Malcolm Ferrier
(604) 733-8170
mferrier@ferrierconsulting.com
TROUBLESHOOTER by Malcolm Ferrier CHAPTER THREE Jack gathered up the pages of the Deck file and
placed them in the manila envelope. He couldn't spend the day reminiscing
about his past; he had work to do. He would go to the crime scene at dusk this
evening, but this afternoon he wanted to train. Every second day, unless circumstances prevented, he
would spend a few hours working on his physical and mental skills. Weight
training, sparring with a punching bag, and a long run made up the physical
component. Meditation and VR training developed his mental abilities. During his time training at the CSIS facility, Jack
had written an internal paper about virtual reality skill development. He had
called it "First Personal Growth: Video Games as a Martial Art." It
had started like this: “Video gaming is like dreaming. The experience seems
real, but the consequences are not. Nonetheless, it can still be a profound
emotional experience. Video games are also part of the storytelling tradition
of our culture. They give life to the mythology of our time and allow us to
face the wonders and fears of our post-modern world. Video games also simulate action under stress, and
function as a forge of the spirit. The repeated actions create pathways in the
brain which allow the practitioner to remain calm and focused under pressure.
They also allow the user to face his or her fears in a controlled environment
and try out new strategies and tactics…” In order to continue using this technology after
leaving CSIS agent training, Blake had arranged to get Jack a prototype of a
mobile VR headset. It connected to his laptop and functioned in a similar
fashion to the full-scale version at the CSIS facility. It looked like a bike
helmet with a bulky pair of sunglasses attached. Wires ran from the glasses
across the top of the helmet and out the back where they attached to the video
output of the computer. They took a 3-D video signal from the laptop and split
it into two slightly different images which were projected onto each lens of
the glasses. The user's eyes and brain would assemble these images into a full
3-D view. Jack had been using the simulations from CSIS on this
home VR system and found they kept his abilities up-to-date. However, he had
also found that the current selection of commercial video games worked just as
well, if not better. It probably had to do with the competitive market, but
there was a broader range of missions from which he could select and the
experience was often more intense and of a higher quality. The games easily
adapted to the 3-D VR system, were extremely immersive, and could simulate
combat, driving, piloting, infiltration, anti-terrorist operations, and other
activities. He would practice his stealth and problem-solving
skills for 60 minutes, usually playing at the hardest skill level. He also
wouldn't save his game, requiring him to restart if he made a mistake. This
raised the level of tension and forced him to proceed carefully and
attentively. Although this training wasn't the same as a real mission, it was
as close as he could get. By the time he completed his exercise and training
routines, it was late afternoon. Jack wanted to arrive at the crime scene
shortly before dusk and re-create the killer's activities. He changed into a
black T-shirt and khakis and went to the parking garage. It took him 45 minutes to reach West Vancouver. He
drove slowly through Deck's quiet, affluent neighborhood. The houses on Deck's
block were the kind that made people think of winning lotteries, writing a
best-selling novel, or releasing a hit single. Many could fall under the
category of estate, with circular driveways, stone walls with automatic gates,
and huge sculpted hedges surrounding immaculately tended grounds. Jack stopped his BMW motorcycle a few houses down
from Deck's home. He walked slowly up the street, acting casual but taking in
everything. He knew his quarry was a professional and, despite the old saying,
was unlikely to return to the scene of the crime. Jack, however, took nothing
for granted. On his left, the walls and hedges of the huge
properties rose up. On his right, across the street, a forest began at the
edge of the road and continued up the hillside. No one had built on this side
due to the steepness of the terrain. Jack knew that was where he needed to
start. He crossed the road and walked along the forest's
edge until he was across from Deck's address. The police report indicated that
the shot had come from this direction, near the top of the wooded hill. Moving carefully, Jack climbed to the ridge of the
hill. He could see clearly over the stone wall to Deck's house. He pulled out
binoculars and focused in on the area near the garage door. There was still
police tape and an outline where Deck had fallen. He looked over the house and
could see the light of a television through the drapes. The opiate of the
mourning, he supposed. Jack lowered the binoculars and looked at the rocky
ground where he was standing. The police forensics team had determined that
the shot had come from this point, but they had found nothing. Even the
killer's tracks had been covered. Near the end of his CSIS training, Blake had given
Jack a few lessons on tradecraft and investigation. One of the pointers that
Jack used frequently was this: look for negative space. When Blake first told
him this tip, Jack hadn't understood. Blake offered this anecdote. "There's a Sherlock Holmes story that contains a
conversation between Holmes and Watson. Holmes says to Watson that there was a
curious incident of a dog barking last night. Watson replies that the dog
didn’t bark at all. Holmes says that is exactly what was curious. The point
of this story is that you should look for things that should be there but
aren't. By the way, you could learn a lot about investigation from Doyle's
books." Jack look again at the ground, trying to see what
wasn't there. Suddenly, it came to him. The ground was strewn with rocks and
twigs except for one area the size of a man's body. If the killer had lain
down to steady his rifle and wait for his target, this outline is where he
would have done so. He would have moved the rocks and twigs from underneath
his body in order to be more comfortable. Jack lay down within the outline and looked through
the binoculars at the garage door. This spot provided a perfect field of
view. He thought about what it must have been like for the shooter. Waiting
patiently to end a man's life. Jack realized that all the separate pieces were
beginning to add up. Based on the ballistics report, the killer had used a
high-powered hunting rifle. He had been patient and thorough. He had found a
perch and made himself comfortable. And he had created a trap for his prey.
