‘I’m concerned,’ the bomb investigator said without preamble. ‘This is a completely different signature from before.’
Felicia stopped covering her mouth. ‘Meaning?’
‘Usually, a new signature suggests a new bomber.’
Striker shook his head. ‘It’s the same two as before – I saw them firsthand. Hell, I tagged one of them.’ He explained what had transpired, and Corporal Summer listened
intently. When Striker was done talking, she nodded, but the concern never left her eyes.
‘Still,’ she said. ‘It
is
unusual for a bomber to change method halfway through. Here . . . glove up and check this out.’
Once Striker and Felicia snapped on some latex, Corporal Summer called over one of her technicians and took from the woman two evidence bags. From the first one, the Corporal withdrew a
blackened piece of U-shaped steel.
‘You can touch it,’ she said. ‘It’s already been swabbed for DNA – not that we expect to get any. If we’re lucky though, we will get some residue
samples.’ She held up the bracket – a broken mount for the BirdDog tracking unit – and made a concerned sound. ‘Someone had GPS on our police car.’
An
oh-shit
feeling flooded Striker, and he fessed up. ‘The GPS unit was ours.’
‘Both of them?’
Striker and Felicia exchanged glances, and Striker spoke:
‘What do you mean,
both
?’
Corporal Summer opened up the second evidence bag. Inside it was another U-shaped bracket, twisted and blackened. ‘We’ve already identified the manufacturer. This one comes from a
company called Lowry Systems. It’s the base part of one of their handheld tracking systems – GPS.’
Striker found it difficult to accept what he was hearing. ‘So just to be clear here, this car had
two
GPS tracking systems on it.’
‘From two different companies, yes.’
Striker mulled it over. ‘That would explain how the bombers found them.’
Felicia took the bracket and analysed it. ‘Where would they get a Lowry GPS unit from?’
Corporal Summer shrugged. ‘Anywhere. So much has changed the past five years. Global Positioning is nothing new any more. God, you can bid for one of these things on eBay.’ She took
back both brackets and put them into their corresponding evidence bags. Then she directed Striker and Felicia to the corner of the parking lot where they examined a piece of V-shaped steel that was
roughly the size of a large cooking pot. ‘This was the base, what held the explosives.’
Striker crouched down to examine it. The V-shape would direct the explosion upwards, making the explosion more focal and directed. Striker looked up at the corporal. ‘Was this shape used
to increase the damage to the victim – or to limit casualties?’
‘Only the bomber knows that,’ Summer replied. ‘But that’s not what concerns me. What does is the actual
size
of the base. What it signifies.’
‘And that is?’ Felicia asked.
‘They’ve switched to home-made explosives.’
Striker thought this over. ‘And you’re sure of this?’
‘Positive. If they’d used this much professional grade, nothing would be left of the car. We’ll have to get the lab to test the residue samples to be one hundred per cent
certain. But this much is true – a commercial or military explosive would never require this size of a base. The bombers are using HME now. I’d stake my career on it.’
Striker thought of the smoke pouring from the car. ‘That would explain the greyer colour of the smoke, would it not?’
‘Completely.’
Felicia interjected: ‘These are all nice tidbits. But it doesn’t explain the most fundamental question of all –
why the change
?’
Corporal Summer hazarded a guess. ‘It could be something simple. Maybe they ran out. Maybe their black-market supplier fell through. Who knows for sure? Maybe they underestimated their
need.’
Felicia shook her head. ‘I can’t believe that. Not these two. They’ve been completely prepared for every job. I mean, think about it: electrical torture, scuba gear, laser
tripwires – we’re talking
organized
here. There has to be a reason for the switch. These are professionals we’re dealing with, not some hacks.’
Striker nodded. He had to agree.
He looked at the leftover blackened shell of the undercover police cruiser that was still smoking in the parking lot. Aside from the actual frame, almost nothing remained.
‘This is going to sound like an odd question, but I don’t suppose you found any dolls in that debris?’ he asked. ‘Like a miniature policeman.’
Corporal Summer gave him a curious look and shook her head. ‘No. Anything that was in that car has long since been burned up.’
