‘We don’t know where the gunman is, who he is, or even his motive — and I’ve already been involved in one shootout with him. For all we know he might come back. So the answer is no. No one gets my gun. Not till we got an in-custody or a dead body, preferably the latter.’
The Deputy Chief’s mouth twisted as if he’d eaten something sour. ‘We’ll get you another gun then, Detective Striker.’
‘Negative, sir. My gun is heavily modified. And I’m trained on this one.’
‘Striker-’
‘You’ll get my gun, don’t worry about that, but you’ll get it when the incident is over and not a second before.’ Striker paused. He looked back at Felicia, who stood looking uncomfortable next to Ich. ‘And don’t even think of pulling me off this case. I didn’t get shot at with a shotgun and an AK-47 so that you could come down here and play God. This file is mine. I’m the primary. I’ve had to kill over it, literally.’
The Deputy Chief shook his head. ‘You’re off, Striker. I have already made the decision.’
Striker leaned closer to the man, so close that when he whispered, no one but the two of them could hear. ‘I got video. Of you fixing your hair while the rest of us were hauling children out of the foyer.’
Laroche stared back at him. ‘Is that some form of threat?’
‘And eating sandwiches, too. What was it, anyway — Ham and Swiss? Tuna Delight?’
‘You want to end your career, Striker?’
Striker held up his BlackBerry. ‘Not the greatest video camera I ever had, but it sure gets the job done.’
The Deputy Chief opened his mouth, but no words came out. His neck stiffened. ‘This is insubordination, Striker. The Chief will hear about it. And the Police Board, as well.’
‘Good. Tell them to talk to my union rep. Directly.’ Striker forced his jaw to relax and let a smile break through. ‘I didn’t spend five years on the board for nothing, Laroche. I know my rights better than you know your policies. When you find out where the real authority stands — and ends — come find me. We’ll talk more then.’
Striker turned away and walked down the hall towards the security room. He had barely gotten ten steps when he heard the Deputy Chief barking orders at Felicia.
Striker ignored them. A sense of dark excitement flooded him as he wondered what evidence Ich had uncovered.
The security room was waiting.
Thirteen
Striker walked with Ich down to the school’s security room. As they passed one of the speakers from the PA system, a jittery voice made pleas for all students and teachers to gather in the gymnasium — the one place that had achieved lockdown.
The speaker crackled, then screeched with feedback. It irritated Striker. His hearing — all his senses — felt out of whack, one moment numbed, the next amplified. People’s voices were either too loud or muffled, the hall’s fluorescent bulbs were too bright or too dim, and everything around him smelled of fresh death.
He was drowning in it.
Felicia finally caught up, and they walked on. This was the exact same route they had taken when trying to locate and intercept the gunmen this morning, Striker noted. He looked around. He didn’t recall so many bodies. There looked to be a lot more than eleven. Already he had counted four. Each one was covered by an ordinary brown sheet.
Like little sandbags dropped here and there to stifle the flow of blood.
He wondered: had he had tunnel vision at the time of the shootings, or had these poor kids tried to escape and only made it this far? The latter seemed more realistic, but he didn’t know for sure. And the more he tried to recall the exact details of how everything had unfolded, the more blank spots he found in his memory.
He passed three more kids, each one covered by a spotted brown sheet. That made seven. The sight sickened him, and he wanted to look away.
But he would not do that.
Instead, he stared intently at every single one of the children he passed, taking the time to peel back the covers and see their faces. He took in the full horror of their expressions, the rictus of twisted emotions warping their features.
He took it all in, accepted the ugly truth. Embraced it. For it steeled his determination. He would remember these children forever, each and every one of them, in image and in feeling. And he would recall these images and feelings with vigour when he caught the twisted little fuck responsible for their slaughter.
‘Jacob,’ a voice said.
He looked up from the body of a child he was staring at in the hall — a young, brown-haired girl with skin that was slack and pale — and saw Felicia calling him into Principal Myers’s office. He took one last look at the girl, then gently brushed the hair from her eyes and covered her back up. He joined Felicia in the office.
The room smelled strongly of burning tobacco and menthol. Principal Myers was leaning on the window ledge in the corner of the room. Her unstable legs looked ready to buckle. Striker marched up to her; looked her over. Her face was like a hard-boiled egg: white, hard, ready to crack. Sweat had matted her hair to her face, and her eyes looked distant, unaware. The cigarette she was holding dangled precariously from her trembling fingertips.
‘Caroline,’ Striker started.
Nothing.
‘Caroline,’ he said, this time more sternly.
It brought her from her thoughts. ‘Oh Jesus Christ, my kids, my kids, my kids!’
Striker touched her arm, gave it a squeeze.
‘I need lists, Caroline. Start with the kids who are unhurt and sequestered in the gym. Make note of all who are accounted for. Then start a separate list of the dead. Constable Kolski’s already liaising with Fire and Ambulance. Just get him the pictures and he’ll make the confirmations. When we have those done, we’ll know who’s still missing.’
She nodded numbly. ‘Yes, yes… a list.’
‘I also need you to make note of all the deceased’s known connections — who they hung out with, what clubs they joined, what sports they played, who they hated, who hated them. I need all of it and I need it now.’
When Caroline didn’t immediately respond, Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Can you take care of this?’
‘Got it.’
He moved over to Ich, who was preoccupied with the computer terminals in the far corner of the room. ‘So what you got here, Ich? What’s so strange?’
Ich looked up from the keyboard, the soft blue glow of the computer screens turning his pale skin into an even sicklier colour. ‘It’s the school’s security system — it’s been disabled. Happened sometime before the shooting.’
Striker narrowed his eyes. ‘You mean turned off?’
‘No, I mean disabled.’
‘Explain it to me.’
Ich scratched his high cheekbones with both hands, as if he had a tic or maybe because Striker was annoying him. He licked his thin lips.
‘All the cameras are non-functional,’ he said patiently. ‘They were deactivated. As far as I can tell, it happened sometime early this morning.’ He hit a few keys, brought up the internal history logs and scanned the electronic pages. ‘Probably around eight o’clock. Seven minutes after, if the local log is correct.’
Computer lingo was foreign to Striker, but he got the gist of it. He turned back to Principal Myers, who hadn’t left the spot where she was standing, the embers of her menthol cigarette now reaching the filter.
‘Who has access to this?’
Her eyes blinked, she came back to life. ‘Well, just… just me. And Vice Principal Smith.’
‘Smith. Where is he?’
‘Uh, Cancun.’
‘How long?’
