The Guilty

11:57: The entire block is cordoned off.

11:59: A request for the Emergency Response Team is made by Car 10.

Striker sca

12:28: The Emergency Response Team is delayed due to an ongoing incident in the downtown core.

12:29: A city-wide message is sent requesting all Patrolmen qualified as carbine operators to head towards the area.

12:47: With the assistance of the Burnaby RCMP and the New Westminster Police Department, a makeshift team is assembled with Chad Koda as the lead sergeant. Constable Mike Rothschild is the lone sniper. His position is a two-storey elevation from the southeast.

Striker paused. This was what he had been searching for, and upon seeing it he frowned. The breaching team had come in from the southeast – under cover of the sniper. So for Archer Davies to be shot in the back, and on a thirty-degree angle, the bullet could only have been fired by one person.

Mike Rothschild.

Striker sca

But there were none.

‘Goddammit,’ he said. ‘There must have been another shooter there – someone other than Mike who could have fired that bullet.’

Felicia’s face softened. She reached out and touched his arm for support.

‘I’m sorry, Jacob, but Rothschild was the only cop there with a long gun. You have to face it . . . Rothschild shot Archer.’

One Hundred and Thirty-Five

Oliver stood on the corner of Cambie and West 2nd, directly across from Vancouver Police Headquarters, with his bag of supplies in hand. He wore the police uniform his sister had created for him, and knew that it was an exact replica, right down to the buttons. Feeling the sweat from his brow trickle under the line of his hat, he wiped his brow and flagged down the first marked patrol car that turned the corner.

A short fat mug of a cop with a horseshoe balding pattern rolled down the passenger window. ‘Need a lift there, fella?’

‘Yeah. Leaving early today and I gotta get myself back to Kerrisdale.’

‘Hop in.’

Oliver threw his bag on the floor, then jumped in the passenger side and slammed the door. The cop hit the gas, turned south on Quebec Street, and gave him a sideways stare. ‘Never seen you before – you from the odd side?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Call-out?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re sweating up a storm, buddy. You sick or something?’

‘Yeah. Sick.’

‘Man, you look it. Don’t breathe on me, huh?’ The cop guffawed, then grabbed his iced cappuccino from the cup holder and sipped. ‘So where exactly we going here?’

‘Just get me to Arbutus and 41st . . . then I’ll show you.’

The balding cop nodded and they drove on.

As they went, Oliver crossed his arms, slowly, gingerly, to take pressure off the fractured bone in his shoulder. He leaned back in the seat and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy. The cop had the air conditioner going full bore and the draught felt like pins and needles on his skin – painful, yet oddly soothing. Were it not for the man’s constant yammering, Oliver would have zoned out completely.

They reached Arbutus and 41st.

‘Where now?’ the cop asked.

Oliver blinked. Tried to focus. He saw a green Starbucks coffee shop and the blue glare of a Bank of Montreal sign. He got his bearings. Then pointed. ‘Turn left here, then down the lane.’

Soon, they found themselves at the end of a long back alley. Oliver deftly unzipped the bag. Inside it was his SIG P224. The suppressor – seven inches long and nearly as big as the gun itself – was not yet unattached.

The cop finished his iced cap and gestured to the backyard of a tiny rancher. ‘This your place?’

Oliver didn’t answer the man. Instead, he pointed at the floor near the gas pedal. ‘That thing yours?’

When the cop glanced down, Oliver drove the man’s head forward with as much force as he could muster. The cop’s face slammed into the steering wheel and his nose broke with a soft crunching sound. He screamed. Jolted back. Raised his hands in a pathetic display of defence.

Oliver drove his elbow into the man’s face and almost knocked him out. Then he pulled him closer, pi

Breathing hard, shaking, exhausted from the moment, Oliver closed his eyes and fought against the soft beckoning call of unconsciousness.

It was done.

It was done . . .

The begi

One Hundred and Thirty-Six

The drive from Main Street Headquarters back to Striker’s house was one of deep thought and consternation. Felicia kept herself busy reading and re-reading the CAD call they had printed out, the reports they’d gathered, and all the history brought up on the numerous police databases. Striker drove on autopilot. Before he knew it, they were stopped behind a marked patrol car outside his house. He sat there and listened to the motor idle. After a while, he killed the engine.

Felicia opened the door. ‘Well? You coming in?’

He nodded. Exited the car. Went inside.

Sitting in the den with his feet on the coffee table was Rothschild. He was nestling a Coke.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Striker sat down in the recliner facing Rothschild. Felicia sat down in the love seat that was angled between the two men. Striker spoke first. ‘The Chipotle shooting years ago . . . how many snipers were on that call?’

Rothschild looked taken aback by the question, and he gave it some thought. ‘Just one,’ he finally said. ‘Me.’

‘No carbines?’

‘Not that I recall.’ His eyes took on a faraway stare. ‘It’s been ten years, man. A long time.’

‘I know that. But think hard. Were there any other long guns there? Something that would fire a .223?’

Rothschild was silent a long moment, then answered. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, we called for one, but I don’t think any arrived. Why don’t you check the CAD call? Everything should be documented in there.’

‘We’ve checked, Mike. No other long guns are listed.’

‘Then what’s the problem? Why all the questions?’

‘Do you remember Archer Davies?’

Rothschild’s face darkened. ‘Of course I do. He got injured, went back to England or something. Chipotle shot him.’

‘Not Chipotle, Mike. You.’

Rothschild’s face hardened at the words and his eyes got wide. ‘What the hell you talking about, Shipwreck? That’s not even fu

Striker did not look away. ‘I’m being serious here.’

Felicia nodded. ‘There’s no doubt about it, Mike. The bullet that felled Archer Davies came from your sniper rifle. A .223 round.’

Rothschild froze for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief.

‘Not possible,’ he said. ‘The autopsy—’

‘Chad Koda had it doctored,’ Striker said. ‘He knew what had happened, Mike. He knew it was your bullet that tagged the man. And he covered it up. There’s no denying this fact. It was your bullet. You shot him.’

Rothschild’s face turned from red to white, and he looked helplessly around the room. ‘I . . . I never . . . never knew . . .’ He stood up awkwardly, on legs that looked rubbery. He went to place his bottle of Coke on the table, tipped it over, and pop spilled all over the glass surface. Swearing, he grabbed the bottle, stood it up, and walked aimlessly around the room. He stopped by the fireplace mantel. Placed a hand over his stomach. Looked sick.