Snakes and ladders

‘Have you touched—’

‘Nothing. I didn’t touch a thing. Not a single thing.’

Striker was pleased to hear that; the kid had been taught well.

He turned his attention to the room before him. Everything was still, and darkness hung about the air in different shades. In the centre of the room, lying back in an easy chair, was the body of Mandy Gill.

The rest of the room was empty.

Striker frowned and looked at Constable Wong. ‘Where’s your partner?’

‘Partner? I . . . I don’t have one. I’m one-man.’

‘You mean you’re at a Sudden Death alone?’

The kid shrugged. ‘I had to be. There was no one else to go. Thought someone else would clear by the time I got here. But so far, you’re the only one.’

‘You got balls, kid. Next time wait.’

Constable Wong never took his eyes from the body. ‘She looks . . . fresh.’

Striker nodded sadly. The kid was right; the death looked somewhat recent.

‘She’s listed in the directory only as Gill,’ the young cop offered. ‘But I haven’t had a chance to confirm anything yet. I could run out to the car for the laptop, if you want.’

‘There’s no need to,’ he said. ‘You’re right about her identity. Her name was Mandy Gill and she was nineteen years old.’

‘Oh, you already researched her?’ the cop asked.

Striker shook his head sadly. ‘I knew her.’

Three

The body of Mandy Gill had been discovered by accident. The original call to the Lucky Lodge had come in as a Suspicious Person complaint from an anonymous caller. A shadowy figure had been seen lurking in the bushes behind the dilapidated building, somewhere close to Union Street.

That in itself was nothing out of the ordinary – SusPers were a dime a dozen, especially in the Strathcona area – but lately, over the past nine months, the City had been having problems with an arsonist. Because of this, the area from Union Street to Pender had become a top priority. So a unit had been dispatched immediately.

Newbie cop Wong drew the short stick. Working a one-man car, he had attended the scene and stumbled across the sudden death.

Mandy Gill.

Striker stepped into the small apartment, being mindful of where he placed his feet. The air was just as cold inside the building as it was outside, and he found that disheartening.

He looked around. The suite was minute, built into two separate rooms: one washroom and one common room, which was complete with a kitchenette, sitting area, and one shabby, single-mattress cot, which was tucked away in the far corner.

All in all, it was a sad statement of this girl’s life.

Dirty dishes filled the sink. A carton of milk was left on the stove. And old newspapers and junk mail littered the counters and floor.

After a long moment, Striker stepped into the centre of the room and stopped avoiding what needed to be done. He shone his flashlight on the dead girl before him and really looked at her.

It pained his heart to do so.

Mandy Gill was sitting back in an old easy chair that was made from threadbare fabric. She was positioned to look out of the only window the room had – a cracked pane that faced west. In her hand was an empty vial of pills, and in the corners of her mouth was the white crust of pill paste. Her chest was completely still.

Even in the unforgiving glare of the flashlight’s white beam, it was apparent that all the colour had drained away from her dark brown skin, turning it more of an ash-grey colour.

Striker leaned closer and studied her face. The underlying musculature was slack, and her eyes were wide open and milky, staring through the window at a world that was as cold to her now in death as it had been in life. An empty expression marred her face, and it struck Striker like a physical blow.

Mandy Gill looked sad, even in death.

Striker killed the thought. He turned and located Constable Wong, who was standing quietly in the doorway.

‘When did you arrive on scene?’ he asked.

‘Huh?’

‘How long you been here?’

‘Uh . . . twenty minutes, maybe more.’

Striker nodded. ‘Did you clear the place?’

Wong jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘All the other apartments are unoccupied. In fact, she’s not even supposed to be in here. This place was condemned over a month ago. Everyone was supposed to have moved out by now. Who knows why she’s even here.’

‘She’s in here because she had nowhere else to go. You got the manager’s number?’

‘In the car.’

Striker forced a smile. ‘Well, we can’t read it from here.’

Wong clued in and left the room. When Striker heard the young constable’s police boots clomping down the steps, he focused his attention back on the dead girl before him. He tried to think of her as ‘the body’ or ‘the deceased’.

As anything but Mandy.

It was impossible. His conscience would not allow it. Memories hit him, and all of them sad. He had hoped she would escape this place. This area. This rotten city altogether. But like so many others before her, she hadn’t left. And in the end, she’d found her own way out.

The only way she knew.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I should have done more.’

He reached out and gently touched her face.

And he frowned.

She was still slightly warm.

A thought occurred to him. He stood back up from Mandy Gill’s body, walked into the kitchenette, and approached the stove. On it sat a carton of milk. He touched it.

It was still cool.

Not a lot of time had passed since the woman’s death – too much for any hope of resuscitation, but not a lot in terms of a crime scene. And every Sudden Death had to be considered a crime until ruled otherwise. He took out his pen and notebook, and wrote down: Time? When he looked back up again, his eyes found the throw-rug on the floor and lingered there.

The rug was an old thing, probably something Mandy had snagged from the Salvation Army or the First United Church. Green threadbare fabric, just like the recliner, with dirty yellow flower designs.

But the colour and pattern were not what stole Striker’s attention – it was the strands of the carpet. The indentations in the weave. And the more he looked at it, the more he realized that the chair had been moved from its normal resting spot. Now it was angled westward. Facing out of the window.

It was odd.

Had Mandy wanted to watch the setting sun during her death? The timing would seem to suggest so. And if not, what had she been looking at?

Striker approached the window. Outside, the dusk was slipping slowly by. In the coming twilight, streaks of blood-orange sun blistered the charcoal sky, making the world look warmer than it actually was.

Three storeys down, the next neighbouring lot was vacant.

Striker sca

A camera.

It was facing inside the room.

Striker grabbed on to the window and tried to lift it, but time and rot had caused the frame to swell. As a result, the window was wedged tight. Impossible to open.

Whoever had placed the camera on the ledge had done so from the outside.

Striker considered this. He leaned forward for a closer look, then heard a soft, raspy sound behind him. He spun around, not knowing what to expect.

After a short moment, he relaxed. It was just air escaping the body – a normal occurrence during the begi