It was clear that this man had hunted a great deal, and it could not have been
other human beings he had hunted or his M.O. would be well-known. The killer was a hunter of animals. The Premier had called an emergency Cabinet meeting
for Saturday evening. Every available MLA met at the federal building in
downtown Vancouver. Word had gotten out about the murder of Richard Deck and
many were near panic. The meeting room was filled with the din of multiple
voices asking questions, demanding answers, making threats. There was nothing
like the bluster of the powerful when they were frightened. The Premier moved through the crowd to the dais at
the front and addressed the group. "I know you've all heard a lot of rumors and I'm
here to set things straight." "What the hell is going on here?" This was
from a heavyset man near the front of the room. He was Maxwell Stevens, the
Minister of Education. "What exactly happened to Richard?" "If you'll let me speak for a moment, Max, I'll
tell you. Richard Deck was found shot outside his home last night. His wife
discovered the body and called the police. No one has been arrested, but every
available agency is working on this." A cacophony of voices exploded after this statement.
The loudest, belonging to Stevens, rose above the uproar. "Have you even got a suspect? What do we pay
these people for?" "That's why I called this meeting. Until this
matter is resolved, everyone here should take precautions. You'll each be
assigned a small security detail, but you should change your schedule to
minimize any exposure. I'll keep you all posted with any developments." The Premier stepped down from the dais amid shouting
voices. Max Stephens stepped into his path, blocking his way. "What haven't you told us, Wayne?" Stewart looked at his interrogator. He didn't much
like the man. Stevens was loud, obnoxious, and contrary. Despite his girth,
he had a pinched face with a terminally sour expression. His was the type that
made reaching a consensus a Herculean task. "Look, Max, I’ve told you everything we know.
Why would I hide information?" "I still get the feeling that there's something
you're keeping from us. I guarantee I'll find out what it is." Stewart was losing his patience. He hadn't slept
since the call early this morning and he didn't feel like entering a debate
with Stevens. "Good luck to you, Max. If you crack this case,
please let us know." He brushed past and headed to the exit. Outside the meeting room, MLAs were assigned one or
more plainclothes RCMP officers, depending on their status. The little groups
moved off awkwardly, like uncomfortable dance partners. As he left, Stuart saw
Stevens arguing with the two officers to whom he had been assigned. Jason Pannu had worked as a security guard at the
mall for ten years now, ever since he had moved from India as a younger man.
He had worked his way to supervisor of the evening shift, and he enjoyed his
job. It paid enough, he was able to provide for his family, and there was
little actual danger. The mall was located next door to offices and the
federal building, and most of the clientele were affluent. Shoplifters and
kids on skateboards were the usual problems, with the occasional medical
emergency or graffiti artist. He didn't know why he noticed the man with the guitar
case. Perhaps the look of the man was inconsistent with the artistic nature of
the guitar. Jason had spent time in the Indian military and could recognize
the look of a professional soldier. He would remember this one. Jason watched the man take the escalator up to the
second level and move out of sight. Richards saw the security guard take note of him. He
didn't like it, but he didn't think it would be a problem. He walked along the
railing on the second floor of the mall and looked down at the main level. At
this time on a Saturday evening, the mall was moderately crowded. It would
close in an hour, but he believed he'd have his opportunity before then. He had spent the afternoon strolling near the federal
building. He had dressed poorly, because a down-on-his-luck individual
loitering in downtown Vancouver was essentially invisible. He knew that it would take time for the government to
respond to last night’s event, but he assumed the MLAs would meet as soon as
possible. He had been right. He had observed a steady stream of politicians
entering the federal building early this evening. He had gone to his car,
changed his clothes, and entered the mall. His targets this evening would be those of
opportunity, but he had one that was a higher priority. It all depended on
circumstances. He strolled along the storefronts and took an
escalator up to the third and top floor of the mall. This area contained
expensive men's clothing stores and was not as crowded. He walked to a side
hallway which led to washrooms, a telephone, and a doorway labeled "Staff
Only." There was a teenage girl using the phone. Richards walked past
and entered the Men's washroom. He crossed to a stall, went in, and locked the door.
