“Critical.” The paramedic tore open a chest seal. Her partner secured an oxygen mask over the suspect’s face, while the other paramedic applied the seal. “She has an open pneumothorax and needs to be intubated.”

Lamond walked over to him. Cooper pointed at the pieces of sheared clothing that lay scattered on the floor. “I don’t see FIS anywhere.”

“Pearson said they were held up at a different scene.” Lamond eyed the balaclava. “I’ll see if FIS has an updated status.”

“We need to get her on a spinal board and to the ER stat,” the first paramedic said to her partner. “Is the IV in?”

Cooper watched them roll the woman onto the spinal board. She was in bad shape. He mentally gave her 20-25% chance of survival as they wheeled her to the ambulance.

“I hope she makes it,” Lamond said.

Cooper stepped around the large pool of blood. “Doesn’t look so good.”

“Was she carrying a gun?” Lamond looked around the living room.

“Harry Owen told Warren that he thought she had a gun,” MacLeod said, her tone neutral. Cooper couldn’t tell if MacLeod believed the MP or not. “But the suspect had nothing on her, not even a phone.”

“And Mel Owen shot her, anyway?”

“It wasn’t Mel Owen who shot her. It was Harry Owen.”

“Jesus,” Cooper murmured. “Our wannabe Minister of Public Safety is a good shot.”

One of the constables from street patrol approached them. “Sergeant, the Ident guys have arrived.”

They both turned to the door. Two officers in bunny suits approached carefully, carrying their evidence collection kits. From the height of one of the detectives, he guessed that Riley was here. Everyone in the department knew Riley: she was the best Forensic Identification Services detective east of Montreal. Some said in all of Canada. She was renowned for her laser-like focus. And he knew she applied the same discipline to her body—she competed in triathlons in her spare time.

“Sorry for the hold up,” Riley said, her hazel eyes barely acknowledging them before scanning the room. “Pearson specifically asked me to come. I had to go down to the station and restock the van.”

“Glad to finally meet you, Detective,” Cooper said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Her gaze zeroed in on his face. “Are you the transfer from Vice?”

“Yes. Detective Drake and I made a switch.”

She nodded. “You guys did some good work. That kiddie porn ring you broke up was massive.”

And it had almost killed him. “Thanks.”

“Do you know whose house this is, Riley?” Lamond asked. He looked as if he had a delicious secret he couldn’t wait to tell.

Her gaze scanned the walls—searching for spatter, Cooper guessed—and then swung back to Lamond. “Damn,” she breathed on a long exhale. “It’s Harry Owen’s parents’?”