were set up only as a trial run. A test. They were never intended to be used as anything else. Hell, it was a fluke they were even recording when the shooting started.’
Striker gripped the back of the chair and cursed. ‘The sound. What about the sound?’
‘All we got right now is a garbled mess. Totally useless. I’ve forwarded a copy to my assistant in Forensic Video to see if we can clean it up. I’ll check on it when I’m done here, but it’s gonna take a while. This is Com-Tech material. They use their own digital codecs-’
‘You’re speaking geek again, Ich.’
Ich sighed. ‘Simply put, it’s not just a matter of the feed needing to be uncompressed and transcoded — it’s totally garbled.’
Striker looked at his watch. ‘How long is “a while”?’
Ich shrugged helplessly. ‘Days.’
‘We don’t got that kinda time. Shit, I thought you were the Bill Gates of this stuff?’
‘More like Steve Jobs,’ Ich corrected, and failed at forcing a grim smile. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but that’s what it takes. It’s all math, compressed data, and number crunching. You can’t make miracles out of numbers. They are what they are.’
Striker leaned back on the desk and studied the screen. The programme used a graphical slide-bar for time control. He reached down and grabbed the mouse. Used it to scroll back through the timeline until he got to the moment where the two gunmen yanked the boy dressed as the Joker out from under the table.
The tape time read 362.
Striker replayed the scene until the two gunmen shot the girl.
The finish time was 451.
He wrote down both times in his notebook, then copied them onto a piece of paper and handed it to Ich.
‘Make a second copy of the feed, using only these time intervals. Get me audio here, during this time period, that’s what’s most important. The rest can follow later.’
Ich said nothing. He just nodded and wiped the beads of perspiration off his long hooked nose and swallowed hard, like his throat was as dry as Striker’s. He grabbed another Blu-ray disc from the top shelf, stuck it in the disc drive, then initiated the burning programme.
Striker headed for the door, then stopped. He turned and waited for Ich to meet his stare, and didn’t speak till he had the man’s full attention.
‘Let me know the minute — the second — this thing is done, Ich. Got it? That tape is crucial, my best lead. I need to find out who these guys are. Whether they’re even students or not. And I need to know what they’re saying to each other, even if all we get back is a word or two.’
‘It’ll be done, Boss.’
‘And I need to know who that kid is.’
Ich looked at the screen, confused. ‘You mean, the boy they talked to? The kid dressed like the Joker?’
‘No, the girl,’ Striker corrected. ‘There’s no doubt about it. She was targeted.’
Eighteen
Striker cut through the school foyer, the heels of his boots sounding loud in the empty antechamber. He was headed for the cafeteria, to check out the gunmen he’d shot — a task which was causing his stomach to rise and his heart to clench. He’d liked to have done it hours ago, but nothing this day had gone well.
He’d barely made it halfway across the foyer when the school’s front doors swung open and Felicia walked inside. A soft wind followed her. The air was clean and cold and crisp; it smelled of fall leaves.
Striker breathed it in — to counteract the smell of old, dried blood. The metallic stench was all around him. On the walls, the floors, in the air. Even on his body, making him feel sticky, grimy.
He wiped the thought from his mind, waved Felicia over. ‘How’d it go?’ he asked.
She had a pissed-off look on her face, and a stack of yellow papers in her hands. She walked over, not bothering with the pleasantries, and said, ‘Here you go. You can rule out Nava Sanghera. She’s in Saint Paul’s Hospital getting her appendix out as we speak.’
‘And the other kid, that student helper, what was his name — Sherman Chan?’
Felicia shook her head. ‘Can’t locate him. He hasn’t reported in with any of the teachers and he isn’t on the list.’
‘What list?’
‘This one.’ She held up the yellow bundle of papers and beamed. ‘List of the dead.’
‘Jesus, Felicia, you don’t have to say it with such enthusiasm,’ Striker said. ‘These are dead kids we’re talking about.’
For a moment the words just hung there. Then Striker reached for the list. ‘Let me see that.’ He took the pages, and Felicia gave them up, almost unwillingly. Lists of injured and lists of the dead. The bundle felt thick in his hands.
The list of the dead was sorted by surnames, with the additional info of where the body had been found. Striker ran his finger down each page, stopping on page six where he found the heading: Cafeteria. Just the sight of the word made his stomach queasy. When he read on, he saw that only three girls were listed in this section, and before he could figure out which was the one from the video, Felicia spoke up.
‘Chantelle O’Riley.’
Striker looked up from the list. ‘What?’
‘The girl from the cafeteria. The one they shot in the corner. Her name is Chantelle O’Riley.’
‘But how did-’
‘I talked to Ich.’ She pointed at the stack of papers. ‘All the names are right there, updated as little as five minutes ago. I got it directly from Principal Myers.’
Striker ruffled through the pages, stopped, let out a heavy breath. ‘How is Caroline holding up?’
‘She’ll make it.’
Striker nodded absently. ‘She’ll have to.’ He scanned through the names. There were now twenty. But only three names stuck out to him:
Conrad MacMillan.
Tina Chow.
Chantelle O’Riley.
The first two kids were ones he knew; the last one was a stranger. These three had been targeted. After talking to the witness, Megan Ling, he was sure of that. But why? What was the connection? He stared at the pages, desperately hoping for something to jump out at him. A familiar ethnicity, a social link, a similar age or class.
But nothing did.
He had no idea what Chantelle O’Riley was about as a student or a person, but he did know Conrad MacMillan and Tina Chow. At least, he had four years ago. And they couldn’t have been more different. Conrad was in Grade Twelve now, and by all accounts, popular; Tina was a Grade Ten kid and relatively unknown.
Polar opposites.
So why these two?
There was something there. An unknown connection lurking somewhere beneath the violent surface. There always was. The body of the iceberg, so to speak. Striker took out his pen and circled their names.
‘We’re missing something with these three.’
Felicia crossed her arms. ‘There’s over twenty dead kids on that list, Jacob, not to mention the dozens injured. There could be a hundred different connections.’
‘But these three were singled out.’
‘We’re assuming.’
He didn’t respond right away. He just looked over the pages with a despondent feeling. This was no longer just about the case, it was about these kids’ lives, and the lives of their families. Striker wondered how many of their parents had even been notified yet? Being a father himself, he could understand the devastation the news
