Headhunter

by Michael Slade

  So the flying patrol gets on to Hardy and . . .

  "Damn! We had to lose him!" Rick Scarlett exclaimed.

  "You know," Spann said, "if we're right and Hardy is a skinner using this voodoo trip as a blind, or even if the murders are part of the ritual itself, we're going to look awfully silly if another body shows up. People are going to ask why."

  "Do you think he takes the heads in order to traffic in the skulls? Do you think that's his reason?"

  "Who knows?" the woman said. "Perhaps he just wants to fuck them and kill them and takes the skulls as a sideline. Maybe he's into some personal ritual of his own. Maybe the bones go Stateside and into the voodoo market. Or maybe the bones end up on the ground out on that bayou island. Anything's possible."

  "Okay, let's say Grabowski crosses him and becomes his second victim. Perhaps he has no need for her once he connects with Rackstraw. Perhaps he's pissed off cause she gets herself busted and raises his profile in town. She's an alien working the streets and that's bound to draw him heat. So assume all that, what about the bones in North Vancouver? What about Liese Greiner?"

  "Maybe he was up here once before trying to find Rackstraw and didn't make a connection. Perhaps he killed her then. Or maybe Rackstraw did it and they're in this together. Like the allegation about a Hillside Strangler team."

  "And maybe killing is now in his blood and he's unable to stop it. Damn! What a colossal bummer. Why did we have to lose him?"

  "Because we played this tail too loose, that's why. We should have bugged those masks. We should have followed Hardy instead of counting on him to call Rackstraw when he returned. We should have had the FBI stake out that air freight office in Spokane to see if someone picked up the masks. We should have done a lot of things which stupidly we didn't. We shouldn't have been so smug."

  "I wonder where those masks are now?"

  "Maybe they're crossing the border hidden in among a museum consignment."

  "Maybe they're being trucked in through the wilds of the Rocky Mountains."

  "Wherever they are they were picked up and we lost them in Spokane."

  "So what are we going to do?"

  "Let's have a talk with Tipple," Katherine Spann suggested.

  "I'd rather go find Rackstraw. He knows where Hardy is. They're his masks and the stuff is his cocaine."

  "What good would that do? It would only tip him off. He didn't talk last time. He won't talk now."

  Kick Scarlett smiled and looked her straight in the eye.

  You don't know me, Kathy. I won't be played for a fool. The next time we see Rackstraw, believe me, I'll make him talk."

  "I do believe you're serious. Let's find Tipple."

  Ottawa, Ontario

  5:.30 p.m.

  At half past five on that dark afternoon Commissioner Francois Chartrand left his office at RCMP Headquarters. As usual he strolled slowly along the crowded streets of the capital, watching the civil servants queue up for buses as ambassadors in long black limousines swept by. It was the time of day that Chartrand savored, so when he reached the parliament buildings he found himself an empty bench on the conncourse out front and sat down to relax. Lighting another Gauloise, he inhaled the smoke in deep.

  Before leaving his office that afternoon the Commissioner had received yet another call from Edward Fitzgerald. The Minister was phoning to tell him that the Opposition in the

  Commons would not let the matter die; they wanted to know exactly what was being done to ensure that the Headhunter was caught before he struck again. The Solicitor General was jumpy. "Francois," he had said, "I tell you we cannot afford another killing. Not one more."

  This particular call had not disturbed Chartrand greatly: it was all a part of the job. There were those who thought the Commissioner no more than a figurehead, a man put out to semi-retirement as Commander of the Force. All one had to do, they said, was sit behind a large desk with so many levels strung out below that every problem was resolved before it reached the door. But Chartrand knew different.

  To Francois Chartrand his job was one of awesome responsibility. For as he saw it he was one man assigned the duty of protecting an entire nation. In Canada if something went wrong it was his responsibility. And something was very wrong now.

  Chartrand was bothered by his last call to Robert DeClercq.