It was important that he not be sighted entering the staff area. He didn't
have much time but he'd have to wait. He could hear the girl's voice out in
the hall. He hoped this wouldn’t take too long. Stevens was not happy. This wasn’t unusual, but the
extent of his unhappiness was more severe this evening. Not only was Stewart
trying to keep him out of the loop, Stevens had to put up with being babysat by
a couple of Boy Scouts. After the meeting, the RCMP officers had briefed him
on their security measures. Stevens had found most of them invasive, and
resented the fact that he needed the two of them at all. He had been
argumentative, and it was clear to all that this would not be a harmonious
relationship. They had gone over his schedule in an empty
conference room and the officers eliminated activities that they considered
unnecessary and risky. This had led to further arguments, and when they
finished there was a palpable tension. The officers were professionals,
though, and remained calm and polite. The three of them left the room and
headed to Steven's car. Finally Richards heard the girl say her goodbyes and
hang up the phone. He listened to her diminishing footsteps and then left the
washroom. He crossed the hall and entered the door marked “Staff Only.” He had made a recon of this area a few days ago and
knew that this hallway led to some administrative offices, storage rooms, and a
staircase to the roof. At this time, the whole staff area would be deserted.
He moved to the end of the hall and went up the stairs two at a time. The door
at the top was marked with a sign that said "Warning: Fire Alarm will
sound if opened." The alarm was triggered if the contact broke between leads
in the top of the door frame and the top of the door. Richards pulled some
black electrical tape and a spool of wire from his coat pocket. From the case
attached to his belt he pulled a multitool. Working quickly, he cut a length
of wire and attached it to the two leads using the electrical tape. He put the
tools back in his pocket and pressed the door's handle. The door open
silently, and he slipped through. He left the door slightly ajar using a coin
from his pocket. Once on the roof, he crossed over to the northwest
corner. From here, he could see the federal building, the multilevel parking
garage next door, and the third story walkway that connected the two. He
placed his guitar case on the ground and opened it. His rifle rested inside. It gleamed dully in the
reflected light. He had cleaned it thoroughly before leaving his apartment and
had only handled it with gloved hands. There would be no fingerprints. He lifted it out and set up the bipod stand at the
end of the barrel. Setting the stand on the corner's ledge, he had a perfect
view of the glass-walled skywalk. Once again, he waited. Once again, they were arguing. Stevens thought it
inconceivable that he would not be driving his own car. Rogers, the senior
RCMP officer, told him it was standard procedure in such situations and was for
his own safety. MacKay, the other officer, wisely kept silent. They walked along the second-story corridor that led
to the skywalk. As they reached the walkway, Stevens pulled out his keys and
broke ahead. Rogers sighed. This man was like a small child. He wondered if
Stevens would get in the car and lock the doors. It wasn't out of the
question. Rogers quickened his pace and called out. "Mr. Stevens! This area is very exposed.
Please let us do our jobs." Stevens said nothing and walked faster. Richards saw the group move onto the walkway. One of
the three was his prime target for this evening, but he was given special
instructions for this one. It would be a difficult shot, but he had made many
difficult shots. He looked through the scope, made a few slight adjustments,
and squeezed the trigger. The sounds were a bodyguard's worst fears come to
life. The simultaneous crack of a gunshot, the shattering of glass, and the
soft impact of a bullet into flesh. Rogers had just about caught up to Stevens in the
skywalk and despite his personal feelings for the man, reacted quickly. He
threw himself at the staggering man and knocked him to the ground with a flying
tackle. At the same time, he pulled his gun and started to scan the area
outside the smashed window. He spotted movement on the roof of the mall across
the street. Richards calmly chambered another round and looked
through the scope. One of the men with Stephens, obviously well-trained, had
his gun out and was covering the injured man with his body. Richards heard him
call to his partner who was crouched nearby, also holding a gun. "The mall roof! Two o'clock!" The second officer looked straight at Richards'
position and took careful aim. A shot ricocheted off the stone ledge a few
feet from Richards. It was time to leave. MacKay was about to take another shot when the
shooter ducked out of sight behind the ledge. Rogers called to him. "Call this in! I've got to check Stevens!" MacKay rapidly spoke into his shoulder radio mike as
Rogers rolled Stevens over. The injured man groaned. His shoulder was bloody,
but it didn't look fatal. After further examination, Rogers determined that
the bullet had passed right through, missing vital organs. The window must have deflected the path of the bullet
enough to save the man's life. Richards dropped the rifle into the case with gloved
hands and moved away, staying low. He regretted leaving the weapon behind but
he wouldn't make it far with it in his possession. He didn't think the cops
had much of a description to go on, but he had to reduce the risk as much as
possible. He crossed to the exit door and pulled it open.
