The Guilty (51 page)

‘The bullet round is of the frangible type, which has caused an array of soft tissue complications, most pertinently in the nervous and cardiovascular systems. The entrance wound, a
three-inch opening, has destroyed the spinous processes of the eighth and ninth thoracic vertebrae and the subsequent vertebral bodies; the bullet’s exit caused fracturing of the inferior
third of the sternum and the subsequent splintering of the ninth and tenth ribs anteriorly . . . This is indicative of a high-calibre, high-velocity round.’

Felicia listened to the woman’s explanation, then nodded. ‘She’s telling us it was a high-velocity, high-calibre round.’

Striker’s eyes darkened. ‘It’s not the calibre or speed that concern me, it’s the
type
and
direction
.’ He pointed to the written report.
‘Carlos Chipotle was firing an AK-47. Full Metal Jacket rounds.’

Felicia made an
oh-shit
sound. ‘Non-frangible.’

Striker nodded. ‘The only guys there with frangible rounds were
us
– the cops.’

‘Which means Archer got tagged by one of our own guys.’

Striker nodded. ‘And where does the report list Archer Davies’ entrance wound?’

Felicia searched the report. ‘The sternum.’

‘Exactly. But given the size of the posterior gunshot wound, that would be impossible – the entrance wound is always
smaller
than the exit wound.’

Felicia suddenly looked ill. ‘But if the exit wound was on the front side of Archer’s body, then that would mean—’

Striker nodded numbly.

‘They shot him in the back.’

Striker wanted a list of every cop on scene at the Chipotle gun call where Archer Davies had been shot. To do this, he and Felicia stopped in at Main Street Headquarters to use
one of the desktop computers. They were linked in to the mainframe and could bring up information that the mobile laptops could not.

Being Saturday, the office should have been busy with cops sorting out the Friday night files, but today it was almost empty.

Striker walked right down to his desk. He brought up the call, read for a bit, then leaned back in the chair and felt like he was going to get sick. He gave Felicia a dismal look.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘The bullet that struck Archer Davies entered through his mid-spine and came out his chest; that much is undeniable. Judging from the ballistics report, it’s also true that the
bullet was fired from a police
sniper
rifle. In the report, there’s only one ERT sniper listed.’

She understood the significance of that.

‘Rothschild,’ she said.

Striker nodded. ‘Carlos Chipotle was all coked-out with an assault rifle in his possession. So containment was essential. If Chipotle managed to escape with a weapon like that, who knows
what might have happened? There’s a school just four blocks down the road, and a Community Police Office a mile north of there.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘My point is this – in order to contain him properly, there should have been
two
snipers on the scene. Both in elevated positions. Was Rothschild the only one – or was
there another?’

Striker focused back on the computer and began paging through the information. For a Man With a Gun call, it was surprisingly and disappointingly brief, but the information that was there
offered clarity.

He read through it:

Striker scanned ahead for the next important time:

Striker paused.
This
was what he had been searching for, and upon seeing it he frowned. The breaching team had come in from the southeast – under cover of the
sniper. So for Archer Davies to be shot in the back, and on a thirty-degree angle, the bullet could only have been fired by one person.

Mike Rothschild.

Striker scanned through the list of badge numbers, looking for any other officer that had arrived with a long gun, be it another ERT sniper or one of the patrolmen carrying a carbine.

But there were none.

‘Goddammit,’ he said. ‘There must have been another shooter there – someone other than Mike who could have fired that bullet.’

Felicia’s face softened. She reached out and touched his arm for support.

‘I’m sorry, Jacob, but Rothschild was the only cop there with a long gun. You have to face it . . . Rothschild shot Archer.’

Oliver stood on the corner of Cambie and West 2nd, directly across from Vancouver Police Headquarters, with his bag of supplies in hand. He wore the police uniform his sister
had created for him, and knew that it was an exact replica, right down to the buttons. Feeling the sweat from his brow trickle under the line of his hat, he wiped his brow and flagged down the
first marked patrol car that turned the corner.