  There was nothing to put his finger on, other than perhaps a certain tone that came through in the Superintendent's voice, but the Commissioner was far too shrewd a leader not to know that every man at war has a breaking point. It was fair to say that the Force was now facing a challenge far out on its western flank that was quite unlike any war that it had ever fought before. The difference was that public hysteria was mounting at a mathematical rate. Chartrand was receiving reports. He knew that incidents of violence involving women in Vancouver were exploding in number, mostly over-reaction to minor situations. People were frightened. That fear was building every day the killer wasn't caught. And every day the pressure on DeClercq screwed up a notch.

  Chartrand was worried that Robert DeClercq might be near that breaking point.

  It had happened to the man who led the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper. It could easily happen in Vancouver.

  What am I doing in Ottawa? the Commissioner asked himself. The true place of a General is with his men in the field.

  Then Chartrand reached for a cigarette and knew he had made up his mind.

  Tomorrow he'd go to Vancouver; tomorrow he'd meet with DeClercq. It was time to troop the colors. And to bring out the uniform.

  Vancouver, British Columbia

  Thursday, November 11th, 3:45 a.m.

  "Sparky."

  "Shut up! Go away! Fuckin' leave me alone!"

  "Sparky, now really, is that the way you talk to your mother?"

  "You're dead! Get lost! I know you can't be here!"

  "Sparky, I'm waiting for you. Come down and stroke my hair.

  "No!"

  "Soft, soft, so soft—and how long and black it is. Black, black, black, child. Black as the time of night.

  "Mother, why must you torment me? Why won't you leave me alone!"

  "Because I love you, Sparky."

  "No you don't. You make me do awful things."

  "Sparky, how can we have pleasure—unless we also have pain?"

  "Well, I won't do what you ask!"

  "You'll do anything I say."

  "No I won't."

  "Yes you will."

  "No I won't."

  "Then I'll tell "

  Silence.

  "It makes no difference to me, Sparky. I'm well-hidden away. It's you who they'll cage like an animal. And you'll have no one to talk to. They'll all think you're weird."

  "I'll find someone else."

  "Bullshit, Sparky. You know that isn't possible. I've fixed you so that I will be the only lover you ever have."

  "I hate you, Mother! You hear that? I hate, hate, hate . . . AUUGGHH!"

  "Now will you do what I say?"

  "Oh, please, no, no, no. Don't do that a . . . AUUGGHH!"

  "Child, that one's just to make sure."

  "Oh, please, please, please, it hurts too much. Don't do that again."

  "Then come, child, come. Let's hear your footsteps on the stairs.

  "I'm coming. I'm coming. I'm coming."

  "Oh, Sparky. Please. What are those tears? Come downstairs and stroke my hair and let's feel good together. Tell me you love me, child."

  "I do. I mean it. I love you. Mommy. Mommy, you fucking cunt!"

  No, Sir, that thing in the Mask was never Dr. Jekyll

  5:43 a.m.

  By the time the sun came up that morning Natasha Wilkes was ready and waiting. With a cup of coffee in her hand, she watched from the cabin window as the orange rim of the solar crescent broke through the horizon. Then she buttoned up her parka, picked up her gloves, and walked outside into the mountain air.

  Her cross-country skis were still leaning against the north wall of
the log chalet where she had placed them the night before, but now they were coated with frost. For several minutes she worked at cleaning them off, then she stood up straight and stretched, her eyes scanning far down Seymour Mountain to the waking city below. Poor schmucks, Natasha thought, just another working day. Then she recalled that it was Remembrance Day and that no one would be at labor. The thought pissed her off. That meant people on the slopes.

  At twenty-seven Natasha Wilkes was already established as the city's foremost movie critic. She held Fine Arts degrees from both London and New York. She went to work on an average day at four o'clock, sat in a theater for a couple of hours watching films, then went home to write her column and pack it in by ten. And if landing that job wasn't good enough, yesterday she had sold her first romantic novel.

  Natasha Wilkes felt elated. Life was going well for her.

