The Guilty (43 page)

Together, they started sorting through the folders.

When Felicia picked up one, she looked at it, then shook her head as if confused. ‘This one is linked to the Chipotle shooting – I thought the investigation had already been done by
Homicide?’

‘This is the internal investigation,’ Striker reminded her. ‘Everything they do here is
separate
from the other police files. It has to be, or else there would be no
impartiality. Look around and you’ll find lots of duplicate investigations. The difference is that these reports focus solely on the officer’s actions, not the
suspect’s.’

Felicia just nodded as if making the connection; they now had access to secondary independent reports.

Rather than leave the office, they took the paperwork to one of the unused meeting rooms, and locked the door behind them. The desk inside was oval and long, designed to seat twenty people.
Striker took his position at one end, and Felicia the other.

Then they got to work.

Twenty minutes later, Striker was skimming through some of the attachments – Civilian Statements, primarily – while Felicia was reading the Chronological Timeline that Osaka had
entered on his own investigation into the Chipotle shooting.

‘One thing about Osaka,’ she said. ‘He was
thorough.
’

Striker nodded. ‘Public image. He had to be on a file like this. The shooter was Rothschild – one of our own guys. Nowadays, the Vancouver Police Department wouldn’t even
investigate the call. We’d send it to an outside agency, probably Abbotsford or Delta.’

‘For impartiality.’

He nodded. ‘Optics are everything.’

When Striker finished reading the complete narrative of the shooting, he re-read the bombing report on Chipotle’s wife and kids. After a long while he looked up and frowned.
‘Everything appears to be on the level. At exactly nine o’clock in the morning, Chipotle’s house is blown sky-high.’

‘From a bomb Sleeves set.’

Striker nodded. ‘The wife and two daughters are killed, and no one can find Chipotle anywhere. Then, at two in the afternoon, a civilian calls in. She sees a man with a machine gun down by
the river. He’s crying, screaming, aiming the gun at people.’

‘And she calls 911.’

Striker ran his finger down the timelines on the page. ‘First, Dispatch thinks it’s just some crazy guy wandering around. They send Patrol. But then they realize it really is an
automatic weapon, so they call in the Emergency Response Team.’

Felicia knew the file well, and she chimed in:

‘But the Vancouver ERT unit is already on another call in District 1. And this call is right on the Vancouver-Burnaby border, so they order in the Integrated Unit.’

Striker held up his finger. ‘
But
. . . they’re still short on bodies for a full team. And with the information about an AK-47, there’s no time to waste. So they throw
together an impromptu team using reserves. They lock down the block and the river, but by now Chipotle’s gone inside one of the houses. They try to call him out. But he’s having none of
it.’

Felicia looked at the medical section of the report which held the cocaine levels. ‘Not only is he grieving, but he’s all coked-out. Completely irrational.’

‘And he blames the cop several times for selling him out after he “gave them the information they wanted”.’ Striker read back through the narrative. ‘He blames the
police for the death of his wife and kids.’

The words hit him like a hammer. He stopped reading and looked over at Felicia with a sick look on his face. ‘So, essentially, what we have here is an agent, regularly selling information
about the Prowlers back to the police, and then accusing his handlers of selling him out.’

She winced. ‘It sounds bad.’

‘Does it get any worse?’ He took a moment to write this information down in his notebook, then continued: ‘So the stand-off with Chipotle goes on for over an hour with no
progress made whatsoever. Koda is the sergeant at the time, and he makes the decision to breach.’

‘And Chipotle opens fire.’

‘
Massive
gun battle.’ Striker turned to the conclusion. ‘In the end, the fatal bullet comes from Mike Rothschild’s rifle; this was verified by ballistics. Mike
is cleared of any wrongdoing and receives the highest award for bravery the department can give – the Award of Valour.’

‘As he damn well should,’ Felicia said. ‘They
all
should. Their lives were on the line out there. And the shooting was basic. I don’t see why it went to a full
internal investigation anyway.’

Striker turned past the conclusion page. At the end of the report was one page of miscellaneous notes:

Injuries – Police Constable Davies.