Striker nodded half-heartedly. ‘Let me know if you find anything.’
Before she could respond, he turned around and headed for the exit. Harry was still on scene, being treated by a paramedic in the back of one of the ambulances.
Hard questions needed to be asked of the man.
Striker and Felicia made their way out of the A&W parking lot and headed across Semlin Drive towards the primary crime scene where Sleeves had been executed. Behind the
yellow row of tape, a gaggle of reporters were squawking out his name: Detective Striker. Detective Striker!
Detective Striker!
He ignored them all.
Two uniformed patrolmen guarded the entrance to the lane, one at each end. In between them, Noodles was busy snapping pictures.
Striker took a moment to examine the bloodied spot of pavement where Sleeves had died. ‘If someone had told me three hours ago that Sleeves was going to be dead, I’d have thought
this nightmare would be over.’ He met Felicia’s stare. ‘But he’s not the bomber, Feleesh. He
never was
the bomber. We’ve been chasing a lie.’
Felicia had a confused look on her face.
‘Maybe not,’ she admitted. ‘But he was part of this in
some
way. He had to be – at least through his gang affiliations.’
Striker thought of the Satan’s Prowlers. Then of Sleeves. And finally of the latest name that they’d been hearing a lot of lately – Carlos Chipotle. The more Striker thought it
over, the more something bothered him.
‘Something doesn’t mesh here.’
‘What?’
‘The Satan’s Prowlers. They may be an outlaw motorcycle gang, but they still have their own set of rules to abide by – and they take them very seriously. Disrespect your
colours and you can be killed; no Blacks or Jews in the club; never bring the gang unwanted police attention—’
‘And no women, either,’ Felicia said. ‘Women are just property to them.’
Striker nodded. ‘Exactly. But there’s one rule the gang follows that’s above all the others – no family members targeted. And no children.’
‘Not ever,’ Felicia agreed.
Striker reasoned it out. ‘I’ve heard of some ex-members getting burned to death and others having their dicks cut off, but never once have I heard of the gang going after another
member’s family – and especially not the children.’
Felicia shook her head. ‘Where are you going with all this?’
Striker met her stare. ‘Not only did Sleeves blow up Chipotle’s family, but the Prowlers actually
sanctioned
the killing. Why? What could this man possibly have done for the
gang to break their most fundamental rule? To implement such a horrific penalty? I can think of only one thing.’
Felicia let out an excited breath. ‘Being a
rat
.’
Striker nodded. ‘I’m starting to wonder if Chipotle was selling information on the side. Or acting as a police informant. If that was the case, we have an interesting turn of events
here. With Sleeves and Chipotle both dead, it works out rather well for the Prowlers, doesn’t it?’
‘It does,’ Felicia admitted.
‘And look at the style of shooting. Kneecapping someone before the final headshot is a Prowler trademark.’
‘But a commonly known one,’ she pointed out.
‘What do you mean by that?’
She shrugged. ‘For all we know, someone
wants
us to think it was the Prowlers who did him in. I mean, who else benefits from Sleeves being dead? I can think of
two
people
– one of them was killed when that car blew up and the other is being treated in the ambulance.’
Striker looked at her in surprise. ‘You don’t seriously mean Harry?’
‘Once again, Jacob, friendship is like a veil to you.’
‘Feleesh—’
‘Harry was right here in the area when Sleeves took one. We know that – we got him on GPS. Plus, he’s been hiding Koda from us ever since the first bomb went off. And we know
he was selling drugs back to the Prowlers.’
‘We
believe
he was selling—’
‘Oh bullshit. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.’
Striker said nothing. Processing the thought was difficult. He’d known Harry for so long, almost his entire career. And he’d seen the man suffer through some very hard times –
the accidental drowning of his first son; the divorce from his first wife.
It had been more than most men could have handled.
And through it all, Harry had been a rock of integrity. A good man. To see him acting this strangely was shocking, no doubt. And to think that he might have been selling seized drugs back to the
gang was an even greater blow.
But
murder
?
Striker couldn’t believe that.
