The survivor

Seventeen

It was exactly two fifteen when Ich pointed to the bottom row of monitors. They all showed frozen-framed, black-and-white scenes of the school cafeteria. No date marked the tape, no legitimate marker of any kind. Just a generic time string starting at zero and ending at 451. Striker wrote down the numbers in his notebook, then looked over at Ich.

‘So what we got, Ich?’

‘The video security system was definitely deactivated by the gunmen. Of that there’s no doubt. But that would be the old system, the VISION 5 by SecuCorp — the analogue one.’ Ich let out a soft laugh, one that held no joy. ‘Turns out you were bang on right about the two types of cameras. The school was in the process of upgrading to digital. Keeping up with the times, right? I mean, shit, this is Saint Patrick’s High. A private school. How could they not? And they couldn’t have picked a better time to do it.’ He tapped the closest monitor of the bottom row. ‘That’s why these three screens were all blank when we first got here. They weren’t turned off or disconnected — the loop was in the process of cycling.’

Striker scratched his head. ‘You’re talking nerd again, Ich. What does it all mean?’

‘What it means is we’ve got evidence. Those new cameras you found in the auditorium weren’t the only ones, there were some in the cafeteria, too. It’s a good thing you pointed those cameras out when you did, or else everything would’ve been erased and recorded over before we figured it out.’ He pointed to a small black box that sat up high on one of the office shelves. ‘Hard drive’s in there. Friggin’ terabyte times two. An image raid.’

‘Sure, a raid, whatever. Is it backed up?’

‘Of course. And I’ve already disconnected the drives from the rest of the system, so they can’t be erased or tampered with.’

Striker put his hands on the desk and leaned closer to the wall, where the series of monitors hung. He stared at the still image on the screen: there were two figures wearing hockey masks, one holding a long gun, the other a handgun. Exact models were difficult to tell.

Striker took a closer look. From this detached viewpoint, the physiques of the shooters looked solid. Lean, wiry, but in no way dangly or awkward. There was muscle beneath those clothes. If he had to guess, the shooters looked full-grown and strong.

Not boys, but men.

It made no sense. Why would some adults break into St Patrick’s High and start shooting everyone? A disgruntled kid on drugs made some sense. So did a mentally ill outcast. But not this. It fell completely outside of what was expected. And Striker felt his fingers ball into fists.

He studied the still-shot of the cafeteria, then the auditorium, and searched for a third suspect. He couldn’t find one. Sweat slicked his palms and he quickly became aware that this thrown-together security room was too hot, too small, and it still held the menthol stink of Caroline’s second-hand cigarette smoke.

‘Just make sure everything is backed up, Ich. We can’t afford any mistakes on this one.’

‘Like I said, it’s already done.’

‘Then do it in triplicate. We need this feed.’

Ich held up a Blu-ray disc, smiled. ‘You can run the feed anytime you want, Detective. Just hit play.’

Just hit play. The words sounded so simple.

Striker looked at the keyboard for a moment, took in a deep breath, reached his finger out to tap the Enter button, and hesitated. Once he hit that button, the gunfight was on again. Bullets would be flying, and kids would be screaming. Bleeding. Dying. Once he hit that goddam button.

Ich shuffled in his seat, and gave him an odd look. Striker caught it. He forced his hand forward, hit the Enter button -

— and the images on the screen came to life.

There was no sound. Just a silent horror show. Two men in hockey masks, shooting everyone everywhere they went. With the film being black and white, it was difficult for Striker to make out which one was which some of the time. Not that it mattered overly. The feed went on for what felt like an eternity, and Striker watched it without moving or saying a word.

Near the end, a boy, aged about sixteen and dressed as the Joker, made a break for it. He raced across the cafeteria for the exit, didn’t make it, and dove underneath the nearest row of tables. The two gunmen approached him from opposite angles. They yanked him out, pointed their guns in his face, and shook him. It looked like they were demanding something. The boy mouthed some words, then they pushed him back down. Took aim. Shot him in the side of his head.

The tape continued.

