‘He’s been there a week. And will be a week more.’
Striker didn’t like the timing. He cursed. ‘No one else has access to the system? No one at all?’
The ash fell off the end of the Principal’s cigarette and landed on the toe of her shoe. She didn’t react. ‘Well, we do have some student helpers. There’s two of them, but they-’
‘Their names, Caroline.’ Striker took out his pen and notebook.
‘Nava Sanghera and Sherman Chan. But they’re good kids. Nava’s in the hospital right now, getting her appendix out. And there’s no way that Sherman would ever-’
Striker pointed his pen at Felicia. ‘Send someone to check on Nava, but see if you can find this Sherman kid yourself. Talk to him. See what he says. If you can’t locate him, at least get me his picture.’
Felicia stepped back as if he’d put her on the defensive. ‘I should stay here. On the investigation with you.’
‘You need to find Sherman. The fewer people involved here, the better. I need you to do it. And be quick.’
Her face reddened and she gave Striker a look, as if she was pissed at being directed. For a moment, he thought he was in for an argument, but then she turned back to Principal Myers.
‘Which hospital is Nava in, Caroline?’
‘Saint Paul’s, I think.’
Felicia wrote down the information in her notebook, then snapped it shut and jammed it into the inner pocket of her suit jacket. She left the room without saying another word, slamming the office door behind her.
Ich whistled softly. ‘Wow, your first day back, and just like old times.’
Striker didn’t respond. He watched Felicia through the office window as she stormed down the hall, turned the corner and then disappeared from view. What the hell was wrong now? Of all the places for them to argue, this was the worst. A goddam school shooting. He felt like going after her, but didn’t.
He struggled to let the thought go and turned his attention back to the series of flat-screen monitors that were arranged in three rows on the far wall. Each one of them showed nothing but an empty, sky-blue screen, except for the three monitors on the bottom-most row, which were turned off and completely black.
Striker looked down at Ich, who was still seated at the keyboard.
‘This a good system, Ich?’
Ich looked up from the computer logs and swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. ‘It’s an excellent system, even if it is analog. It’s the VISION 5, made by SecuCorp, the programme the Department was lauding a few years back — though I wouldn’t go spreading that around now, if I were you.’
‘Secret’s safe.’ Striker turned his attention back to Principal Myers.
‘I’ll get those lists you need,’ she said, and left the room.
Striker was glad when she was gone. He approached the computer screens and propped his chin between his fingers and thumb. ‘I wonder, Ich, could someone circumvent the system? You know, hack it. Do whatever it is you techies do.’
Ich shook his head. ‘Unlikely. Not unless you had a real whizz here. And I mean a real whizz. Like “Hi, I’m Bill Fucking Gates”. This thing is high end, man. Two-five-six-bit encryption. Even for a pro with a high-end rig it would take months. Weeks at the very least. Whoever turned this baby off had a password.’
Striker studied the different flat-screen monitors, then said slowly, ‘I’m no techie, but there’s something here that doesn’t make sense.’
Ich looked up. ‘What?’
‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’
Ich stood up from his desk, his joints cracking loud enough for Striker to hear, and Striker led him out of the small security room and into the hallway. Immediately, the nasally tone of Deputy Chief Laroche’s voice grew louder. Striker ignored it. He pointed up to the camera that was positioned in an upper corner, where the two walls met, just outside the office door. It was a big boxy black thing with a large lens, set on a mounted tripod.
‘Is that camera a part of the closed-circuit television?’
Ich nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And you say it’s analog?’
‘Without a doubt.’
Striker led him around the corner and down the hall in the direction of the cafeteria. Before they reached it, he stopped them just outside the auditorium. The entrance door was already open, the rubber stopper keeping it that way. Striker stepped aside and jerked his head towards the auditorium.
‘Go ahead, take a look.’
Ich went inside, looked around the room. Saw nothing.
‘Look up,’ Striker said. ‘Above the stage.’
Ich did, and for a moment his eyes remained lost. Then…
Positioned between the stage and the door, mounted on a circular swivel-bracket, was another camera. This one was very small, a silver-and-grey rectangular unit. It was almost unno-ticeable, except for the blinking red light.
Striker looked at Ich. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
The techie nodded, and a wide smile stretched his lips. ‘You’re damn right it is. They got two systems.’
Fourteen
Pinkerton Morningstar was an inside cop, carpet cop, call it what you want. He never set foot on the road, choosing to spend all his time in Investigations. It was sad and brilliant all at once. Sad because at six foot seven and three hundred sixty pounds, there was no one bigger in the Department. Out on the streets, there would have been no greater threat in patrol. Brilliant because the only thing that dwarfed his build was his mind. He had been in several levels of investigations — Robbery, Missing Persons and Homicide — for the better part of twenty years.
That was why Striker had chosen him to sort through the detained witnesses. Most of them had been sequestered in the gym; however, the priority witnesses had been relocated to the Drama Room.
Striker marched through the lifeless corridors under the soft hum of fluorescent lights, around wayward strips of yellow police tape until he reached the Drama Room. Along the way, he passed two of the remaining teachers, who looked lost and bewildered. He sent them on to the gym.
Two rookie cops guarded the doors to the Drama Room. Striker was just about to enter when Pinkerton Morningstar walked out. Next to the two rookie cops, Morningstar stood out like a giant oak among seedlings. Even his head looked large, decorated by a pair of John Lennon-style prescription sunglasses. The tint was pink.
Striker assessed the man. Morningstar looked tired. Sweat trickled down the sides of his bald brown skin, some drops sliding under the frames of his pink shades, some disappearing into the greying thickness of the beard and moustache that made his head look even larger.
‘Pinky,’ Striker said.
The giant Detective wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and cursed. ‘Hotter than Hell in there, man. Goddam air conditioner’s broken and there’s no windows. And Laroche won’t let us take the witnesses anywhere else. Says it’s a safety concern. The fuck.’
Striker fought the urge to go on another Laroche tirade. ‘I’ll get you some water.’
‘Right about now, I’d drink your urine, if it was cold enough.’
‘The water’s less salty.’ Striker nodded at the room. ‘How’s it going in there?’
‘It’s not.’ Morningstar let out a frustrated sound. ‘But follow me.’ He gave Striker no time to ask questions.
‘Most of the witnesses are useless,’ Morningstar said as they went. ‘They heard shots. They freaked out. Ran and hid. Did pretty much what you would expect someone to do with a gunman rampaging through the halls. They can’t tell us anything we don’t already know. And believe me, I’ve been over it a dozen times with each one of them.’
‘What about their parents? We gotten a hold of any of them yet?’
