The Guilty (12 page)

‘No promises,’ she finally said. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’

Once in the parking lot outside the morgue, where they could finally get a cell signal, Striker got on his phone and once again tried Dr Sharise Owens’ cell number. Like
before, it rang several times, then went straight to voicemail. He left yet another message, then called her apartment and did the same. Last of all, he tried her workplace.

The nurse who answered the call this time was not the original one he had spoken to before. This girl sounded very young and very tired. After Striker explained the situation, her reply caught
him off guard. ‘Dr Owens? Oh yes, she’s in.’

‘She’s
in
? Why the hell did no one call me?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I told that last nurse that this was a police emergency and to get Dr Owens to call me the moment she walked in – she’s flagged on CPIC, for Christ’s sake.’

The girl flustered. ‘I-I . . . don’t know who you dealt with, Detective. But Dr Owens probably didn’t call you back right away because of the sick baby that got rushed
through.’

Striker closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Are you telling me Dr Owens is there now?’

‘Yes. She’s in the trauma room. With the baby.’

That was all Striker needed to hear. ‘Don’t let her go anywhere. I’m heading up.’

Not ten minutes later they arrived on scene.

The moment Striker walked into the admitting ward of St Paul’s Hospital, he found himself swallowed up in the crowd. A bad smell filled the stuffy air, one of sweat and cleaners and
sickness. Murmurs and sniffs and sneezes played louder than the Muzak filling the waiting room, and in the corner, a drunk was crying openly.

Striker swept his eyes around the room. A lot of memories of this place bombarded him – all of them bad. This was where he had come so many times before. With his wife, Amanda, during her
depressions. With Courtney after the school shootings. And most recently, with Mike Rothschild, following the death of his wife, Rosalyn.

He hated this place.

Surprisingly, Rosalyn’s memory hit him the hardest. Maybe it was because she’d been so good to him over the years, ever since Amanda’s death, or maybe it was because Striker
was the godparent to her children. Probably, it was because the memory of Rosalyn was the freshest – she’d passed away just four months ago.

Not a long time for the grieving process.

‘You okay?’ Felicia asked.

Striker blinked and looked at her. He realized he’d stopped walking and was standing there, looking down at a family that was seated in the waiting area. A little boy around six, a little
girl near eight, and their father. It reminded him of Mike Rothschild and his children, Cody and Shana.

‘I should have been there this week,’ he said softly.

Felicia shook her head. ‘Where?’

‘Helping Mike and the kids move into their new home. I
promised.
But this goddam job – it just kills every plan you ever make . . .’

‘Mike understands that, Jacob. He’s a cop.’

‘Maybe he does. But Cody and Shana don’t.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘They’re six years old, Feleesh, and all they know is that I’m the godparent who
never shows up for anything. Not for the move. Not when he took them sleigh riding at Whistler last Christmas—’

‘You were a little busy saving people from The Adder, Jacob.’

‘—and not tonight for the barbecue. Hell, I’m lucky I even made their mother’s funeral, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Don’t talk like that.’

Striker broke away and approached the triage nurse. She was pretty. Long brown hair and big doe eyes. She looked dead tired – a fact that didn’t surprise Striker in the least. Nurses
had just as bad shift schedules as cops. Given the fact it was now going on five-thirty p.m., the nurse was probably nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift. Who knew, maybe she was already working
overtime.

She looked at Striker as if she had been warned he was coming, and offered him a wary smile.

‘Hello, Detective,’ she said.

Striker tried to be cordial. ‘I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens.’

‘Sharise?’ The triage nurse narrowed her eyes, then looked back at the large whiteboard behind her. ‘Just . . . one moment, please.’ She disappeared into the back, and
when she returned five minutes later, an uncomfortable expression marred her pretty features. ‘I’m sorry, Detective. But there’s been a bit of a mistake here . . . Dr Owens
isn’t in – and she hasn’t been all day.’

Striker let out an exasperated sound. ‘I just called down here.’