‘Oh boy,’ Striker said. ‘This is why . . . Chipotle wasn’t the only one who got shot that day – that prick tagged one of our own.’

Felicia wasn’t aware of this, and the news made her eyes narrow. ‘Who?’

‘Some guy named Archer Davies . . . I’ve never heard of him before. Maybe he was a Fed cop, I’m not sure. Regardless, he was the breacher for Team Red that day. Not a full ERT
member, but a
reserve.
’

‘Did he survive?’ Felicia asked the words almost regretfully.

Striker turned the page and saw nothing else. ‘He must have survived – he’s listed as Injured, not Deceased. Plus there’s no link to a second homicide report. Either way,
we got two people shot at this call – Archer Davies and Carlos Chipotle. It’s an avenue that needs pursuing. Write it down.’

Felicia did. When she was done, she looked up with a sick expression. ‘This is gonna sound bad, because it’s terrible that this Archer guy got shot . . . but I still don’t see
how it necessitates a full
internal
investigation into the shooting of Chipotle. Once again, we know that Rothschild was the one who shot him. And we know that Chipotle was all coked-out
and blasting away with an AK-47 – that much is indisputable.’

Striker nodded. ‘The problem here is one of
timing.
’

‘What timing?’

He pointed to various segments in the report. ‘Carlos Chipotle was shot at 14:23 hours – that time was taken directly from the CAD call. Chipotle died not two minutes later at 14:25
– also taken directly from the CAD call.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is this: at 14:24 hours, one of the units went over the air telling everyone, and I quote, “He’s giving up. He’s coming out! Hands clear.”’

Felicia made an
oh-shit
sound, and Striker continued.

‘When the incident was over, no one would admit to going over the air with that remark, but the dispatcher heard it because she typed it into the CAD call.’

‘Can’t they just check the radio number?’

Striker shook his head. ‘No. Don’t forget, this was
before
the radios went digital. Back then, everything was analogue. A radio was just a radio. There was no way of linking
which unit was broadcasting at any one time. So not only were the radios not encrypted, but people could say whatever they damn well wanted to over the air.’

He skimmed back through the report pages until he found the police statement of Constable Mike Rothschild.

‘In his statement, Rothschild says he heard someone say: “He’s coming out!
Heads up!
” When Chipotle stepped into the doorway, he still had the AK-47 in his
hands. Rothschild says he feared for the safety of his squadmates and he took the shot. End of story.’

By the time Striker had finished speaking, Felicia’s expression had darkened.

‘As much as I hate to admit it, Jacob, the optics are bad here.
Real
bad. In fact, if someone didn’t know any better, you know what it looks like?’

Striker nodded gravely.

‘A police execution.’

The bomber and Molly drove south, dressed in matching paramedic uniforms. Molly was uncertain and edgy; she had been prepared to wait and reassess their plans. But he would
hear nothing of it. He was determined to find Target 1.

Today.

His body was against him now. He could not deny that. He felt overheated. Exhausted. Weak. So unusually weak. But that was all okay, he told himself, because they were finishing this entire
operation. And despite the failings of his body, a part of him felt good inside. Really, really good.

Then his phone went off.

The
red
cell.

The ringing sound made his heart flutter, made his stomach clench and his throat dry up. It brought him back an immediate sickness that only the red phone could bring. He put the cell to his ear
and heard the nurse’s voice. It was full of regret and concern.

‘It’s time,’ she said.

He listened with fear creeping over him.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes,’ he said again, almost a whisper.

To his left, Molly looked straight ahead as she drove, refusing to so much as glance in his direction.

When he finally hung up the phone, his face was slack and his skin looked not only pale but bloodless. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a hollow, gaping darkness he could not hide. He began
to shake. Shake as if his fever was finally reaching unlivable temperatures.

Molly took notice. ‘Is everything okay?’

He said nothing.

She reached over and touched his arm.

