The survivor

Twenty

Striker approached the cafeteria with Felicia beside him. The doors were open. Standing out front of them was a young cop — male, East Indian, easily six feet tall and square-jawed. A solid guy, no doubt, but still a rookie. Had to be. Only rookies got stuck with the shittiest of all posts — guard duty. When Striker got close enough to see the badge number on his shirt, he nodded with understanding. The kid barely had six months under his belt.

Six months, and already this would be his worst day on the job.

Striker badged him, then grabbed a pair of protective booties and slipped them over his shoes. Felicia did the same. They gloved up and stepped under the police tape.

The first thing Striker noticed was the smell — not of blood or of urine or of anything bad. It was a sweet smell — almost caramel-like. He looked ahead to the kitchen and saw the blown-apart racks of Coke bottles. Black liquid was stuck to the floor. Memories of dropping to the ground with shotgun blasts impacting over his head hit Striker, as explosive in his mind now as they had been in reality six hours ago.

He jerked in response to the memory and slowed his steps. Then he felt Felicia’s heavy stare upon him. No doubt analysing him. If he stalled at all, the questions would begin:

Is it too soon, Jacob?

Do you need some time, Jacob?

Are you coping, Jacob?

Without meeting her eyes, he said, ‘It’s sticky here,’ and made a point of walking around the tacky goo. He marched into the eating area where the gunfight had erupted, and immediately spotted four covered bodies. Students.

He turned away and saw another body. From where it lay, he knew it was one of the gunmen.

‘White Mask.’

Dark fascination overtook Striker, and he moved forward.

The body of the gunman lay face up between the first and second row of cafeteria tables. The bloodied-red vinyl around the body had been blocked off by red cones and bright strands of yellow tape.

Another crime scene within the crime scene.

Emotions hit Striker. So many of them. They mixed into some strange concoction he could not define. Suppressing them, he walked right up to the police tape, crouched low, and looked at the body.

The gunman’s head was completely gone, as were both his hands — obliterated in response to the shotgun blasts Red Mask had pumped through them. Even now as Striker stared at the carnage, he could hear the violent explosions reverberating through the room: ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-BOOM. Up this close to the body, he could now clearly detect the unique stink of death — the urine and blood and shit. And the faint trace of burned gunpowder, which lingered as a dark reminder.

‘There’s not much of the prick left,’ Striker said.

Felicia came up behind him. ‘Yeah, he kinda lost his head over the whole ordeal.’

Striker leaned back under the tape and stood up. He analysed where White Mask had fallen, then considered where Red Mask had been standing. He pointed to the area beyond the body. ‘Look for teeth over there. We gotta find something, some way of identifying this bastard.’

‘Ident’s already done that.’

‘They find any?’

‘No, but they combed this place down.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Keep looking.’

Felicia started to say more, stopped. She just shook her head, turned around, and walked between the second and third row of tables. After a few steps, she leaned down and, with a gloved hand, picked up one of the rounds that had been expelled during the firefight. She inspected it. A brass casing with an inset head on the bullet. Frangible. She held it up for him to see.

‘Hydra-Shok,’ she said.

Striker recalled the meaty exit wounds he had seen in some of the students.

‘Bag and tag,’ he said, and Felicia continued her search.

With her out of the way, Striker could better focus. He examined the top of White Mask’s neck. It was an uneven fleshy ridge. The edges glistened, and here and there spots of whitish bone and yellow cartilage could be seen — some of them blown deeper within the body.

The musculature around the neck struck him as odd. There was too much muscle bulk for a teenager. Striker grabbed hold of each clavicle and tried to move them. The joints shifted, but very stiffly, and he wondered if it was ossified near the sternum. That would mean the John Doe was older than they thought. Maybe even over thirty. He wasn’t sure, but it was something to bring up with the Medical Examiner.

Fanning down the left side of White Mask’s neck was a strange, golden design. It added colour to the copper skin. Striker leaned close and studied it. Calligraphic lettering, he thought, or perhaps an artistic design. Something tribal.

It was hard to tell because most of the design was blown away. The part which remained was clear around the edges, and the colours were vibrant. It had been done by a professional, no doubt. Unfortunately, eighty percent of it was gone, along with the rest of the gunman’s neck and head. Striker took out his notebook, noted the location and design, and drew a copy of what he could make out. Then he called Felicia over. She looked unimpressed.

‘That look gold or yellow to you?’ he asked.

‘Amber sunshine.’

The small stab at humour felt good, and Striker managed a weak grin. ‘I’m serious, Feleesh.’

‘Gold. Definitely gold.’ She knelt down and leaned under the police tape for a better look. ‘But there’s red in there too, at the uppermost edges.’

‘Red?’

Striker took a better look and realised she was right. He’d thought it was dried blood, but the colour was too bright compared to the rest of the crusted goo. It was ink.

‘Good call.’

After writing this information in his notebook, his eyes fell upon the area where the neck met the chest. Just below the collar bone, left side near the heart, was a crudely tattooed number 13. Striker noted this too. Wrote it down.

He scanned the rest of the chest.

Located perfectly in between the collar bones, at the top of the chest bone, there was one small dark hole, barely noticeable in contrast to the sundered flesh of the neck. This was the first point of impact — where his bullet had gone through, dead centre, then carried out via the rear of the throat, tearing through the gunman’s spinal cord.

Striker stared at that spot, and the recollection hit him all over again. The moment had happened so fast, more reaction and muscle memory than intention. And he couldn’t help but wonder what the outcome might have been, had this first shot not landed with such pinpoint accuracy.

The thought left him sick inside.

Felicia stood beside him. She dropped her hand to her holster and rested her palm on the butt of her pistol. ‘That’s the shot that dropped him. Probably saved our lives. And God knows how many others.’ She spoke the words calmly, logically, without a trace of emotion. As if she were talking about a shot he’d made at the range, or even in a video game.