The two gunmen marched across the cafeteria towards a girl who was huddled in the corner. She wore no Halloween costume, just the standard school uniform — a pleated skirt, drab in the black-and-white footage, and a white shirt, school emblem embossed. The gunmen shoved their weapons into her face, and again it looked like they were demanding something. She opened her mouth to say something, cried out, raised her hands in futility. One of them pulled a different handgun from his waistband and shot her twice in the chest, then once in the head. She fell face down onto the cafeteria floor. No twitching, no spasms, no movement at all.

Just stillness.

Striker felt off balance as he watched. Everything looked fake on the small screen. Like kids playing. Children falling over and lying still. Sprays of black liquid colouring their clothes and the tables and the floor, looking more like motor oil than blood. And the longer the video played, the deeper and darker the fascination became. He just couldn’t look away.

The gunmen stood above the fallen girl, facing each other as if the dead girl did not exist. As if she were nothing more than a lump of clothes or a discarded gym bag. They seemed to be talking under their masks. Communicating. After a long moment, they turned as one and marched on through the cafeteria, shooting students, seemingly indiscriminately. Striker counted five kids go down as he waited and watched, desperate for the image of him and Felicia to appear on the screen.

But it never did.

And then, abruptly, the feed ended.

He looked up, startled. ‘Ich, what happened?’

The previously smug look on Ich’s face was replaced by a sick expression. ‘What? Nothing happened. That’s all we got.’

‘All we got?’

Ich shrugged. ‘The system is brand new, Detective, and in the process of being configured. The cameras were set up only as a trial run. A test. They were never intended to be used as anything else. Hell, it was a fluke they were even recording when the shooting started.’

Striker gripped the back of the chair and cursed. ‘The sound. What about the sound?’

‘All we got right now is a garbled mess. Totally useless. I’ve forwarded a copy to my assistant in Forensic Video to see if we can clean it up. I’ll check on it when I’m done here, but it’s gonna take a while. This is Com-Tech material. They use their own digital codecs-’

‘You’re speaking geek again, Ich.’

Ich sighed. ‘Simply put, it’s not just a matter of the feed needing to be uncompressed and transcoded — it’s totally garbled.’

Striker looked at his watch. ‘How long is “a while”?’

Ich shrugged helplessly. ‘Days.’

‘We don’t got that kinda time. Shit, I thought you were the Bill Gates of this stuff?’

‘More like Steve Jobs,’ Ich corrected, and failed at forcing a grim smile. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but that’s what it takes. It’s all math, compressed data, and number crunching. You can’t make miracles out of numbers. They are what they are.’

Striker leaned back on the desk and studied the screen. The programme used a graphical slide-bar for time control. He reached down and grabbed the mouse. Used it to scroll back through the timeline until he got to the moment where the two gunmen yanked the boy dressed as the Joker out from under the table.

The tape time read 362.

Striker replayed the scene until the two gunmen shot the girl.

The finish time was 451.

He wrote down both times in his notebook, then copied them onto a piece of paper and handed it to Ich.

‘Make a second copy of the feed, using only these time intervals. Get me audio here, during this time period, that’s what’s most important. The rest can follow later.’

Ich said nothing. He just nodded and wiped the beads of perspiration off his long hooked nose and swallowed hard, like his throat was as dry as Striker’s. He grabbed another Blu-ray disc from the top shelf, stuck it in the disc drive, then initiated the burning programme.

Striker headed for the door, then stopped. He turned and waited for Ich to meet his stare, and didn’t speak till he had the man’s full attention.

‘Let me know the minute — the second — this thing is done, Ich. Got it? That tape is crucial, my best lead. I need to find out who these guys are. Whether they’re even students or not. And I need to know what they’re saying to each other, even if all we get back is a word or two.’

‘It’ll be done, Boss.’

‘And I need to know who that kid is.’

Ich looked at the screen, confused. ‘You mean, the boy they talked to? The kid dressed like the Joker?’

‘No, the girl,’ Striker corrected. ‘There’s no doubt about it. She was targeted.’