  After using blue Swix wax on her Silva skis, she snapped the skis on to her feet. Though it was only November, already the mountain was covered with snow and was building up a good base—and that meant a super ski year. She pulled her toque down over her ears, fluffed her black hair on her shoulders, then gripping a bamboo pole in each gloved hand set off down the trail. At least for a while, she thought, I should have the mountain to myself.

  By 6:25 that morning she had worked up a very good sweat. Natasha Wilkes was now standing on a small precipice about fifteen feet upslope from the Seymour River. The water below was rushing with run-off, crystal-clear and cold. Unhooking her pack and removing a thermos, the woman poured herself some hot chocolate.

  At first she did not see the skier who had just come around a bend in the trail ahead. The steam was rising thick from her cup and the sight of Vancouver stretched out below was commanding her attention. When she did see the figure approaching her it was with a tinge of resentment. For when Natasha Wilkes skied in the mountains, she liked to be alone. Now there was a crowd.

  The skier had first come into view thirty feet from Natasha. At fifteen feet Natasha noticed that the figure was all bundled up and wearing a full face mask. That seemed a little strange to her, for the season was not midwinter. And besides this was cross-country, not downhill. All she could see was a break for the mouth and two small holes for the eyes.

  When the skier was seven yards away, Wilkes drained her cup.

  At five yards distance she screwed the lid on the thermos.

  At three she stashed the container back in her pack and went to zip it up.

  Then she noticed that the tips of both pairs of skis were finger-locked together, yet still this person didn't make the slightest move to stop.

  Asshole, Natasha Wilkes thought as they were face to face. Then she went to open her mouth and say, "Why don't you watch what you're doing?" But before she could get the words from her throat, the karate chop cut her down.

  By the time that the woman stopped tumbling she was just three feet from the river.

  Still dazed, her mind didn't register the knife cutting away the front of her pants.

  11:10 a.m.

  "Full dress parade!" Rick Scarlett exclaimed. "What the hell is that for?"

  "Maybe 'cause it's Remembrance Day and the Force lost men in the wars. Or maybe it's 'cause the Commissioner is flying in this morning," William Tipple said.

  "Just great," Spann said. "As if we've nothing else to do."

  They were now sitting in the White Spot with a second cup of coffee. Finally they had connected, for yesterday when Scarlett and Spann had tried to find Tipple they had once again been told the man was out of town. He had been up in Kelowna giving evidence at a trial. "We've lost Hardy," Scarlett said abruptly. "Join the club," the Corporal said. "We've lost track of Rackstraw."

  "You're joking?"

  "We tailed him out to Airport South where it seems he had rented a plane. The guy's got a private license and he took off into the sky. It was an aircraft with pontoons." "Where do you think he was going?" "I have no idea."

  "So what do we do now?" Katherine Spann asked. Tipple shrugged his shoulders. "Keep our stakeout warm I guess and wait till they show up. Nothing else we can do."

  "Sure there is," Scarlett said. "We can all go twiddle our thumbs at a full dress fucking parade. You know, sometimes I wonder. Really, I do."

  11:15 a.m.

  Robert DeClercq was frightened. For the dream had come again.

  Last night he had lain on his back for hours and marveled at the bursts of color exploding upon the ceiling which he knew in reality were not there. It was just the amphetamines. At 2:00 a.m. he told himself that he was through with the drugs.

  At 3:00 a.m. he had risen to take an Atavin in the hope that it would bring him sleep. At 3:45 a.m. at last he had started to slip away. And that was when he had begun to dream about that house in the woods.

  Instantly he had woken up and had broken out in a sweat. The rest of the night was spent staring up at the ceiling. At one point just before dawn he had thought he heard a voice from over on Genevieve's side of the bed. "You've lost it," the voice had whispered. But when he looked over all he could see was his wife sleeping peacefully. Just let it pass,he had told himself. You're hallucinating.

  At 5:00 a.m. he had sat up and had spent half an hour just watching Genevieve at rest. Her hair was spread out across her pillow like willow-wisps in a breeze. "Do you know how much I love you?" he had whispered in her ear. And then he had climbed out of bed.