It drove Striker nuts. Here he was, struggling not to have a meltdown, while Felicia remained cool and composed.

‘Yeah, I got him centre mass,’ he finally said.

‘Great shot.’

‘Well, one of us had to hit him.’

Felicia flinched at the words. Striker caught her reaction, and immediately regretted saying them. You’re an ass, he told himself. Why push things? As Felicia spun away from him and headed in the other direction, he said ‘Look, Felicia, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-’

‘Yes, Jacob, you did.’

‘Felicia…’

‘I’m looking for teeth. That is what you wanted — right, Boss?’

Striker stood fixed to the spot, half of him still angry, half wondering if he should go after her. He watched her search the room, clearly doing a grid, her head angled down, her long brown hair draping across the caramel skin of her cheek. She was beautiful — something he noticed far too often, but never mentioned. And for a moment, he recalled the brief time they’d shared together. It had been a wonderful two months, a temporary reprieve from the grief of losing Amanda. And though it had been exactly what he needed, he now regretted it. Nothing had been the same since. Not with their partnership, and not with their friendship.

And he wondered if it would ever be that good again.

Just then, the blue cafeteria doors swung open, stealing Striker’s attention. He looked over and saw a short cop walk through. He had a full head of jagged white hair, big white bushy eyebrows, and a stomach that hung way down over his belt. Looked like a mad professor.

Striker counted him as a good friend. It was Jim Banner. Noodles, as everyone called him — ever since he’d almost choked to death while eating a creamy linguine at the Noodle Shack in Burnaby. Noodles worked in Ident. Hell, he was Ident. Worked seven days a week and damn near twelve hours a day. He carried the usual blue-light device and associated tool box, and upon seeing Striker he waddled faster and hollered across the room: ‘Hey, Shipwreck, stay the fuck out of my crime scene!’

Shipwreck. Few people were allowed to call Striker that, but Noodles was one of them. Which was only fair, considering that the eighty-thousand-dollar speedboat Striker had sunk on the team getaway ten years back had belonged to the man.

Striker smiled at him. ‘This is my crime scene, Noodles.’

‘Not yet it ain’t.’ Noodles reached the body of White Mask. ‘Last thing I need is more of your goddam DNA screwing up my results.’

‘I’ll try not to jerk off in the scene.’ Striker looked at his watch. ‘’Bout time you got your ass down here. It’s only been six hours since the shootings. What the hell took you so long? Someone open an all-day buffet down the road?’

‘Yeah, your mother did. Wanna know what I was eating? I’ll give you a hint — I’m not a vegetarian.’

Striker laughed, and let the banter go.

Noodles put down his tools. ‘Already been and gone twice, numb-nuts. Here to get some more blood samples.’ He looked down at the blown-apart body. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

Striker followed his gaze to the corpse. All the humour he had felt moments ago dropped away. ‘What have you got for me so far?’

Noodles shrugged. ‘The kid had a wallet in his back pocket. Nothing’s confirmed, but the name on the ID is Quenton Wong. He’s nineteen. Born December twenty-fifth.’

‘Oh joy, a Christmas Baby.’ Striker looked the body over. ‘Nineteen? Sounds a bit young for what I’m seeing.’

Noodles nodded in agreement.

‘What kind of ID?’ Striker asked.

‘Just the standard stuff. Driver’s licence, BCID, some bank cards, and of course, an old Saint Patrick’s Student ID Card. His primary residence is listed as Kerrisdale — Balsam Street. I’ve already sent the ID upstairs for prints and trace evidence.’

Striker thought of the gunmen. It looked like they were connected to the school in some way. Ex-students maybe. ‘You run him, Noodles?’

‘Yeah. And he’s got nothing. No history, criminal or otherwise.’

Striker frowned. ‘Completely negative? Tattoos and all?’

‘Fucking everything.’

Striker looked at White Mask’s ribs. On the left side was a series of thick white serrated scars, each about three inches in length.

‘What about those marks?’ he asked. ‘He’s got some on his inner arm too. Really odd scar formation.’

‘They look odd because he got them when he was still growing.’ Noodles looked back at the corpse, gave a shrug. ‘I dunno, Shipwreck. The guy’s a complete non-entity in the system. And by that I mean every damn database: CPIC, LEIP, PIRS and PRIME. Haven’t checked across the border yet, but I’ve done enough of your job. You can do that later.’

Striker turned silent for a moment. The fact that this kid had no police history, criminal or otherwise, was disturbing, if not unbelievable.

Noodles strapped on a pair of latex gloves. He nodded towards Felicia, who stood across the room with a pissed look still marring her pretty features, and said with a smirk, ‘What’s with my Spanish fantasy? Seems kind of sour. Or is she just picking up the better parts of your personality?’

‘The world should be so lucky.’

Noodles laughed. ‘You two at it again?’

‘Like the Inquisition.’

‘Jesus, isn’t this your first day back?’

Striker sighed. ‘Call me when you get some results.’ He wrote this latest information into his notebook. By the time he’d closed the book and stuffed it back into his pocket, Felicia had joined them.

‘Hey, Noodles,’ she said.

‘My Persian Princess.’

‘I’m Spanish, not Middle Eastern.’

Noodles shrugged as if to say, What? After that he went to work on the body. Felicia addressed Striker. There was no warmth in her voice.

‘Grid search done, Boss. No teeth found, Boss. Anything else, Boss?’

‘No, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Due diligence done.’

He turned away from Felicia and Noodles and marched steadily back across the room to the north-east corner — the one area he’d been avoiding since he’d entered this damn cafeteria. That was where the other gunman was still lying.

The shooter Laroche had deemed ‘possibly innocent’.

Black Mask.