by Sean Slater
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.’
Thirty-One
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.
Thirty-Two
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?
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 some
thing 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 easi
er 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.’
