Headhunter

by Michael Slade

"Oh shit!" the man behind the counter said, and his eyelids snapped wide like blinds released and flapping over windows. His left hand reached out for a button on the wall, but before the fingers could get there Scarlett seized hold of his wrist.

  "No alarm," the cop warned, "or you're in big, big trouble."

  As the fat man dropped his arm, Katherine Spann came in through the front door. She ran across to where an entrance nave access to the girlie peep-show booths in the rear of the shop and pulled back the curtain. Behind there were six booths lined along one wall. Two sets of men's feet showed below the hinged half-door on one of the cubicles. Beyond the booths was another door set into the wall. The woman tried it and found it locked.

  Moving swiftly across the corridor, she braced herself with her back to the opposite wall. Pushing off with both hands, Spann propelled herself across the passageway, raising her right leg to connect with the door just above its lock and handle, her left leg keeping up the momentum. The door burst inward amidst a shower of splinters.

  Inside the room two men were sitting on a bench against the left wall. One of the men was a "bomber pilot," his head now up in the clouds and exploding with chemical flak. His body was in a slouch and his jaw hung slackly open, his fingers caressing a pair of little girl's panties. The other man was Kurt Schmidt, who was also the manager of the Silver Screen Theatre. Schmidt's abdomen was still bandaged from where the feminist had slashed it with the razor. As the door crashed in Schmidt was in the process of focusing a 35 mm Pentax camera.

  To the left and right of both men, banks of high-powered lights shone down upon a raised dais to the right of the door. Two children now stood on that platform. One was a young girl no more than nine or ten who was dressed in a tiny black lace corset and wearing miniature nylon stockings. Her crotch was bare and her face was painted with the heavy makeup of a whore. The other was a young boy the same age as the girl. He was naked except for a fedora on his head and a plastic Thompson submachine gun in his hands. The boy's genitals had been rouged red.

  "Jesus, no!" Schmidt exclaimed as Spann came hurtling into the room. He reacted immediately, wrenching the back of the camera open to expose and ruin the film. Then he turned to run. Reaching out with one hand the woman grabbed him by the arm, but Schmidt jerked free. He swung back his left hand to punch her in the nose just as Rick Scarlett came flying through the door.

  It had taken several seconds for the bomber pilot to come out of his haze. He was very stoned and only now beginning to realize that this was a raid. It was as the spaceman was struggling to gain his feet and get up off the bench that Scarlett pulled his .38 and aimed it at Schmidt's head.

  "Freeze! Police!" Scarlett yelled.

  10:50 a.m.

  Macdonald and Lewis were not prepared for the man who answered the door. Dexter Flesch did not look remotely like his mug shot, but then the police picture was over eight years old.

  To start with, the Constables were surprised to find that a D. Flesch still resided at the West End apartment address recorded in the police file. In 1974 the man they were now seeking had pleaded guilty to eleven counts of indecent assault on a female. He had served one year in prison with a two-year probation order on release requiring him to see a psychiatrist at least twice a month. The psychiatric condition was because his MO had been a little peculiar.

  On May the 10th of 1974, Dexter Flesch—wearing a white smock with a stethoscope around his neck—had entered the gymnasium of a local high school while a class of Grade 12 girls was having Physical Education. The man had flashed a printed College of Physicians and Surgeons card at the instructress and had then taken the woman aside for a sotto voce talk. The truth was. Flesch told her, that he had been sent by the School Board to check on an outbreak of . . . well, to put it simply ... of crabs among the graduating class. It seemed that these genital parasites (and here Flesch lowered his voice even more) were emanating from a young lady in this very class. Did the instructress have any idea—all in the strictest of confidence, of course—-just who the carrier might be?

  Yes, the instructress had told Flesch, there were one or two girls who she suspected of having hinges on their heels.

  "Then let's take a look," Dexter Flesch had said.

  The man had set up a temporary clinic in the Phys. Ed. teacher's office and had asked that the girls be brought to him one at a time, starting with the most promiscuous, in order that he might examine them to isolate the carrier. The instructress had been more than pleased to oblige.

  It was unfortunate, however, that the cause of personal hygiene was not to prevail that day. For as luck would have it the school nurse had come down to the gym to fill out a report on an injury incurred that morning during an earlier class. She found Dexter Flesch lowering the gym shorts of his twelfth victim.