Felicia sensed his mood. She placed her hand on his forearm and took over the conversation. ‘We were told she was in surgery when we called—’

The nurse frowned. ‘Oh, that was probably the new girl you spoke to. She’s just learning the system and probably got confused by the whiteboard. You see, we have
two
Dr
Owens at this hospital – one’s a trauma surgeon, the other’s a paediatrician.’

Felicia nodded. ‘So what you’re telling us is Dr Sharise Owens is
not
in today?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. She was supposed to be . . . but she’s missed her shift.’

Felicia asked, ‘Has anyone tried to make contact with her?’

The nurse nodded earnestly. ‘Oh yes, I have myself. Several times. But she’s not answering her cell phone.’

‘Is that unusual for her?’

‘Yes. But to be fair, Dr Owens worked an extended shift yesterday – almost twenty hours – so we figured she’d just gone home and crashed straight through. It does happen
with the doctors from time to time, and it’s been a crazy day.’

Striker moved closer to the glass partition. ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Uh, ten years, I guess. Maybe eleven.’

‘And has Dr Owens worked here all that time?’

‘She’s been here for about seven of them, I believe.’

He nodded. ‘So in all those years, how many times has she no-showed for work?’

The girl’s cheeks reddened as she thought it over. ‘Well, not once, really. At least not that I’m aware of.’

‘Can you describe Dr Owens for us?’

The girl gave him an odd look. ‘Describe?’

‘Does she have high, prominent cheekbones?’

The girl nodded emphatically. ‘Oh yes. And Dr Owens is
very
fit. She used to do those Ms Fitness pageants every year. And she’s also done the Ironman race in Kelowna three
times. Finished in the top twenty.’

Striker thought it over. ‘Do you have a photograph of her in the computer? Or in her personnel file? Something we could see?’

The girl nodded. She typed the woman’s name into the computer and an image came up on the screen – a black woman with long, straight hair that tucked around her ears and had been
dyed a lighter shade of brown. The bones of her face were well defined and her teeth looked near perfect. Capped, maybe. She was attractive and appeared confident. Strong.

‘I’ll need a copy of this,’ Striker said.

The girl looked uneasy. ‘Is . . . is everything all right?’

Striker barely heard the words. He was too busy staring at something else, and when he saw it, his stomach knotted up.

Behind the front counter, a woman was busy sorting through some medications. She was Asian, with thick red lipstick and a round pudgy face. But neither the woman, nor her medications, were what
concerned Striker.

It was her
uniform.

He pointed her out to the nurse. ‘Is she a doctor?’

The girl looked over. ‘Yes.’

‘Tell her to come here.’

The girl gave him a nervous look, but did as instructed. When the Asian doctor approached the front desk, the wired look in her eyes made Striker think she must’ve been on her thirteenth
cup of coffee this shift. ‘You requested to see me, Officer?’

Striker only nodded. ‘Yes. Turn sideways.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Turn sideways. Please.’

The woman gave him a queer look, but turned.

There, on her shoulder, stitched into the side of her uniform, red on white, was the image of two snakes wrapped around a long staff, with wings extending from each side. The symbol was a
caduceus – the ubiquitous emblem of the medical community. And the sight of it told Striker everything he needed to know.

He pointed the emblem out to Felicia and spoke gravely.

‘I think this may be it,’ he said. ‘What your witness saw on the woman in the barn – the winged tattoo.’

Dr Sharise Owens did not have a private practice. So before leaving the hospital, Striker and Felicia demanded to see her office. The room was located at the other end of the
facility, several floors up. When they finally reached it, Striker found himself disappointed.

The office was small and sparse. The only books that lined the shelves were medical texts. And all of the patient folders and tapes were stored in archives. A cursory search revealed nothing but
standard stationery in the desk drawers – Workers Compensation Board charts, the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia templates, and numerous other forms from Medical Service Plan.
Nothing significant.

Nothing that could lead them anywhere.

Striker turned on the computer and was happy to see there was no password protection lock. On the screen were three folders:

Patient Reports.

Research.