A short fat mug of a cop with a horseshoe balding pattern rolled down the passenger window. ‘Need a lift there, fella?’

‘Yeah. Leaving early today and I gotta get myself back to Kerrisdale.’

‘Hop in.’

Oliver threw his bag on the floor, then jumped in the passenger side and slammed the door. The cop hit the gas, turned south on Quebec Street, and gave him a sideways stare. ‘Never seen
you before – you from the odd side?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Call-out?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re sweating up a storm, buddy. You sick or something?’

‘Yeah. Sick.’

‘Man, you look it. Don’t breathe on me, huh?’ The cop guffawed, then grabbed his iced cappuccino from the cup holder and sipped. ‘So where exactly we going
here?’

‘Just get me to Arbutus and 41st . . . then I’ll show you.’

The balding cop nodded and they drove on.

As they went, Oliver crossed his arms, slowly, gingerly, to take pressure off the fractured bone in his shoulder. He leaned back in the seat and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy.
The cop had the air conditioner going full bore and the draught felt like pins and needles on his skin – painful, yet oddly soothing. Were it not for the man’s constant yammering,
Oliver would have zoned out completely.

They reached Arbutus and 41st.

‘Where now?’ the cop asked.

Oliver blinked. Tried to focus. He saw a green Starbucks coffee shop and the blue glare of a Bank of Montreal sign. He got his bearings. Then pointed. ‘Turn left here, then down the
lane.’

Soon, they found themselves at the end of a long back alley. Oliver deftly unzipped the bag. Inside it was his SIG P224. The suppressor – seven inches long and nearly as big as the gun
itself – was not yet unattached.

The cop finished his iced cap and gestured to the backyard of a tiny rancher. ‘This your place?’

Oliver didn’t answer the man. Instead, he pointed at the floor near the gas pedal. ‘That thing yours?’

When the cop glanced down, Oliver drove the man’s head forward with as much force as he could muster. The cop’s face slammed into the steering wheel and his nose broke with a soft
crunching sound. He screamed. Jolted back. Raised his hands in a pathetic display of defence.

Oliver drove his elbow into the man’s face and almost knocked him out. Then he pulled him closer, pinned his face down into the seat, and slammed the base of his pistol onto the back of
the man’s skull – once, twice, three times – until the cop moved no more.

Breathing hard, shaking, exhausted from the moment, Oliver closed his eyes and fought against the soft beckoning call of unconsciousness.

It was done.

It was done . . .

The beginning of the end was here.

The drive from Main Street Headquarters back to Striker’s house was one of deep thought and consternation. Felicia kept herself busy reading and re-reading the CAD call
they had printed out, the reports they’d gathered, and all the history brought up on the numerous police databases. Striker drove on autopilot. Before he knew it, they were stopped behind a
marked patrol car outside his house. He sat there and listened to the motor idle. After a while, he killed the engine.

Felicia opened the door. ‘Well? You coming in?’

He nodded. Exited the car. Went inside.

Sitting in the den with his feet on the coffee table was Rothschild. He was nestling a Coke.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Striker sat down in the recliner facing Rothschild. Felicia sat down in the love seat that was angled between the two men. Striker spoke first. ‘The Chipotle shooting years ago . . . how
many snipers were on that call?’

Rothschild looked taken aback by the question, and he gave it some thought. ‘Just one,’ he finally said. ‘Me.’

‘No carbines?’

‘Not that I recall.’ His eyes took on a faraway stare. ‘It’s been ten years, man. A long time.’

‘I know that. But think hard. Were there any other long guns there? Something that would fire a .223?’

Rothschild was silent a long moment, then answered. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, we called for one, but I don’t think any arrived. Why don’t you check the CAD call?
Everything should be documented in there.’

‘We’ve checked, Mike. No other long guns are listed.’