  In a way Flesch was lucky. A few more seconds and by gum he might have been subsequently facing a twelfth count

  That was eight years ago. The D. Flesch who answered the door today was a very different man. On seeing him Lewis looked at Macdonald and Macdonald looked right back. Neither one of the cops was prepared for this. It's a mixed up world,Rusty Lewis thought.

  "Yes," Flesch said in a voice as soft as corn silk. "What is it you want?"

  "We'd like to talk to Dexter Flesch," Monica Macdonald said, frowning.

  The person who stood before them in the open doorway had eyes like a cat and every few seconds he licked the lips of his feral mouth like a kitten licking cream. His hair was red, exploding from his head to cascade down about his shoulders in ringlets of fire. The makeup that covered his features was almost a work of art. In a rough estimate, Monica Macdonald calculated that it would have taken him over two hours to apply.

  The man's figure was a perfect hourglass and he knew just how to show it off. He wore a black French push-up peek-a-boo bra over his small pert breasts and a black sheer blouse over that. The suit that encased the rest of his frame was sewn from white linen, definitely hand-tailored. His nails were red; his boots were snakeskin; his only jewelry was two gold hoop earrings and a bracelet of gold fashioned to look like a snake that twisted around his left arm. To be honest with himself, Rusty Lewis thought that this man was perhaps the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen. The only female who even came close was a lawyer by the name of Lorelei Ashe who had once made a complete fool out of Lewis in the witness stand. But Ashe didn't have these eyes.

  Please God, don't give me a hard-on, Lewis thought with a smile.

  Flesch said: "I'm afraid that Dexter is no more. He's gone away forever."

  "Where has he gone?" Monica Macdonald asked.

  "Just gone," Flesch said with a vacant fly-away wave of one hand.

  "Which are you, Miss Flesch?" the woman asked softly. "Transvestite or transsexual?"

  The man who was now a woman gave her a sloe look. "I've had the nip and tuck," he said.

  "Do you mind if we come in?" Rusty Lewis asked.

  "Yes, I'm afraid I do. I'm just on my way to work and I'm late already."

  "Where do you work? What do you do?" Macdonald asked.

  "I teach women makeup art at a modeling studio. I transform frumpy housewives. Now if you'll please excuse me?"

  "Miss Flesch, I'm afraid we can't. We're with the Squad investigating the Headhunter killings," Lewis said.

  Flesch blinked. "I-I don't understand," he said. "What has that to do with me?"

  "Can you account for your whereabouts in the last three weeks?" Monica Macdonald asked.

  "My what! My what! You think I . . . You're crazy, sister!"

  "I'm not your sister. Miss Flesch. And I want a straight answer. Where have you been for the last ..."

  Suddenly the cat-eyes widened as Flesch took one step back and tried to slam the apartment door. Lewis stuck out his foot in time to prevent it closing. With one hand he pushed the door back open sharply.

  "You . . . you . . . you .. . PIGS!" Flesch screamed shrilly, his voice turning very high-pitched.
<
br />   "Take it easy," Macdonald said. "Don't let . . ."

  "STAY AWAY FROM ME, YOU. . . YOU FUCKING PIGS!" Now there was a hysterical look growing in the transsexual's eyes. "JUST WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE. CALLING ME . . . ME! ... A RAPIST!"

  "Nobody called you a rapist!" Lewis said, raising his own voice.

  "LEAVE ME ALONE! JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

  "Calm down!" ordered Lewis, but before either Constable could make a move to restrain him, Flesch whirled on his spiked heels and leapt up on a glass table in the entrance hall of the apartment. The tiny sole on one of the heels must have worn away for an abrupt sound of metal scraping glass took a shred from Macdonald's nerves. Then her momentary shudder turned to awe as Flesch wrenched his belt free and dropped both slacks and panties.

  Monica Macdonald found it hard to believe that here she was, standing in this man's residence, confronting this woman who was the man they sought, her eyes now staring at a set of female genitalia as anatomically perfect as any of the vulvas that she had seen bared on all those strip-show stages.

