Snakes and ladders

Inside was the living room. Thick drapes hung across all the other windows, keeping the place entombed in darkness. Clear plastic hung over the couch and love seat, and boxes filled with other unknown belongings were stacked in the far corner. No lights of any kind were on. Not even the stove or microwave clocks in the adjoining kitchen.

‘Looks like the power’s been cut here, too,’ he said.

Felicia said nothing back. She stepped forward, right up to the window, then searched the darkness of the room and frowned.

‘Let’s call for a dog,’ she suggested.

‘And let some mangy mutt destroy any evidence left behind? Forget it, I’ll risk this one on my own.’

‘But Jacob—’

‘I’m going in, Feleesh. Just cover me, okay?’

Striker took off his coat. He draped it across the window frame to cover any leftover slivers of glass that might cut him. Then he drew his SIG Sauer, ducked low, and stepped in through the window frame.

The first thing he noticed inside the living room was the scent of dampness; it lived in the walls and unused furniture. The smell reminded him of an old folks’ home. He shone his flashlight around all four corners of the room, spotted nothing of interest, then stepped forward and peered into the kitchen. It was the same. Dark. Bare. Still.

The place looked deserted.

‘Hold up,’ he heard from Felicia. ‘I’m coming with you.’

He smiled at that. He knew she would come, in the end. She was stubborn, like always, but forever faithful. It was her best quality.

When she reached his side, he motioned for her to cover their backs. She did. Once in position, Striker led them on. They slowly made their way to the west side of the house, then started up the staircase. They cleared each floor as they went, room by room, passing two bedrooms and a bathroom, then an office, master bedroom and ensuite on the top floor.

Felicia looked around the area, cursed, shook her head. ‘This is the east side of the house,’ she said. ‘I don’t see any window.’

Striker pointed up. He walked back into the hallway. Hanging down from the ceiling was a long nylon cord with a handle at the end. He grabbed it, then fixed Felicia with a hard look.

‘Be ready,’ he said.

‘Go,’ she replied.

He gave the cord a hard yank. A loud groan filled the air, and a fall-down staircase descended from the ceiling, bringing with it a cloud of dust and particles of sawdust. Once the staircase was resting on the main floor, Striker gave Felicia the nod, and he started up the stairs. The angle was steep, and the wood was old and rickety, but he continued up. Ten steps later, he was standing in the entrance of the attic.

It was dark and dusty, cold and quiet.

He shone his flashlight at every corner. Saw no one there. But on the east side of the attic, he spotted the window with the broken shutter. The sight of it excited him, and he started that way, then stopped. He slowed himself down, took a moment to assess the area. He shone his flashlight across the wall and saw nothing of interest. Then he aimed the beam at the floor. What he saw there made him pause. By the base of the window, in the dust, were two sets of markings. They were faint and faded and indistinct, but they were definitely there.

Felicia joined him in the attic entranceway and took note of the tracks in the dust. ‘What do you think they’re from?’ she asked.

Striker dropped into a squat position and studied the markings. Two one-inch trails, perfectly parallel.

‘Suitcase maybe. A stand. A generator. I’m not sure.’

He stood up, stepped to the side of the markings, and approached the window. As he neared it, he looked down and across the way. Directly below was the begi

‘You got your monocular on you?’ he asked.

Felicia nodded. ‘Always.’ She fished it out of her pocket, a token from her surveillance days.

Striker had always pla

Noodles was still on scene gathering evidence.

For surveillance of unit 303, there was no better position.

Striker handed the monocular back to Felicia and turned on his flashlight. He swept the beam around the window, but saw no prints of possible value. Lastly, he illuminated the broken glass and shutter, again looking for fingerprints. He found none, but what he did find was equally telling. He reached out through the window frame and picked up a shard of broken glass. Stuck to it was a small strip of black material.

Felicia made an excited sound. ‘Is it leather?’ she asked.

Striker nodded. He dropped the evidence, shard and all, into a paper bag, marked it, and carefully pocketed it. Then he turned around and found Felicia’s eyes.

‘Tape everything off?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘There’s no doubt about it. He was here.’

Ten

Ten minutes later, Noodles had made his way over to the attic and was now taking pictures and bagging samples. He stood up awkwardly in the low-ceilinged attic, and rubbed his lower back, all the while complaining about it.

‘You guys’ll have me here till the early morning light,’ he griped.

‘You’re breaking my heart,’ Striker said.

‘Like you have one.’

Striker let the banter go, and mentally went over what they had. The entire building was taped off now, with patrol cops stationed as guards at the front and back of the residence.

Striker left the scene under the command of Sergeant Mike Rothschild – an experienced old-schooler who had been one of Striker’s first NCOs many years ago.

Striker and Felicia returned to the car. After Striker hopped in the driver’s side, Felicia slammed the passenger-side door closed and bit her lip. ‘Foul play is looking more and more reasonable,’ she said.

Striker shifted in his seat. The leather was cold and it felt stiff against his back. He started the car and got the engine going. Turned on the heater. Switched the setting to defrost.

‘Yes and no,’ he finally said. ‘Sure, it looks bad. No doubt about that. But what do we really have here to suggest this is anything other than a suicide? And by that I mean non-circumstantial evidence.’

‘Non-circumstantial?’

‘The physical evidence all points to a suicide.’

‘That someone filmed.’

Striker nodded. ‘I’m not arguing that; hell, I’m the one who found the guy. It’s creepy, no doubt. But what really is that? We got a guy in the next suite filming Mandy with a set-up video camera. Why? For all we know, he had a thing for her and was videotaping her before her death. For all we know, he was there trying to get the camera back before we found it.’

‘Or maybe he was filming us, for that matter,’ Felicia said.

That notion bothered Striker. It was a possibility he hadn’t thought of. But a legitimate reality. ‘You could be right about that,’ he said. ‘One of these YouTube idiots. Or maybe another media-seller.’

‘Sounds weak when you say it.’

‘And it might well be,’ he said. ‘All I’m saying is that we don’t know why this happened. Hell, we don’t even have possession of the camera.’

‘What about the leather strip we found on the broken window?’

Striker nodded. ‘I have no doubt Ident will match it to the glove I tore off the suspect – the material is the same colour and texture. But even then, so what? What does it actually prove?’

‘It proves we got a sicko on our hands.’