  At 5:55 a.m. he had left the house to start another day.

  Now he stood on the airport ramp and viewed the flight come in.

  The Commissioner had arrived.

  1984

  3:02 p.m.

  Though cops themselves, even Spann and Scarlett were surprised by the size of the room. Who would have suspected that the Force had this many ears?

  Just before three they had parked their patrol car in the lot behind 1200 West 73rd and had walked to the entrance door of Vancouver RCMP Headquarters. With identification tags pinned to their chests they had taken the elevator up to Commercial Crime where Tipple was waiting for them. As the door slid open both cops saw a smile on the Corporal's face. "Tail's back on the donkey," Tipple said.

  The three of them walked down a long corridor, the Commercial Crime member in the lead, and stopped outside a door. On the door some wag had pinned up a hand-printed sign that read: "Don't be too astonished, ye who enter here. Just beyond this point is 1984." Tipple turned the knob and ushered both of them inside.

  There were more than 500 tape recorders stored inside the room. Spann and Scarlett were astonished.

  About a quarter of the machines had take-up reels that were turning, while every few seconds a few would stop and others would begin to revolve. It took them a moment to realize that what they were looking at was only half the recorders present, for each master machine had a slave machine positioned on the shelf behind it.

  "Listen to this," Tipple said, as he walked over to one of the Uhers and placed his finger on play. "Rackstraw flew in a while ago and went straight to his studio. He started phoning in a rush."

  The Corporal indicated two sets of headphones hooked up to the recorder and the Constables put them on. As with most bugging devices used by the RCMP, the Uhers work on voltage. The machine sits dormant and shut off when the tapped phone is not in use. If the receiver is lifted there is a change in the electrical current running through the line. This change sets off the recorder and its reels begin to spin. Each recording set has a master machine to make an original tape plus a secondary slave machine that produces a working copy. Tipple punched the play button on one of the slave machines.

  Spann and Scarlett both listened as the connection went through.

  "Your number please," an operator asked.

  A voice that they knew was Rackstraw's responded to the question.

  "Where's he calling?" Katherine Spann asked, removing one of the headphones from her ear.

  "New Orleans," Tipple said.

  "Hey, what's happeni
n'?" New Orleans asked. It sounded like the zobop from the ritual, otherwise known as The Wolf.

  "It's me."

  "Yes, you?"

  "They're not where they're s'posed to be."

  For several moments there was a long pregnant pause on the line. Then Rackstraw added: "Either it's a ripoff or Weasel's bin scooped."

  "Keep cool," New Orleans said.

  "Same mountain. Same lake. I mean you can see the friggin' border just to the north. I tell ya I checked the cache and they just ain't there."

  "Easy. Things can happen. He may not be the coldest man but he does know how to survive. Give the Weasel time and he'll come through."

  "Man. I got people waitin'!"

  "Give him one more day."

  "I can't wait no one more . . ."

  "You'll wait!" New Orleans said sharply. "The man is family!"

  And then the line went dead. Scarlett and Spann could still hear Rackstraw's heavy breathing. Once he hung up too, they removed the headphones from their ears.

  Spann said to Tipple: "Well, you found your half, and even he can't find ours."

  "How come he talks so freely?" Rick Scarlett asked. "I mean, we rousted the man once, so he must know something's afoot."

  " 'Cause he thinks he's smart," the Corporal replied. "He's got phones at home and at his recording studio. Those phones he knows might be tapped. Next door to his music place is a small nondescript building that houses an Austrian import house. The buildings look separate, but they share the same basement. The phone in the storeroom of the import house is the one he uses."

  "How'd you find that out?"

  "Easy," Tipple said. "We got bugs in the walls as well. It was my idea to put a listening device in the basement too. Crooks always seem to think it safer when they talk underground. In this case there's no cellar talk, but what there is is all these sounds of a door being opened and closed. Actually two doors: one of 'em squeaks. We went in there one night and invisibly tossed the place. We found a passage hidden secret-like behind a movable shelf of stereo speakers. It was the hinge on the shelf that squeaked."