Thirty-Six

Striker and Felicia reached the District 2 Courthouse, located at Triple 2 Main Street. All proceedings had long since ended and the building was now empty, save for the odd sheriff left wandering the halls and the night-time security guards, most of whom were killing time by reading books and chugging coffee.

Striker and Felicia entered the foyer. Lying down on one of the benches was Jay Kolt. On the ground next to him was a brown leather briefcase and, on top of it, a folded trench coat. Kolt saw them coming, let out a groan, and sat up, adjusting his glasses as they approached.

‘My friggin’ back,’ he said.

‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Felicia offered.

Kolt nodded but did not smile. He got right down to business. ‘This suspect of yours, he’s using an electrical torture weapon?’

‘It would appear so,’ Striker said.

‘Opened or closed?’

Striker had no idea what the man was talking about, so Kolt explained.

‘An open device is essentially a rod with two wires coming off it. One wire is always taped in the victim’s mouth. If the victim is a man, the other wire is placed around the testicles; if it’s a woman, then the wire is often connected to a pad of steel wool, which is then inserted into the vagina.’

Felicia’s face tightened. ‘Sick.’

Kolt smiled. ‘It’s not exactly an aphrodisiac. This completes the circuit for an open device. On the other hand, a closed device is essentially wireless, like a cattle prod or a violet wand.’

Felicia shook her head. ‘Violet wand?’

Kolt grinned, almost mischievously. ‘Small handheld device. Used by S&M lovers to give each other shocks – that is an aphrodisiac. A sexual stimulus.’

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘That doesn’t sound like any of your toys.’

She gave him one of her cross looks – definitely a warning – and he let the joke go.

Kolt continued: ‘A picana looks like a long metal stick with two electrodes at one end. The electrodes are of different polarity, of course, and the circuit completes when they’re driven into the victim’s flesh. Essentially, it’s like a longer version of a stun gun, but one that delivers much more voltage – up to thirty thousand volts – all while keeping the amperage down.’ He looked directly at Striker. ‘Is this more along the lines of what you saw?’

‘I’m not sure. I only saw pieces of the device, not the entire thing.’

Kolt blinked behind his thin glasses. ‘Then how—’

‘The totality of the evidence suggested it,’ he explained. ‘The chair was metal and had straps. The floor beneath it had water stains. And sitting beside the chair was a bucket of water, a crescent-shaped piece of rubber with wires coming off it, a yellow sponge, and an industrial-size battery.’

Kolt nodded. ‘Electrical torture.’

Felicia spoke up: ‘But why all the gear? That’s what I don’t get. Why not just use a TASER instead – they deliver up to two hundred thousand volts.’

‘It’s because of the current,’ Kolt explained. ‘By keeping the amperage down, the torture can go on for hours. Days, even. And with little fear of the victim dying.’ He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. ‘Odd though, normally the use of a picana involves two people – one to apply the baton and the other to regulate the voltage.’

‘I only saw one suspect down there,’ Striker replied. ‘The other person had to be the victim.’

Kolt took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a silk rag from his coat pocket. ‘One person can operate a picana. It’s not unheard of. Just unusual. The operator would have to be very . . . skilful.’ He put his glasses back on, and continued. ‘The thing with a picana is that it’s also a very powerful psychological tool. A lot of insurgents use them – like the Taliban. But most of the domestic cases I’ve seen have been linked to either the cartel or the mafia. Or the high-end gangs from the south or the east – the Tongs, the Triads, the Banditos.’

‘What about around here?’ Felicia asked. ‘There must be some persons of interest.’

Kolt was quiet for a bit. ‘A lot of the gangs do use electrical torture,’ he said. ‘But an actual picana? That is rare. The only one I can think of is the Satan’s Prowlers – they were known for using one against the Renegades a while back, but we’re talking ten or more years ago, and I believe that was back East in Toronto.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Well, one of them might have turned active again.’

Kolt let out a long breath. ‘I sincerely hope not. The kind of person that uses a picana is generally either a fanatic or a professional – someone with a specific cause. Definitely not your ordinary everyday criminal.’

Striker wrote all this down in his notebook.

‘Anyone come to mind?’ he asked.

‘Fanatics?’ Kolt asked. ‘No. But professionals that are capable of this? Many. There was a guy named Burns who worked for the Satan’s Prowlers back East. Everyone called him Sleeves. He did some time for torturing one of the Renegades. Check him out.’ Kolt stopped talking for a moment and eyed Striker up. ’Whoever you’re dealing with, this guy has some rather unusual experience. Be ready for it.’

Striker didn’t like the sound of that. He wrote ‘Burns (Sleeves)’ down in his notebook, then his cell went off. He drew it from his belt, put it to his ear.

‘Striker,’ he said.

The man on the line was Inspector Osaka. His tone was low, his words clipped and direct: ‘We got another explosion.’

‘Where?’

‘Pacific Avenue,’ he said. ‘Chad Koda’s house.’

Thirty-Seven

By the time Striker and Felicia reached Pacific Avenue, it was well after eight. The entire strip was blocked off with patrol cars and police tape, and the red and blue gleam of emergency lights filled the darkening skyline.

Halfway down the block, on the east side of the street, was Chad Koda’s residence. As Striker approached it on foot, he was surprised to see that the exterior of the house looked no different from before. The structure appeared to be sound, and no smoke filled the air, indicating there had been no resultant fire. Aside from the shattered windows, everything looked relatively unchanged.

Then he went inside.

The moment Striker walked through the front door, the waxy, smoky smell hit him. In the living room, the sofa’s upholstery was destroyed, and in the kitchen, the dining table had been overturned. All the windows on the south and east sides of the house had been blown out, with giant parts of the old plaster imploded, like moon craters in the wall. The remains of a cooking island sat centre stage, looking now like the blown-apart entrance to a World War Two bunker.

Without a doubt, it was the epicentre of the explosion.

Through the strange white smoke that was slowly thinning, Striker looked down the hall and spotted Inspector Osaka. The man walked gingerly towards them, his narrow eyes filled with concern. ‘What a goddam nightmare,’ he said.

Striker looked past the inspector. Somewhere back there, down near the end of the hall, a dog was barking wildly and scratching at the door. ‘That a dog? It’s lucky to be alive.’

Osaka let out a long breath. ‘Yeah, great. Our only guaranteed survivor is a golden retriever. The Chief will be happy to hear it . . . I locked the dog in the bathroom to keep him out of the way.’ He looked around the room, assessing. ‘Definitely no gas leak this time. And the second explosion in one day.’

Striker nodded gravely. ‘We got a bomber on our hands.’