, m
y beautiful man.’
She walked up to the blue door, unlocked it, and disappeared inside. Striker started to follow her. When Felicia didn’t join him, he stopped and turned to face her. ‘You coming?’
She didn’t respond at first, she just kept looking out of the window. To the north. ‘The caller said the Beamer turned left on Franklin,’ she recalled. ‘Vernon and Franklin . . . isn’t that the corner where we attended that suicide last year – the one in front of the plastics warehouse?’
Striker nodded, seeing her point. ‘They got video, too.’
‘I’ll head down there and see what I can dredge up. In the meantime, you finish here. Pick me up down there when you’re done.’ She leaned close, smiled, and whispered, ‘Want to borrow my rape whistle in case things go bad?’
‘You mean in case things go well.’ He smiled back at her, then shook his head. ‘If I can handle you, I can handle anyone, especially Wanda. I’ll pick you up in twenty.’
Felicia just rolled her eyes, gave his face a pat and left the store. With her gone, Striker locked the front door for Wanda – to prevent anyone from coming inside and stealing products – then entered the back room.
To reach the office, he had to cut through a small narrow stock room. Walls of motor oil, and candy bars filling the shelves. Everything smelled of lemons from the car deodorizers.
Tucked away in the far back corner of the store was a small nook, used to house the security system. Wanda was already standing over it, leaning forward over the desk. With her there, there was little room left for anyone else – much less a man of Striker’s six-foot-one, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound size. He did his best to lean over her shoulder and watch the security surveillance feed.
The video system was new, and that made Striker smile. The old one had been a software program called Omni-Eye. Striker had used it before. The program was slow, buggy, and crashed halfway through most of the applications – especially when burning video evidence for court. It was also not uncommon to burn the video, then leave with a blank DVD.
‘You guys switched to digital,’ he noted.