  "DON'T YOU COPS UNDERSTAND! CAN'T YOU FUCKERS SEE!" Flesch shrieked, his face turning purple with rage, "I'M NOT A RAPIST! I'M A LESBIAN!"

  Then the outburst was over. Without another word Flesch crumpled down onto the glass surface of the table and rolled onto the floor. Then he started to weep.

  A few minutes later Monica Macdonald took hold of his arm and gently helped him to his feet. By then the art of makeup on Flesch's face was streaked and smeared and running.

  12:20 p.m.

  The call for assistance was clocked in at just after noon. Scarlett and Spann were a mile away, having just come out of a dilapidated two-story walkup on East Broadway where they had failed to find a six-time convicted pederast. They caught the squeal on their patrol car radio the second they climbed in. Less than fifteen minutes later they were at the scene.

  When their car had skidded to a stop on the rain-drenched pavement, Monica Macdonald left a doorway and came running through the storm up to the driver's side. Scarlett rolled down the window and a wet spray blew in.

  "There might be a rumble," the woman said. "We're waiting on Rabidowski."

  "Where's the clubhouse?" Scarlett asked.

  "Around the corner and down a block. Rusty's got it covered."

  "How did it come down?" As Scarlett spoke Katherine Spann drew her .38 from its Sam Browne and checked the action. She snapped the cylinder shut with a sharp flick of her wrist.

  Monica Macdonald said: "We were looking for a biker by the name of Whip O'Brian. Guy's out here from Alberta. Back home in Edmonton he strikes the colors of The Barbarians, but lately Special E says he's been riding bike with the Iron Skulls. He's got connections through a brother."

  "He's got a record?" Spann asked.

  "O'Brian did seven, five, and one a few years back in Calgary for rape, buggery and bestiality. The guy's a speed freak. Some woman ripped him on an amphetamine deal so he got even by attacking both her and her invalid brother. The two of them had a dog. Believe me, this man's dangerous. He's not all there."

  "Is he inside the clubhouse?"

  "Yep, with about ten other bikers. Maybe more. Rusty and I were casing the place when this group of guys on hogs came blasting out of the rain. They had a woman with them and they dragged her inside. She didn't look happy at all. Word from Special E is that the Skulls are taking strikers. I peg her for a mama to be used in the initiation."

  "A gang bang?" Scarlett asked.

  "That's my bet," Monica said. "Today. Right now."

  "Damn. Where's Rabidowski?"

  Just as he spoke a police van came wheeling out of the rain. The Mad Dog was at the wheel. As three large men with Remington pump shotguns and semi-automatic rifles climbed out from the back of the vehicle, Spann noticed a V of steel welded to the front bumper. It looked like a battering ram.

  Rabidowski rolled down the window. "Who can give directions?"

  "I can," Macdonald said.

  "Okay, you and Scarlett come with me. Spann, you take these guys in the cruiser and follow right behind. The moment I take down the door everyone goes in. Got it? Let's roll."

  As Katherine Spann took the driver's seat, one ERT man climbed in front with her and the other two took the back, each one jamming his door open with a metal flashlight. The rear doors of a cruiser cannot be opened from inside.

  "Hang on," the woman said, and the four of them were moving.

  Up ahead, Rabidowski took the corner in a skid and then fishtailed down the street. As Spann gained on him the van began a wide arc that led to the clubhouse door. Suddenly motorcycle hogs were flying in every direction and the brick frame dwelling where the Iron Skulls ruled loomed up out of the storm. The sound of the hit was deafening.

  At just the last moment Mad Dog Rabidowski stepped on the brakes to hold back their momentum. The ram welded to the front of the van slammed the heavy-bolted door and threw it careening open. The police vehicle was seven feet down the entrance corridor and two feet into the meeting room before it screeched to a halt. The Mad Dog slid it into reverse and pressed the accelerator. Tires spinning, the vehicle came flying back outside just as the SWAT Team jumped out of the cruiser followed quickly by Spann. The woman's Smith and Wesson was gripped in her hand.

  "Come on!" Rabidowski shouted, grabbing a Heckler and Koch from the seat and swinging open the door. Macdonald and Scarlett tumbled out. Then they all went running in.

  The clubhouse was pandemonium.

