Felicia came up behind him. ‘Yeah, he kinda lost his head over the whole ordeal.’
Striker leaned back under the tape and stood up. He analysed where White Mask had fallen, then considered where Red Mask had been standing. He pointed to the area beyond the body. ‘Look for teeth over there. We gotta find something, some way of identifying this bastard.’
‘Ident’s already done that.’
‘They find any?’
‘No, but they combed this place down.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Keep looking.’
Felicia started to say more, stopped. She just shook her head, turned around, and walked between the second and third row of tables. After a few steps, she leaned down and, with a gloved hand, picked up one of the rounds that had been expelled during the firefight. She inspected it. A brass casing with an inset head on the bullet. Frangible. She held it up for him to see.
‘Hydra-Shok,’ she said.
Striker recalled the meaty exit wounds he had seen in some of the students.
‘Bag and tag,’ he said, and Felicia continued her search.
With her out of the way, Striker could better focus. He examined the top of White Mask’s neck. It was an uneven fleshy ridge. The edges glistened, and here and there spots of whitish bone and yellow cartilage could be seen — some of them blown deeper within the body.
The musculature around the neck struck him as odd. There was too much muscle bulk for a teenager. Striker grabbed hold of each clavicle and tried to move them. The joints shifted, but very stiffly, and he wondered if it was ossified near the sternum. That would mean the John Doe was older than they thought. Maybe even over thirty. He wasn’t sure, but it was something to bring up with the Medical Examiner.
Fanning down the left side of White Mask’s neck was a strange, golden design. It added colour to the copper skin. Striker leaned close and studied it. Calligraphic lettering, he thought, or perhaps an artistic design. Something tribal.
It was hard to tell because most of the design was blown away. The part which remained was clear around the edges, and the colours were vibrant. It had been done by a professional, no doubt. Unfortunately, eighty percent of it was gone, along with the rest of the gunman’s neck and head. Striker took out his notebook, noted the location and design, and drew a copy of what he could make out. Then he called Felicia over. She looked unimpressed.
‘That look gold or yellow to you?’ he asked.
‘Amber sunshine.’
The small stab at humour felt good, and Striker managed a weak grin. ‘I’m serious, Feleesh.’
‘Gold. Definitely gold.’ She knelt down and leaned under the police tape for a better look. ‘But there’s red in there too, at the uppermost edges.’
‘Red?’
Striker took a better look and realised she was right. He’d thought it was dried blood, but the colour was too bright compared to the rest of the crusted goo. It was ink.
‘Good call.’
After writing this information in his notebook, his eyes fell upon the area where the neck met the chest. Just below the collar bone, left side near the heart, was a crudely tattooed number 13. Striker noted this too. Wrote it down.
He scanned the rest of the chest.
Located perfectly in between the collar bones, at the top of the chest bone, there was one small dark hole, barely noticeable in contrast to the sundered flesh of the neck. This was the first point of impact — where his bullet had gone through, dead centre, then carried out via the rear of the throat, tearing through the gunman’s spinal cord.
Striker stared at that spot, and the recollection hit him all over again. The moment had happened so fast, more reaction and muscle memory than intention. And he couldn’t help but wonder what the outcome might have been, had this first shot not landed with such pinpoint accuracy.
The thought left him sick inside.
Felicia stood beside him. She dropped her hand to her holster and rested her palm on the butt of her pistol. ‘That’s the shot that dropped him. Probably saved our lives. And God knows how many others.’ She spoke the words calmly, logically, without a trace of emotion. As if she were talking about a shot he’d made at the range, or even in a video game.
It drove Striker nuts. Here he was, struggling not to have a meltdown, while Felicia remained cool and composed.
‘Yeah, I got him centre mass,’ he finally said.
‘Great shot.’
‘Well, one of us had to hit him.’
Felicia flinched at the words. Striker caught her reaction, and immediately regretted saying them. You’re an ass, he told himself. Why push things? As Felicia spun away from him and headed in the other direction, he said ‘Look, Felicia, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-’
‘Yes, Jacob, you did.’
‘Felicia…’
‘I’m looking for teeth. That is what you wanted — right, Boss?’
Striker stood fixed to the spot, half of him still angry, half wondering if he should go after her. He watched her search the room, clearly doing a grid, her head angled down, her long brown hair draping across the caramel skin of her cheek. She was beautiful — something he noticed far too often, but never mentioned. And for a moment, he recalled the brief time they’d shared together. It had been a wonderful two months, a temporary reprieve from the grief of losing Amanda. And though it had been exactly what he needed, he now regretted it. Nothing had been the same since. Not with their partnership, and not with their friendship.
And he wondered if it would ever be that good again.
Just then, the blue cafeteria doors swung open, stealing Striker’s attention. He looked over and saw a short cop walk through. He had a full head of jagged white hair, big white bushy eyebrows, and a stomach that hung way down over his belt. Looked like a mad professor.
Striker counted him as a good friend. It was Jim Banner. Noodles, as everyone called him — ever since he’d almost choked to death while eating a creamy linguine at the Noodle Shack in Burnaby. Noodles worked in Ident. Hell, he was Ident. Worked seven days a week and damn near twelve hours a day. He carried the usual blue-light device and associated tool box, and upon seeing Striker he waddled faster and hollered across the room: ‘Hey, Shipwreck, stay the fuck out of my crime scene!’
Shipwreck. Few people were allowed to call Striker that, but Noodles was one of them. Which was only fair, considering that the eighty-thousand-dollar speedboat Striker had sunk on the team getaway ten years back had belonged to the man.
Striker smiled at him. ‘This is my crime scene, Noodles.’
‘Not yet it ain’t.’ Noodles reached the body of White Mask. ‘Last thing I need is more of your goddam DNA screwing up my results.’
‘I’ll try not to jerk off in the scene.’ Striker looked at his watch. ‘’Bout time you got your ass down here. It’s only been six hours since the shootings. What the hell took you so long? Someone open an all-day buffet down the road?’
‘Yeah, your mother did. Wanna know what I was eating? I’ll give you a hint — I’m not a vegetarian.’
Striker laughed, and let the banter go.
Noodles put down his tools. ‘Already been and gone twice, numb-nuts. Here to get some more blood samples.’ He looked down at the blown-apart body. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
Striker followed his gaze to the corpse. All the humour he had felt moments ago dropped away. ‘What have you got for me so far?’
Noodles shrugged. ‘The kid had a wallet in his back pocket. Nothing’s confirmed, but the name on the ID is Quenton Wong. He’s nineteen. Born December twenty-fifth.’
‘Oh joy, a Christmas Baby.’ Striker looked the body over. ‘Nineteen? Sounds a bit young for what I’m seeing.’
