Felicia got on her cell and called in support — Patrol, Ident and the techies. While she was talking to Dispatch, Striker’s cell went off. He picked it up and looked at the screen, hoping to see Courtney’s name. Instead he saw Ichabod’s number — the main line from Forensic Audio. He shoved the cell against his ear.
‘Tell me it’s good news, Ich.’
‘Depends how you look at it,’ Ich replied. ‘Either way, I got your audio from the school.’
Forty-Seven
A half hour later, Striker and Felicia parked out front of the Tech Facility on Tenth Avenue. The grimy old building looked about ready to crumble. It was a completely unearthquake-proof structure in a city full of treacherous faultlines. Striker climbed out of the cruiser and looked up at one of the security cameras that panned down on him.
He wondered if anyone was monitoring it.
Felicia slammed her door. She bundled up her jacket, then turned her pretty, tired eyes towards Striker. ‘Any guesses what Ich found?’
‘Something’s weird. I could hear it in his voice.’
He climbed the front stairs, used his swipe card to gain access, then entered the foyer and flashed his badge to the security guard inside the safety booth. The door leading inside the main building clicked open. Striker walked through it with Felicia in tow.
The Tech Facility was, in essence, the Department’s catchall. It housed everything from Forensic Audio and Video to the headquarters of Vice, Drugs, and the Emergency Response Teams. Each of these divisions had long been pleading for better resources and a home of their own, which included a modern facility, but in a time of high taxes and budget cutbacks and a declining economy, they were forced to make do with what they had.
And it wasn’t much.
Striker walked down the faded brown carpet that still smelled of cigarette smoke, even though the smoking bylaw had been in effect for more than ten years. The walls were no better. The off-white was now beige. Most of the doors used old-fashioned keys, not coded pass cards. And everything else had a broken-down feel to it. Yet oddly enough, it worked.
Old school at its finest.
They turned the corner and came flush with the door to Forensic Audio, also known as The Matrix to all those who worked inside, which was essentially Ichabod and his lackey clone — a guy named Bernard whom no one had ever seen. Striker didn’t bother to knock. He swung open the door and stepped inside.
The room was tiny, barely twelve feet long by ten feet wide. It was further cramped by the tall support beam that occupied the centre of the room. Taped on the pillar was a picture of a soldier drinking from a green metal mug, and a quotation reading: Have a Nice Cup of Shut the Fuck Up and Wait Over There, Asshole!
Flanking the pillar on both sides was an array of ramshackle shelves. Each one was cluttered with micro- machines that constantly beeped and blinked. One made loud whirring sounds like it was going to explode at any second.
‘That’s a Personal Video Recorder,’ Striker said.
Felicia grinned. ‘Like you would know.’
‘What? No faith in my computer skills?’
‘You wouldn’t know a hot spot from a g-spot.’
‘I found yours a few times.’
‘That’s still a matter of opinion.’
‘Ouch.’
Felicia smirked, and Striker knew she’d bested him. He offered her a weak grin. He closed the door behind them, more in an effort to make some extra room than for privacy. Then heard shuffling.
As if on cue, Ich stuck his head out from behind the pillar. His gaunt face was tight around the eyes, yet slack everywhere else. His posture seemed to perpetually sag. He eyed them both with expectation, and the fatigue in his eyes was replaced by excitement.
‘Finally, Christ, you’re here.’
‘We came right away,’ Felicia said.
Striker stepped around a pile of Blu-ray discs sitting on the ground and looked at Ich’s desk. It was cluttered with computer parts — flash drives, discs, wires and a collection of other things Striker had never seen before. Next to them were six cans of Monster energy drinks, all of them opened.
‘Jesus Christ, Ich, you drink all that?’
‘Had to. Been up all night.’
Striker nodded. ‘We know and we appreciate it. Now what you get us?’
Ich waved them over to his work station. He reached up to the top shelf where a generic black box sat and hit the power button. After the green activity light flashed, Ich turned up the speaker volume, then swivelled the nearest monitor to face Striker and Felicia.
‘Anything good on the tape?’ Striker asked.
Ich shrugged. ‘It just finished transcoding when I called. I haven’t even had a chance to look at the whole segment myself yet, just the first ten seconds or so — but that was enough.’
‘Enough for what?’
Ich said nothing. He just hit Play.
Immediately the blue screen flashed and was replaced with the grainy, black-and-white pixelated footage Striker had seen back at the school. But now there was sound. Static-filled clatter. Gunshots. The shrill cries of panicking kids. More than before, it took Striker back to the moment, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest; the muscles of his hands twitched like they wanted to reach for his gun.
He glanced over at Felicia, and saw the machine-like calmness of her features. Her lack of an emotional response irritated him. He looked back at the screen just in time to see the boy dressed as the Joker dive underneath the cafeteria table. The two gunmen — White Mask and Red Mask — looked at one another, and for the first time, Striker heard them speak. It was static-filled, intermittent, and garbled.
He touched Ich on the shoulder. ‘Scroll it back.’
Ich did as instructed, and Striker listened again.
‘It’s still garbled — can you clean it up a bit?’
Felicia stepped forward, seized the volume knob and turned it up. ‘Not garbled, Jacob — another language.’
Ich grabbed Felicia’s hand. Removed it from his controls. Then raised a finger in an admonishing gesture. ‘No touching. This is all very sensitive equipment. Hold on a second and I’ll try to diminish the background noise.’
Felicia gave him an annoyed look, but held her tongue.
Striker was thankful for it. He watched Ich bring up some software audio controls, something that looked like a row of amplifier settings. He began fine-tuning the sounds. After thirty seconds, Ich hit Play again, and the gunmen’s voices became clearer. Each one of them distinct.
Felicia listened intently. ‘Chinese?’
Striker shook his head. ‘Technically, there is no Chinese — it would be either Cantonese or Mandarin. But the answer to that is still a resounding no.’
‘A resounding no?’ Felicia said, the irritation in her voice plain.
Striker never looked away from the screen. ‘Listen to the sounds; the inflections. It’s not tonal. So it’s something else — something different.’
Felicia tapped Ich on the back. ‘Who around here can speak Asian languages?’
He looked back through fatigued eyes. ‘We got Truong in Vice. And Iwata in Drugs. They’re probably your best bets. Second floor.’
‘I’ll see if I can find one of them.’
She left, and Striker moved closer to the screen as the feed progressed. He watched more analytically this time as the gunmen dragged the boy dressed as the Joker out from under the table, then yanked him to his
