Free The Survivor by Sean Slater

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.