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‘These patients, were they part of EvenHealth?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Enrolled in the SILC classes.’

Dr Richter made an ahh sound. ‘The group sessions. Social Independence and Life Coping skills.’ She smiled. ‘One of Dr Ostermann’s ten-step programmes. It is aimed primarily at bipolar patients, for the most. A few of the patients have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Lexapro and Effexor are common treatments for this. They more often than not work extremely well, especially when taken together. For any more detail than that, I’d have to check my files.’

‘You don’t recognize your own prescriptions?’ Striker asked.

Dr Richter laughed bemusedly. ‘Detective, please. Between my work with EvenHealth and the other clinics, I’ve treated over seven hundred patients in the last year. Each one of them is on as many as ten different medications. That’s seven thousand medications in total. Do you honestly think I remember them all?’

‘Sounds like mass production.’

‘It sounds like money,’ she said brazenly. ‘I’ve already told you, I never joined this profession for the long hours and the constant lack of progress, I joined it to make money. Cold, hard cash. And I intend on being retired on a beach in Jamaica by the time I’m forty.’

Striker ignored that. ‘I’m less concerned about the medication types and more concerned about the patient names,’ Striker said. ‘Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan, in particular.’

Dr Richter said nothing for a moment. Her eyes took on a faraway look and her face remained expressionless. In that moment, she looked older. And much more experienced. Clinical.

‘I have a vague recollection of the group,’ she finally said. ‘And I’m not overly comfortable discussing them, especially not without perusing the file first – remember, I was only a fill-in for the group when Dr Ostermann could not be present.’

‘Larisa Logan,’ he pressed.

Dr Richter gave him a cold look, but then spoke anyway. ‘Her, I do remember. She was a Victim Services worker, if I recall correctly.’

‘She was,’ Striker confirmed. ‘Her family was killed in a car accident. She suffered a breakdown.’

‘Yes, I remember Larisa Logan. She was a kind and genuine person. I felt for her.’

Striker doubted that, but said nothing.

‘Larisa is missing,’ Felicia interjected. ‘And we’re desperate to find her – not for any criminal reasons, but for her own safety.’

Dr Richter’s face took on a confused look. ‘I don’t understand, why are you here talking to me?’

Striker blinked. ‘Are you not her doctor?’

‘No. Not at all. As I already explained, I was only an interim doctor for the SILC classes. I never worked with any of the patients during private sessions – there’s no money there.’

‘Then who was Larisa’s doctor?’ Felicia asked.

‘Why, Dr Ostermann, of course.’

Striker leaned forward in his chair. ‘Let me get this straight here. Other than the odd fill-in day here and there, you never worked with Larisa?’

‘Of course not. She was Dr Ostermann’s patient, and his alone. He was quite . . . possessive of her, really. His own personal project.’

Striker looked at Felicia and saw the tightness of her expression. He steered the conversation back to other matters – whether Dr Richter had ever used any experimental medication on the patients, whether she had any connections to the army, and whether she ever did any work at Riverglen Mental Health Facility.

The answer to all three questions was a resounding no.

When they were done with the interview, Striker stood up and put his notebook away. He shook the woman’s hand, and thanked her for her time. Then, with Felicia at his side, he walked to the front door.

‘Keep your phone nearby,’ he said to Dr Richter. ‘I have a feeling I’ll be calling you again.’

‘Any time,’ she replied.

But no smile parted her lips.

They drove back out of the cedar-covered hills of West Vancouver and took the highway to the downtown core. During the drive, Striker tried to relax his mind and let everything fall into place. But Felicia was unusually wired.

‘We have the connection,’ she said. ‘Dr Ostermann was seeing all four patients – Gill, Rose, Mercury and Larisa Logan – and he was seeing them not only during group sessions but one-on-one.’

Striker nodded. ‘I agree. He’s also about the same size and stature as the man who attacked me back at the Gill crime scene – but it’s all still circumstantial at this point. Everything.’

Felicia scowled. ‘Which means what, he gets a free ride?’

‘No. Which means we see the man.’

Felicia nodded, but her face took on a concerned look. ‘Just be careful you don’t tip him off on anything.’

Striker gave her a quick glance as they headed over the Lions Gate Bridge. ‘I said see him, not speak to him.’ He took out his cell phone and dialled Hans Jager – Meathead, to anyone who knew him. Meathead was one of the breachers for the Emergency Response Team. The man answered, they talked, and a few minutes later, Striker hung up the phone and headed for the Cambie Street bridge.

There was some equipment they needed to pick up.

Sixty-Nine

The Adder had no idea what time it was when he finished the set-up. It could have been eight o’clock at night, it could have been well into the morning hours. He did not know. He did not care. Time held little importance to him, and he only took careful note of it when on a mission. All that mattered now was that the set-up was complete. And that it was done well.

It was.

The bulk of the camera’s body sat within the steel bracket, which was screwed securely to the two-by-four beams of the dumbwaiter. The lens poked through the small hole in the wall, coming flush with the other side – just a one-inch lens that focused on the centre part of the Doctor’s private room.

The forbidden room.

The Adder turned on the camera and looked at the LED screen. The image displayed was angled perfectly. It captured the oak bureau across the room. The four-poster king-sized bed in the centre of the room. The locked cabinet in the far corner.

The camera took in everything.

As if scripted, the Doctor returned, and not alone. At first the Adder reared from the camera and started to make his way back down the long and narrow chute of the dumbwaiter. But something made him pause.

A dark curiosity.

He climbed back to the top and stared at the camera’s LED screen. Already the motion sensor had been triggered and the recording had been started. The two people in the room were beginning. The Adder had heard the act before. He had seen the results. He had known it existed.

But he had never actually seen it.

Now, as he stood in the darkness and watched the Doctor unlock the cabinet, a strange feeling invaded his chest. And it only got worse when he saw what the Doctor pulled out.

He should have felt shock. Fear. Revulsion. He should have felt all of these things, he knew, but he felt none of them. All he experienced was a growing tension in his chest, one that spread all throughout his core as he watched the LED screen in near disbelief.

When the screams began and the first glimpse of blood appeared, the Adder wanted to leave the chute, but he did not. He stayed there, fixated, immobile. A statue in the dark.

He just could not take his eyes away.

Seventy

The traffic was surprisingly bad, so they were later than anticipated. Striker half expected Meathead to be gone by the time they reached the north end of the Cambie Street bridge. But within seconds of reaching the bottom of Nelson Street, Felicia spotted a group of big men clad in black jump suits. In the heavy darkness of the night, they blended well. Most of them were climbing into a white van that was parked kerbside.