Sean Slater - The survivor

Everything seemed normal.

Seemed.

And then Striker took a closer look at the details. On the shelves, unlocked and out in the open, sat several copper pads, wire brushes, and dirty rags — cleaning tools for weaponry. On the far wall, overtop the fraying insulation hung a small piece of cardboard, containing handwritten directions on how to construct homemade grenades. And on the workbench, all the pieces of metal Striker had taken for scrap were actually filed-down splinters of metal filler for explosive devices. Shrapnel.

He had walked into a weapons lair.

‘Got gun stuff down here,’ Striker called up to Felicia. ‘Be ready.’

He raised his shotgun, swung into the centre of the room, and stopped abruptly. Down to his right, directly beside the workbench, a leg stuck out near the front of the benches. The leg was covered by black pants and a black runner. The remainder of the body was obscured by the hanging orange tarp.

‘Got a body!’ he called.

He took a wide arc around the couch for a better view.

Lying there, face up on the dirty concrete, was a young Asian male. A teenager. His mouth was agape, his empty eyes wide open. The top of his head was blown away, as if he’d shot a bullet through the roof of his mouth. Clutched in his right hand was a 40-calibre pistol. A Glock. And lying beside him on the ground was a blood-red hockey mask.

Striker eased his finger off on the trigger, but kept the gun at the low ready. ‘You can come down,’ he called.

He’d barely yelled the words and Felicia was beside him. She saw the damage to the gunman’s head and the wetness of his crotch. She wrinkled her nose.

‘Jesus Christ, another one,’ she said.

‘Good things come in threes.’

Striker studied the ceiling and saw a dirty spray of redness against the old brown wood. In the centre of the stain was a small hole, where the bullet had penetrated. Surrounding the hole were splinters of bone and splatters of skin and hair, and a mess of other dark things he could not define.

‘Keep us covered,’ he said.

When Felicia nodded, he handed her the shotgun and gloved up. He snapped the latex and leaned down over the dead kid. He took out the photocopied picture of Raymond Leung, the one Principal Myers had given him from last year’s yearbook. Comparing the picture with the dead boy on the cement floor left little doubt.

This was Raymond Leung.

Striker folded up the paper, stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. He reached down, grasped the gunman’s pistol with his thumb and index finger, and hit the mag release. He slid out the clip and took close inspection of the bullets, examining the casings.

‘Hydra-Shok rounds.’

Felicia let out a relieved sound. ‘Just like the ones in White Mask’s pistol.’

‘The ones he used on the targeted kids,’ Striker clarified. He pocketed the clip, expelled the last round in the pistol and gently laid it back down on the floor. He then searched through Raymond Leung’s pockets and found a crumpled-up piece of computer paper. He smoothed it out and looked over the page.

Felicia peered over his shoulder. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

Striker nodded. ‘Suicide note. “Fuck you and fuck the world”.’

‘Not much of a linguist.’

‘Yeah. He wouldn’t have made it past Deputy Chief in our Department.’

Felicia let out a strange laugh, one that resonated with relief more than humour. She took out her cell, flipped it open. ‘I’ll call it in.’

Striker nodded. He returned the note to the same pocket. When Felicia agreed to guard the body, Striker called for the plainclothes units to assist him in clearing the house. As he waited for them, he went over the case in his head. Everything had fallen into place: they had Raymond Leung’s body. Here, in his own residence. With his red mask beside him. And his gun. Which was filled with Hydra-Shok rounds.

All the pieces of the puzzle fitted perfectly. This should have filled Striker with elation. Or at the very least, an overpowering sense of relief. But it did nothing of the sort. Instead, it left him with a gnawing sense of worry. This was a homicide investigation. Nothing ever fitted together that easily.

Something was wrong.

It took over an hour, but when the clock struck seven, the Wong house was cleared. No one was home. The parents, Anson and May Wong, were apparently away on vacation, visiting family in China. They would have to be contacted as soon as possible. In the meantime, the entire house and yard needed to be guarded as a crime scene, and Felicia had already started taping off the area.

Striker thanked the plainclothes units for their assistance, then walked back towards the bunker where Red Mask — now known as seventeen-year-old Raymond Leung — lay dead. He had barely set foot in the backyard when he spotted the unmarked white cruiser parked in the lane.

Deputy Chief Laroche.

Striker scanned the yard and quickly located Inspector Beasley — the biggest brownnoser in the Department. He stood near the patio. The Deputy Chief was standing beside him, just in front of the hatchway leading into the ground. He was holding a white handkerchief to his thin lips, and when he caught sight of Striker, his face tightened and he took the handkerchief away.

‘I want a word with you, Detective.’ He marched over to Striker, and in a flash, Inspector Beasley was at his side.

Striker glanced at Beasley. ‘Brought the cheerleader, huh?’

The Deputy Chief wasn’t distracted. ‘Why wasn’t I notified of this address before you came here? And why wasn’t the Emergency Response Team called in? Jesus Christ, Striker, you didn’t even go over the air with it.’

Striker nodded. ‘That’s what you wanted to say to me?’

‘What the hell else would it be?’

‘How about “Good job — you found the killer”.’

‘How can I commend you when your results are based on luck?’

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Luck?’

‘You didn’t follow even one proper procedure on this one — not one.’

‘I located the goddam gunman.’

‘And jeopardised your life in the process. And the life of your partner, too. And those of however many other cops might have had to come after you if things had gone poorly. Your recklessness will be documented.’

Striker laughed darkly. It was a typical response of Laroche; why had he expected otherwise? And really, what the fuck did the Deputy Chief know anyway? The man was a carpet cop; he had put in the minimum amount of time required for Patrol, then spent the rest of his twenty-four-year career in non-operational sections — and not even Investigative units. Places like Recruiting, and Training, and Human Resources. Hell, he’d even had a stint in the Graffiti Squad. All of his placements had been positions with the least stress. Away from the danger. Away from the violence.

It was a wonder he could even fire his gun any more.

‘You can turn in your gun now,’ Laroche said. ‘The immediacy of this incident is over.’

‘Over?’

‘I’m officially downgrading it.’

Striker looked beyond the Deputy Chief to where Noodles was taking pictures of the hatch. Standing next to him was Felicia. Her dark brown eyes focused on him with an almost pleading look. There was tenderness in her stare, and concern.

Striker looked away. Focused back on Laroche.

‘I wouldn’t be downgrading anything, if I were you, sir. Not just yet.’

Laroche gave a deep-bellied laugh. He looked back at Inspector Beasley. ‘And why is that, Striker? Why shouldn’t I downgrade it? Come on — enlighten us all with your wisdom.’

‘Well, for one, we only think we have all three shooters,’ Striker said. ‘Nothing has been confirmed. We don’t know for sure that Raymond Leung was actually the same guy we had a shootout with at the school.’