‘It still leaves us with nothing for Dr Owens.’

Striker nodded and sighed. ‘The very person whose kidnapping started this whole call.’

They reached the undercover cruiser and Striker used the remote to unlock the doors. Once inside, he took a moment to think things over, then had an idea. He turned to Felicia. ‘Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way.’

‘How so?’

‘We keep assuming that, because Sharise Owens had once been in a relationship with Koda, that this was her connection to it all. But that doesn’t make sense. Harry and Osaka had wives too, and yet none of them have been targeted.’

‘Or tortured, for that matter.’

‘Exactly. Dr Owens worked at St Paul’s Hospital. But the nurse said she’d been there for, what?’ – Striker flipped back through his notebook to find the answer – ‘seven years. Seven. Yet she’s been a trauma surgeon for twelve. Do we know where the rest of those years were spent?’

Felicia shook her head, and Striker continued.

‘The shooting down by the river . . . it took place on the Vancouver-Burnaby border. So when Archer was injured, what hospital would he have been taken to?’

‘Burnaby General.’

Striker put the car into Drive and headed that way. ‘We need to read that medical report.’

One Hundred and Thirty-One

They walked down the dim corridors of Burnaby General Hospital without speaking, Striker deep in his own thoughts and Felicia checking her iPhone emails. When they reached the Health Records Office, they went inside. The woman behind the counter had dyed auburn hair and far too much blue eyeliner on. She looked up from her newspaper, snapped her gum, and said, ‘Can I help you?’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ Striker said.

He explained the situation.

After a quick system check, the clerk confirmed the existence of the medical report for a patient known as Archer J. Davies. As expected – and much to Striker’s chagrin – she would not release the documents without the proper authorization, and that meant one of two things: obtaining a warrant, which would require writing an Information to Obtain, or giving the hospital a Release of Medical Documents form, signed by the deceased’s closest living relative.

There was no time for writing an ITO at this point, so Striker spent an uncomfortable ten minutes on the phone with Lilly Davies, explaining the need for police access to the medical records. After getting her consent, he spent another half-hour waiting for the papers to be faxed.

‘We’re wasting so much time,’ he griped.

‘We’re saving time,’ Felicia countered. ‘It would take us four hours to write an ITO – and that doesn’t include getting some judge to approve it.’

He knew she was right, but he grumbled anyway. Moments later, the clerk motioned them over to the counter. In her hands was a deep red folder marked:

Trauma Surgery Report.

Striker wasted no time. He signed the form and grabbed the medical report. With Felicia peering over his shoulder, he sat down in the same chair he had been waiting in and opened the report. The first thing he noticed was the author’s name.

Dr Sharise Owens.

It gave him hope for a new lead.

Together, they started reading through the medical report, skimming through the Procedural Summary and finishing with the full Operative Narrative. Once done, Striker sat back and looked at Felicia. The glum look on her face told him she had learned the exact same thing he had.

Nothing was amiss.

‘It’s all standard procedure,’ she said. ‘A very detailed and thorough report. In fact, it looks like she went beyond the call with this one – probably because Archer was a cop.’

Striker nodded. He went to snap the folder shut, then paused. He looked at Felicia. ‘What are the odds that Koda’s common-law wife would be the trauma surgeon working at this hospital when the call came in?’

Felicia thought it over. ‘Low?’

‘Definitely low.’

He got up and approached the front-desk clerk again. Her hair had fallen out of place and she was struggling to pin it back again. She gave him a queer look when he asked her for a copy of the shift schedules for the night of the shooting.

‘That was, like, ten years ago,’ she said.

Striker nodded. ‘They still should be archived, shouldn’t they?’

She gave him an exasperated look, but nodded. She muttered something about archives, then disappeared around the corner. When she returned some ten minutes later, she had a ten-by-fourteen photocopied page in her hand.

‘This is it, Your Highness.’

Striker smiled and thanked her for it.

He and Felicia analysed the page. In the left column were the shifts and times. In the right was a list of doctors’ names, each one followed by their practitioner number. Next to Sharise Owens’ name were the letters ‘CO’ in brackets.

Striker showed it to the clerk behind the counter. ‘What does this mean?

‘CO?’ she asked. ‘Called Out.’

‘So this was not her normal shift?’

‘That’s what called out means.’

‘Interesting,’ Striker said. He looked at the shift schedule, then at the medical report Felicia was holding. He asked the clerk, ‘Tell me . . . how come there are no recordings in the medical file?’

‘Recordings?’

‘Last time I checked, there were audio tapes made as well.’

The woman gave him another queer look. ‘Audio tapes are standard procedure on autopsies, not surgeries.’

Striker shook his head. ‘They were with Dr Owens. The woman was meticulous. I’ve seen the copies she keeps back at her office.’

‘Hold on, let me check.’ The clerk spoke the words with irritation but she swivelled her chair around and began typing on the keyboard. After a while, she made a hmm sound. ‘There’s something here that says “micro”.’

‘Those would be the audio tapes,’ Striker said. He explained the situation to the clerk. ‘Everything may be digitally recorded nowadays, but ten years ago it was all put on mini-tapes.’

‘I can’t give you those.’

‘I’ll take a copy.’

‘Hold on.’

She started to turn away from the computer, then stopped. Chewing her gum harder and faster, she leaned back towards the computer, studied the screen, and frowned. ‘That’s odd . . . Is this the second set of copies the police have acquired?’

Striker shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of. Why?’

‘Someone else obtained a copy of these tapes just two months ago.’

‘You got a name?’ Striker asked.

She nodded.

‘Tom Atkins.’

One Hundred and Thirty-Two

The police property office was open from seven to five, Monday to Friday, and closed on the weekends. Harry needed to get in there to seize the burn records from Montreaux. Being Saturday, it left him with two options – get Car 10 to come down and open the office, or call the property office supervisor at home.

Knowing he was supposed to be nonexistent since the press release and also on paid leave pending the investigation, Harry avoided contacting Car 10. Instead, he called up property office clerk Larry Smallsy and gingerly explained that he needed some stored records for a walk-through warrant. Upon hearing the request, Smallsy made a tired sound. ‘Geez, can’t it wait, Harry?’

‘Not on a walk-through.’

‘Then just call Car 10.’

Harry cleared his throat. ‘The road boss is Laroche . . . I’d rather keep him out of this, if you know what I mean. The only reason I’m writing the warrant is to cover my ass on a mistake I made last week. Last thing I need is King Tight-ass finding out.’