He looked down the lane to where the last ambulance was parked, its red lights flashing against the darkening sky. ‘I’ll go talk to the man.’
‘And what then?’ Felicia said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You gonna take him down to the station for questioning?’
‘I don’t even know what his medical status is yet.’
‘What if it’s good? You gonna do a full interview? Taped? Even a polygraph?’
Striker said nothing for a moment as he thought it over. Taking witnesses and suspects down to the station was standard protocol, but this wasn’t some crook or civilian they were dealing
with here, it was
Harry.
Another cop. And an experienced one at that. Like all cops, Harry would be willing to provide a field interview no doubt – but allow himself to be
transported to one of the interrogation rooms?
That would be a problem.
Striker met Felicia’s stare. ‘If I demand that Harry attends the station and he says no, we back ourselves into a corner. Then what?’
‘Read him his rights.
Force
him to come in.’
Striker splayed his hands in frustration. ‘You keep saying that. But on what
grounds
, Feleesh? What law has he broken? Right now we got a pair of assassins out there who just blew
up a car and killed Koda. For all we know, Harry might have been caught in the crossfire.’
‘They fired on him, Jacob.’
‘And he’s going to argue mistaken identity; you know that. He’ll say the suspects were going after Koda. He’ll play the victim.’ Striker took in a slow breath and
sorted his thoughts. ‘Fact is, Harry doesn’t have to cooperate in the investigation at all. It’s his right not to, and he knows that. He’s got twenty-five years on the job,
Feleesh. More than both of us. We’re not dealing with some piss kid rookie here. We show our hand too soon and we lose it all.’
She stared back at him with doubt. ‘All I’m saying, Jacob, is prepare yourself for what you might have to do. Harry’s not your friend. Not any more.’
Striker looked down the lane at the awaiting ambulance and felt a hardness form in his gut. This file was getting more complicated all the time. He couldn’t wait for it to end.
‘Jacob?’ Felicia asked.
‘I’ll go talk to the man,’ he said.
Without another word, he marched down the long dark corridor towards the awaiting ambulance, feeling every bit as injured as the man inside.
Striker reached the back doors of the ambulance, opened them up, and saw Harry sitting on a gurney. He was holding an ice bag to his head and staring off into space like a wax
figure. His complexion was two shades darker than normal and the flesh of his face looked bloated. Upon seeing Striker, he nodded slowly but his eyes remained vacant.
‘You okay there, Harry?’
‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘. . . fine . . .’
The paramedic, a short plump thing, handed Harry another ice pack and shook her head admonishingly. ‘He should be going to the hospital for further assessment, but he’s a stubborn
ass.’
Harry put the ice pack against his head and waved her away. He stared at the floor, as if his head was too heavy to lift.
Striker stepped forward. ‘You’re lucky you had on Kevlar, Harry. Or today your number would have come up.’
He said nothing back; he just winced and took a slow, deep breath.
Striker softened his voice. ‘Listen, Harry, I hate to do this to you, but given the circumstances and all, I need to ask you some questions. You wanna come down to the station?’
When Harry lifted his head to meet Striker’s stare, his blue eyes were cold as ice. ‘The
station
?
Y
ou fucking kidding me here? What the hell happened to a field
interview?’
‘I’m just suggesting it might be easier downtown.’
‘What, you gonna tape me too? Maybe put me on the poly?’ When Striker didn’t answer, Harry’s face darkened. ‘I’m the
victim
here, Striker. Not to
mention a fucking cop. What, do I need to lawyer up now too?’
Striker took in a slow deep breath, if only to allow the conversation a pause. He closed his notebook. Put it away. Then played his best card. ‘Do you know a man called Brice Burns –
also goes by the alias Sleeves?’
Harry let out a laugh that held no joy. ‘Of course I do. I’ve arrested him a half-dozen times. You know that.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘That he’s dead, for one.’
The words caught Striker off guard, but he said nothing. He allowed Harry a moment to realize what he had said. When Striker spoke again, his words were slow and direct.
‘How do you know this, Harry? I never mentioned the identity of the person who was shot back there. Not once.’