‘Then what’s the problem? Why all the questions?’

‘Do you remember Archer Davies?’

Rothschild’s face darkened. ‘Of course I do. He got injured, went back to England or something. Chipotle shot him.’

‘Not Chipotle, Mike.
You
.’

Rothschild’s face hardened at the words and his eyes got wide. ‘What the hell you talking about, Shipwreck? That’s not even funny.’

Striker did not look away. ‘I’m being serious here.’

Felicia nodded. ‘There’s no doubt about it, Mike. The bullet that felled Archer Davies came from your sniper rifle. A .223 round.’

Rothschild froze for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief.

‘Not possible,’ he said. ‘The autopsy—’

‘Chad Koda had it doctored,’ Striker said. ‘He knew what had happened, Mike. He knew it was your bullet that tagged the man. And he covered it up. There’s no denying this
fact. It was your bullet. You shot him.’

Rothschild’s face turned from red to white, and he looked helplessly around the room. ‘I . . . I never . . . never knew . . .’ He stood up awkwardly, on legs that looked
rubbery. He went to place his bottle of Coke on the table, tipped it over, and pop spilled all over the glass surface. Swearing, he grabbed the bottle, stood it up, and walked aimlessly around the
room. He stopped by the fireplace mantel. Placed a hand over his stomach. Looked sick.

‘It gets worse,’ Striker said.

Rothschild looked back with concern. ‘What could be worse?’

‘Archer was shot in the back, Mike. You need to tell me how that happened.’

Felicia nodded. ‘And since the only time his back was towards you was when the team was making entry, that would mean that the bullet was fired
before
the explosives went off.
Even before Chipotle started shooting.’

For a moment the words just hung there, and the confused, sick look on Rothschild’s face remained. Stunned as he was by the news, he nodded as if he realized what they were getting at
– how the situation looked. Like a premeditated cop-on-cop shooting.

‘That’s
not
how it happened,’ he said.

‘Then explain it to me,’ Striker said. ‘Cause I want to believe you here, Mike, I really do. But nothing’s adding up.’

Rothschild took the CAD papers from Striker, sorted through them, and then frowned. ‘The problem is right here. Page seven. They’ve listed my position as southeast; fact is, I was
north
.’

‘North?’ Felicia said.

Rothschild nodded. ‘Think of the terrain.’

Striker did, and as the layout developed in his mind, he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. ‘That house is on Blanche Street . . . where the land there slopes down towards the
river.’

‘And it’s steep as hell,’ Rothschild replied. ‘You
can’t
get an elevated eye from the south – only a ground eye.’

‘Which would put the squad directly in your sights.’

‘Exactly.’

Felicia nodded as she saw it too. ‘So you repositioned north. You should have broadcast it.’

‘I
did
broadcast it. North was the only option. And it was still bad. The entire side of the rancher was nothing but windows. And with the midday sun shining down, there was one
hell of a gleam. Breaching from that end would have been squad suicide. So they came in from the south, and I did what I could to cover from the north.’

‘Sounds like a less than perfect situation,’ Striker said.

Rothschild let out a frustrated sound. ‘It was a cluster-fuck. A thrown-together squad of reserves. Only Koda and Archer had any experience. The rest of us were just a bunch of novices.
When things went bad and Chipotle started firing through the windows, the whole team fell apart. Half of them spun about and raced for cover, and before you knew it, Archer was exposed. The breach
went off, and Chipotle was out there firing at everyone . . . it was fuckin’
chaos
.’

As Rothschild spoke the words, his breathing grew deeper, faster.

‘I
had
to engage,’ he said. ‘Otherwise Chipotle would have mowed them all down. So I fired – three, four, five times, I can’t remember. I just fired and
fired and fired till he stopped shooting, until he went down . . . And then we found out about Archer.’ He looked up and now his eyes were watery. ‘I thought – we all thought
– that Chipotle had gotten him. No one knew it was us . . . that it was
me.
’