‘It’s time,’ he said softly. ‘He’s
dying.
’

It was twelve noon by the time Striker and Felicia finished reading the PSS files at Internal. The time spent had been worthwhile – it had brought them more leads, and,
with it, a dozen more questions. Most troubling to Striker was the notion that the police-involved shooting of Chipotle could wrongly be viewed as a police execution.

It gave them a possible motive for the bombers.

Files in hand, they grabbed a coffee from the next-door café and returned to the car.

Once seated in the passenger seat, Striker spoke his thoughts aloud: ‘The Chipotle shooting connects Chad Koda and Mike Rothschild because they were involved in the call. And it connects
Osaka because he was running the internal investigation on the file. But it still leaves out Harry and the two women.’

Felicia thought it over. ‘That car bomb was
remotely
armed,’ she said. ‘The bombers could pick and choose when to detonate. With Koda in the car, he was the obvious
target. But with Harry also so close, they might have been trying for both of them. God knows they came in shooting at Harry afterwards.’

Striker thought it over, said nothing, and Felicia continued.

‘As for Dr Sharise Owens, she was Koda’s common-law wife at one point.’

‘So what?’ Striker replied. ‘I don’t see them blowing up Pearl Osaka or going after the Williams children, do you?’ When Felicia said nothing, Striker continued.
‘Some of this just doesn’t make any sense. Think about it. If someone was going after cops for revenge, why wait ten damn years to do it? There’s only two reasons I can think of
– either they were in jail, or they were in an institution somewhere.’

‘Well, lots of Prowlers have been in and out of jail over the last decade. They could have been biding their time.’

‘I don’t buy it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ Striker explained, ‘the Prowlers usually contract out their killings. Or they use their underlings to do it. That’s how Sleeves got into the gang in the first
place. Which blows the whole jail-time theory right out the window. Why wait ten years when they can order one of the prospects to do it whenever they want?’

Striker took a long sip of his coffee. He tasted bitterness, and wished he’d added some cream and sugar. ‘Let’s look at some other angles. Bring up this breacher who got shot
– Archer Davies.’

Felicia ran the name. ‘There’s nothing in PRIME.’

‘Not even the report for when he was shot?’

She scanned the various reports they already had. ‘Maybe they lumped it in with the Chipotle shooting.’

Striker shook his head. ‘They shouldn’t have. Every victim requires his own file. Given the cross-border issues, there’ll probably be some overlap.’

Felicia groaned. As always, jurisdictional issues and separate databases made for the creation of extra work. At times it felt mind-boggling. ‘Why a
federal
report for the Davies
shooting? He was a Vancouver cop.’

‘That’s precisely why. The investigation had to be impartial. That required an outside agency.’

‘Right, right.’ Felicia scanned through the reports, both paper and electronic. After a moment, she looked up. ‘We got all the reports here except for the shooting of Archer
Davies. It registers nothing on the screen.’

Striker was unsurprised. ‘It’ll be a Fed file and likely paper.’

‘Which means more red tape.’

Striker felt her pain, and he had reached his fill of the bureaucracy. He relented, took out his cell phone, and began dialling the one number he wanted to avoid.

‘You calling the Burnaby detachment?’ Felicia asked.

Striker shook his head. ‘Deputy Chief.’

‘Laroche?’

Striker just nodded reluctantly and forced out a weak grin.

‘Why does it feel like I’m selling my soul?’

Improper procedure or not, the moment Acting Deputy Chief Laroche got on the phone with one of his RCMP counterparts, the federal red tape was cut. Within minutes, the two
reports –
Carlos Chipotle: Homicide
and
Archer Davies: Attempted Murder
– were pulled from federal archives. Because they were both in paper form and there was no
electronic copy to send, the reports had to be sent by fax to Laroche’s office.

Striker and Felicia drove there to pick them up.

Striker was relieved to be getting them so fast, but miffed as well. He looked at Felicia as they walked up to the main foyer elevator. ‘Why is it the moment the brass needs information,
the report is expedited? Yet whenever I – the actual investigator – need something, there’s walls of red tape to climb?’

Felicia smiled. ‘Karma?’