And Miscellaneous.

He went through all the folders and saw no surprises. In the folder marked Patient Reports, there were over a hundred names. Striker scanned through them, saw nothing that stood out, and emailed
himself the list. In the folder labelled Research, there was a string of articles on new surgical techniques. And in the Miscellaneous folder, there were a few links to pro-choice websites, but
nothing more.

Striker wrote them all down. Once done, he opened the woman’s email and scanned through it. He saw nothing of note.

Disappointed, Striker called up one of the computer techs he knew well, a man everyone called Ich. After filling Ich in on all that had happened, Striker ordered him to attend the office, seize
the hard drives, and start processing the data immediately.

‘Call me if you find
anything
unusual,’ Striker stressed.

‘Even porn?’

Striker grinned. ‘Just call me, Ich.’

He hung up the phone, gave Felicia a nod, and they left the hospital.

Once inside the police cruiser, with the doors closed, Striker checked to be sure that Sharise Owens was still flagged on CPIC as a Missing Person and a Person in Danger. He had already
requested the addition, but mistakes were often made.

Double-checks were good practice.

Once done, he got on the phone with Dispatch and, for the third time that day, had Sue Rhaemer notify all the neighbouring police, ambulance, and fire departments of the updated events. She
followed up by once again alerting the hospitals, ferries, buses, and the US border. He even had her call the cab companies.

Nothing could be overlooked.

Last of all, Striker sent out his own personal computer message to all the mobile Patrol units: If anyone comes across Dr Sharise Chandelle Owens, detain her and contact Detectives Striker and
Santos immediately. 24/7. He then added both their cell numbers to the message.

He let out a sigh and almost felt relieved. ‘Done.’

He turned to Felicia to discuss their next course of action, and saw that she was on the phone. Her face was tight. ‘We’ll come down right away,’ she said.

Striker gave her a wary look as she hung up. ‘What’s going on?’

‘That was Victim Services. The kids are home at the Williams residence and it’s not going well.’

Striker felt his jaw tighten. He blipped the siren three times to clear the traffic congestion, then hit the gas and U-turned on the busy strip of Burrard. They drove over the bridge into the
False Creek area and headed for Creekside Drive.

It was the last place Striker wanted to go, but as always . . .

Duty calls.

They reached Creekside Drive.

Striker got out of the car and looked at the building before them. It was eight storeys high and
old
– looked like one of the first subsidized family dwelling units in the area.
Behind them was the harbour, and less than a quarter-mile east of their position was what remained of the toy shop. Police cars and fire engines still blocked the streets down there, and crowds of
onlookers still gathered like prairie dogs, popping their heads up to see the smouldering wreckage.

The proximity of where they were was not lost on Striker. ‘I chased our suspect right up that trail,’ he said, and pointed.

‘One more tiny coincidence?’

‘There are no coincidences.’ Striker was about to say more when the high-pitched wail of a young girl’s voice filled the night:

‘Momma
. . . oh, MOMMA!
’

The cry came from the building in front of them, high above on the fifth floor. One of the Williams children, no doubt. And it broke Striker’s heart to hear it. Head down, feet feeling
heavy, he walked up the sidewalk, entered the apartment building, and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

Once they entered the suite, the sound of crying grew louder.

In one of the bedrooms, a civilian support worker from the Victim Services Unit was huddled in a small circle with the children. They ranged from nine years of age and up. The youngest – a
small boy – was hard-faced and looked to be in shock; the rest were all sobbing uncontrollably.

The moment made Striker feel like he’d slipped back in time. Memories of Rothschild’s children sobbing for their mother returned to him, as did the recollections of his own daughter,
Courtney, after she’d learned of Amanda’s death. As always, the memories manifested physically.

His stomach felt like it had stones in it.

He studied the children before him. The oldest of the kids, a teenage girl of maybe eighteen, stood in the far corner of the room, separate from the rest. Her eyes stared at nothing, her face
was as hard as rock. She looked up as Striker and Felicia entered the room, saw them, and then walked out.