The Guilty

For the first time, Oliver smiled. And he did so darkly. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Detective?’

Striker met the man’s stare. ‘I take you for nothing. I don’t have to – the evidence speaks for itself.’

‘What evidence?’

Striker edged a little closer to the maintenance door. ‘During that call, Rothschild had to reposition. He moved from a south to north position. He had to – because of the downward slope of the river. Otherwise he’d be shooting from a level position, lighting up his men instead of covering them.’

The dark look on Oliver’s face turned from one of anger to cold suspicion, but he remained silent.

‘You’re a military man,’ Striker said. ‘You have a hundred times more experience than I do. Wartime experience. So you tell me: does that make sense to you?’

Oliver let out a long breath, wiped away the sweat from his brow. ‘I’ve seen the radio reports.’

‘I know you have. You got printed-up copies of the entire CAD call. But you didn’t actually pull the tapes, did you? I know you didn’t. Know why? Because I did. And the tapes don’t match the call – just like the medical tapes don’t match the written report.’

‘The CAD call—’

‘CAD calls are typed out by Dispatchers on the fly, Oliver. People miss things, they make mistakes. If you had taken the time to listen to the actual tapes, you would have heard Rothschild repositioning.’

Oliver’s face took on a blank look, then it tightened.

‘Liar,’ he said.

Striker shook his head. ‘No. I’m not. It was a rookie squad, Oliver. A bunch of novices thrown together at a moment’s notice. When Chipotle started shooting, the men just panicked – all of them except your father, which doesn’t surprise me because he was the only one who had seen wartime action. Archer only turned to run when he realized he’d lost the entire squad. And that’s when Rothschild tried to take out Chipotle. The bullet went through the living room window, north side, and exited out the south side through the dining room. It struck your father as he ran for cover. That’s how he got hit in the back, Oliver. That’s how the breach went off.’

‘Liar,’ he said again.

‘It was an accident.’

Oliver’s face tightened. ‘It’s fucking bollocks.’

But Striker only shook his head solemnly. ‘Same goes for Osaka. His investigation was dropped only because he didn’t have enough evidence. Why? Because Koda wrote the police reports and Owens doctored the medical reports. There was no cover-up on his part. He was just overburdened with work and the shooting looked straightforward.’ Striker reached the maintenance door. ‘You murdered an i

Oliver’s entire body began to tremble. ‘Lies.’

‘It’s true. Your father’s shooting and the subsequent explosion was nothing more than a horrible accident in a chaotic gun battle. Osaka, Koda, Owens, Williams, the cops back at my house, even your sister’s death . . . it’s all been for nothing. You were wrong.’

‘LIES!’ Oliver roared.

Striker stopped talking and took a long look at the man. The flesh of his face had turned a purplish-red colour now and spit bubbles formed on his lips. Beads of sweat covered his face and neck regions, and his eyes were large and wild and glaring.

‘Where are the children, Oliver?’

His stare was faraway, his voice quiet. ‘It’s not true.’

‘They have no mother. She died just months ago.’

‘. . . not fucking true.’

‘Their father is all they have left.’

‘. . . not true . . .’

‘Oliver,’ Striker said. ‘Oliver.’

But the man was no longer listening. He was zoning out now. Fading. And his posture was sagging, his entire body leaning to the left. Striker focused on the man’s hands. They were trembling, weakening, slowly loosening on the pressure-release plate of the detonator.

‘Oliver,’ Striker said again. ‘OLIVER!’

But it was no use. He was losing him.

One Hundred and Forty-Eight

Oliver heard his name being called, but the words seemed small – so distant that they were not only miles away but in another plane of existence. He was fading, he knew. He could feel it. Slipping away to that faraway place where he and Molly were kids again, where Mother was baking scones and Father was healthy and strong and alive.

‘Oliver! Focus on me, Oliver!’

So hot . . . he was so goddam hot.

And so cold too.

Light. Swelling. Floating.

Recollections hit him. Memories slowly untangling in time:

Father was spi