  In the center of the large room there was an eight-foot-high representation of a human skull made from welded and riveted iron plates. The room itself was in darkness, the only light cast by several Bosch headlamps which shone forward out of the eye sockets of the skull. The jaws of the Death Head were open and the teeth of the mouth, which were actually iron plates, bit down on the fuel tank of a 750 cc Harley Davidson that was half emerged from the throat.

  The woman was tied facing the skull with each of her wrists roped to one of the prongs of the handlebars. Her clothes had been ripped down the center of her back and were now hanging off her in tatters. Standing behind her with one hand gripping her hair and the other clutching her waist was a man whose face was scarred by a dozen old criss-cross knife slashes. His hair was dirty and hung down in matted hanks, his body was naked except for a jean jacket with the sleeves torn off and a crest on the back which screamed FEAR THE BARBARIANS. His skin, in the light of the headlamps, shone with motorcycle grease and the man had an erection.

  Not five seconds ago—before the police assault vehicle had taken down the door—almost thirty bikers had been seated on chairs drinking beer and watching the performance. These men had upper chests of ripcord muscle from years of pumping iron, and bellies bloated by floods of ale that now strained at their jackets. All of them had tattoos.

  One second after the door came in not a man remained in his seat. For now they were running and diving for weapons and turning to meet the threat. Most were armed with baseball bats and pipes and axes and chains. The first biker to reach Rabidowski was armed with a tire iron. With one hand he reached out to grab the cop as the other arm raised high in the air to crack the iron down on his skull. The Mad Dog judo chopped him once and dropped the man to the ground. Then he pointed the Heckler and Koch up toward the ceiling and pulled off a rapid burst. Casings spewed out on the floor amid the sound of a US Fourth of July.

  As chunks of wood fell down from the roof and the rain came dripping in, Rick Scarlett for the second time that day shouted: "Freeze! Police!"

  And once again, luckily, everybody froze.

  Ebony

  10:12 p.m.

  When they got to the London Calling, now in plain clothes, they walked into the fifties. The London Calling Ballroom had transformed itself over several decades. Built before the Second World War it had swayed to the big band era, then later it had jitterbugged, jived and Motowned up to the days of psychedelics. In the late sixties the
club had been known as the Synapse Circus, and during the reign of President Nixon had been the home of Dare To Be Great. Now it was back to rocking with your English rock 'n' roll. English rock, that is, in the classic American style.

  They had missed Voodoo Chile.

  When they entered the club the lights were on and several roadies up on stage were dismantling equipment. The job was half completed. What caught the attention of both officers immediately was a trellis structure above the stage that held the lights and some of the speakers. The trellis was covered right and left with almost fifty voodoo masks.

  "Want a beer?" Scarlett asked, looking for a table.

  "Sure," Spann said. "This place makes me want to smoke in the school washroom and neck at the drive-in with James Dean."

  "How about me?"

  "Nope. You're not Marlon Brando."

  "Don't be cruel," Scarlett said with his finest Presley sneer.

  Two men were leaving a table so Spann quickly grabbed it. She sat down on one of the wooden chairs and slowly took in the club. A majority of the men had haircuts with short back and sides. Quiffs were slicked back with Brylcreem and Wildroot Oil. Some wore zoot suits with padded shoulders and thin, thin ties.

  As the speakers cut in with a canned Rebel Rouser Spann surveyed the women.

  There were those trying to look like Brenda Lee in red satin dresses with crinolines showing all leg and no breast. Others had close-cropped hair dyed every hue and shade—blue, orange, yellow, purple, chartreuse—while their bodies were hidden beneath men's shirts with the shirttail hanging out. There were paste-skinned girls in miniskirts with black-circle slut-lined eyes. There were women with bobbysocks and ponytails, most of them smoking cigarettes holding their fingers on top and their thumbs underneath, one or two with a steady's ring on a chain around the neck.

  "Jesus," Scarlett muttered, returning with the beer. "You should see the bar. It makes you want to thumb your nose and cruise for chicks and try to cop a feel. There's nothing but muscle and mouth. There's a toilet on top of the counter filled to the brim with matchbooks and I saw this one dude chewing on a toothpick and practicing through-the-teeth spitting. What a madhouse."