‘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?’
Morningstar stopped walking, offered up a hard look.
‘I got a hundred people calling for info,’ he said, ‘and we’ve had over sixty moms and dads show up, freaking out, wanting to know where their kids are.’ The muscles behind the pink shades twitched. ‘We got over three hundred kids in this school, which translates into damn near six hundred parents. Laroche keeps directing them to me, and I got nothing to tell them. We haven’t even completed the list of the dead. Got kids sent to every damn hospital from here to New Westminster, and I don’t even know which kids are where.’
‘I’ll help you with it.’
Morningstar shook his head. ‘Got Patrol for that. You just catch this whack job and bring him in, preferably dead.’
Striker said nothing.
They stopped outside the entrance to the teacher’s lounge, where another patrol officer stood guard. Striker stepped closer to the cop, a tall white guy with scruffy facial skin — he clearly hadn’t had time to shave and shower before getting the mandatory Call Out — and peered through the small window in the door.
Standing at the far end of the room, her head down, her posture so still she looked like a part of the furniture, was a young Asian girl. Thin build, small face. Too much make-up smeared around her eyes, a lot of which had drizzled down her face from the tears. She was maybe fourteen.
Striker turned back to Morningstar. ‘Who is she?’
‘Name’s Megan Ling. And she’s a survivor. She tried to help the others. She’s seen a lot — and she’s pretty fucked up.’
‘Where’s her parents?’
‘Mother’s already on the way down.’
Striker nodded. ‘Felicia will be back soon enough,’ he said. ‘Hook her and the mother up, will you?’
‘Done.’
Striker looked back through the window. Megan Ling hadn’t budged. He gave the patrolman a nod to move out of his way. When Striker started through the door, Morningstar put his hand flat against Striker’s chest.
Striker turned, gave him a questioning look. ‘What?’
‘Brace yourself for this one.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re not gonna like what she has to say.’
Fifteen
Courtney and Raine walked southward through the mall. Earlier in the day, both had dumped their St Patrick’s school uniform in their locker before getting into their usual attire — white Capris and a red half-top for Raine; standard blue jeans and a white v-neck for Courtney.