Entering the stairwell, he pulled the door shut and removed the wire and tape
from the alarm leads. He stuffed them in his pocket as he went down the
stairs. Reaching the staff hallway, he went to a fire alarm
trigger on the wall and pulled the lever. He continued through the staff door
as the fire alarms began blaring. He knew it would not be long before the mall was
crawling with police. He headed to the escalator leading to the second floor. By this time, the patrons of the mall were starting
to head toward the exits. Richards fell in with a small group on the second
level and moved with them down to the ground floor. The exits were a mass of confusion. There were
people streaming out of the building as a few uniformed police officers tried
to get inside. He planned to walk right past them on his way out. "Hold it!" The voice came from behind him. Richards kept
moving, ignoring the order. A hand fell on his right shoulder. Richards turned slightly to look at his assailant.
It was the security guard from earlier. He must have seen Richards without the
guitar case and put two and two together. It was unfortunate that Richards had
to reward competence with pain. He placed his left hand over the guard's knuckles and
swung his right arm underneath and over. He twisted his body violently and
pushed on the back of the guard's head. As the guard fell forward, Richards
stuck out his right leg. The guard flipped head over heels and crashed onto
the hard tiling. The people around him backed away in fear. Richards
looked over at the nearest exit. The police were pointing at him through the
crowd and yelling into their radios. He turned and saw more cops coming toward
him from the other end of the mall. Richards knew he didn't have many options. He could
take a hostage, but that would only end in disaster. Even if he had a gun, a
firefight would be suicide. He'd have to run. From his reconnaissance of the mall, he had noted all
possible exits. He didn't believe the police would have time to cover them
all. Leaving the groaning security guard and the ring of
frightened onlookers, he ran into the nearby Le Château. Moving quickly, he
passed by racks of black clothing on his way to the street exit. He couldn't
see any officers through the window, so he kicked the door open and ran out
onto the sidewalk. He heard shouts and the sound of running feet but he
continued across the street. He slid across the hood of a slow-moving car and
was nearly hit by a bus. Horns blasted as he ran into the entrance of the
SkyTrain station. The SkyTrain ran underground through downtown Vancouver
and then emerged onto elevated tracks to deliver passengers to Burnaby and
beyond. Richards hoped his timing was lucky. He tore down the stairs that led to the platform.
The police were right behind, maybe 30 seconds. Richards vaulted over the turnstiles
and took the last staircase down to the platform. A train was just leaving,
but as he sprinted to the nearest car, the doors closed and the train started
to move away. He slammed his fist in frustration on the window of the
departing car. He looked around. There was a small crowd heading up
the exit staircase opposite the one he had just descended. There wasn't much
time, but he had one more idea. One more chance. He crossed over to the exiting crowd and took off his
jacket. From one of his pockets he pulled a knit cap which he put on his
head. He forced himself to move slowly and casually, blending into the group. From the top of the stairs he heard his pursuers
reach the platform. "A train just left! He must be on board!" "Contact the driver and tell him to take it
slow. We'll have four units waiting at the next station." Thanking his luck, Richards continued up and out of
the station and into the busy streets. Next time, his exit strategy would be
guaranteed. Jack arrived back in his apartment shortly after 10
p.m. He had thought about the case on his ride home, and had a plan of
action. He had some research to do, so he went to his computer. There were a few messages waiting for him, including
a spam entitled “Travel to the Caymans in Style.” This got Jack's full
attention. This subject line was used by CSIS to indicate urgent
information. Jack copied the random seeming characters at the end of the email
into his decryption program and read the translation: "Another attempted hit on a Minister was made at
8:07 this evening at the Federal Building. The target was Maxwell Stevens,
Minister of Education. Although wounded in the shoulder, the target is in
stable condition under guard at St. Paul's Hospital. The shooter was sighted by
several mall patrons and a security guard, but escaped via the SkyTrain. His
weapon was recovered and is being held by the RCMP. A description
follows." Jack read the description but realized it would be of
little use. There were too many six-foot white males with dark hair to start
reeling in suspects, and the shooter was likely to change his appearance or
hair color next time. The weapon was another story, however. Jack had to see that rifle. Richards returned to his apartment around 11
o'clock. After he got back to his car, he had taken a convoluted path through
Vancouver to be sure he wasn’t followed. He pulled a pack from the closet and
started filling it with clothes and the few possessions he had in the room.
There would be some heat from tonight's operation and he felt it best if he was
far away. A few witnesses had gotten a good look at him and he had some
respect for police tracking methods. It was what they did, after all. Directly, he finished packing. Looking around the
room, he could see no trace that he had been here. He pulled open the door,
shut off the light, and left the room.