"Stop it!" Corry yelled. "You're hurt . . ." (I hit him) "Stop it, you're hurting me!"
Both of us were now thrashing as we stumbled back out through the door.
Then once outside, I stopped.
When I got home that night it was my brother who opened the door.
He took one look at me all bashed up, and then he began to cry.
Different guy my brother. Then only five years old. Why'd he have to go and die?
It was later that month that I developed a fear of blood.
I recall my mother in the kitchen chopping vegetables ! was at the table drawing my own comic book. It was about a superhero I called "The Butcheress." She wore these blue tights and a purple cape shaped a bit like Batman's. She was armed with that most sensible of weapons for today's superhero—a giant meat cleaver. I was getting very good at drawing her breasts.
Plop . . . plop . . . plop . . .
I could hear the sound of the vegetables landing on the chopping board. Heads would make a sound like that when they dropped from the guillotine.
Plop . . . plop . . . plop . . .
Then my mother cried out in pain and ran out of the kitchen. Holding her hand. The knife was on the cutting board with its tip stained crimson.
I ran into the bathroom after her and saw her blood all over the floor. There was the whoosh of tapwater flowing which seemed to magnify and grow into the hoarse roar of a waterfall. The room began to wobble. "Will you get me a Band-Aid?" my mother asked as the bathroom walls swayed, as the sound of the water faded in and out, as the tiles of the floor came up to meet me and slam against the side of my head.
I came to, to find myself cradled in her arms.
She was crying (we all seemed to cry a lot that spring) and she was holding me against her, while one hand gripped her other palm still trying to stop the flow of blood as she coaxed me back to consciousness.
I loved you, Mom.
That night I awoke in my room all alone in the dark. I could hear whispering.
When I looked around there was nothing but black, black, black.
And then I saw a point of light up in the comer off to my left where two walls met the ceiling. It was this light that was whispering as it slowly, ever so slowly, began to spin in a circle. Imagine a tiny point of light on the tip of a pinwheel blade and you'll know what I mean. Round and round and round it went in an ever-widening circle. Spinning as it corkscrewed down toward me.
I remember pulling the bedcovers up to the bridge of my nose.
Then I waited, transfixed and watching, until the point of light was halfway across the space separating it from me.
That was when I saw the face.
It was this little wee miniature face circling slowly round and round, shining with eerie light.
Its features were those of the Great White Hunter and he was whispering at me: "Watch out! Watch out! Watch out! I'm going to take her too."
I never got back to sleep that night, not until dawn came peeking in with the light of the following morning. It was Jimbo who found the solution. I'll give him credit for that. The opportunity to find it had cost him a broken nose.
"Okay, here's what we do," Jimbo said confidently. "I go in and scout the place and find the magazine rack. Then I come out and tell you where it is and the three of us go in. You, me, and Corry. You in between. Got it. Okay?"
No, it was not okay.
"Now once we get through the door, I'll hold up my jacket so you can't see the rack. If you try to look, then Corry grabs you, I throw the jacket over your head, and we drag you back outside. Then we try it again."
It took half an hour's persuasion before the three of us came through that door.
But it worked, by God. Somehow it broke the spell.
Or maybe it was just the fact that I never saw another magazine cover drawn by that particular artist.
And so it was that Jimbo—in a triumph for amateur psychology—took care of the drugstores, took care of the newsstands, took care of the confectioners.
But he didn't take care of the blood.
Good Lord, I don't believe it! I think I'm in love!
I went to the seminar, God knows why—maybe cause Ruryk suggested it and maybe I thought I'd find a key to unlock more of myself. Who knows why! Who cares!
Good God, what a woman! You should see her!
Genevieve, Genevieve, Genevieve—where have you been all my life?
Just my luck she's married—so what if it's one-way love.
Oh God, to have this feeling again.
Genevieve DeClercq—I LOVE YOU.
Oh happy day.
* * *
So let's talk about severed heads.
The human brain can live for up to a minute on the blood-oxygen supply within it at any given time. Cut the head from the body and the mind lives on. Consciousness survives. Why do human beings so fear a severed head? Is it because we know instinctively that if decapitation should happen to us, our mind lives on? But tell me something.
If this is everyman's general fear, why must I be plagued with it multiplied a thousand times?
Why must this fear also be my particular neurosis? Can you answer that, YOU IN HERE WITH ME?
Genevieve, Genevieve, Genevieve! Will you be my salvation?
I listened to every word you said in the seminar tonight. Did I get it right? Genevieve, will you be my secret therapist? I hope you will—as long as you don't know. This will be my secret.
After the seminar tonight I spent some time in the sky. My camera caught a nebula and I saw the canals on Mars. I developed some shots of Jupiter taken the other evening, placing the prints—unenlarged—out on the drying table.
The Polaroids of the severed heads are now four in number. They were off to the side.
Genevieve, I've made up my mind to meet this MONSTER! head on.
Tomorrow after work I'm going to rephotograph the Polaroid prints and put the negatives through my enlarger. I hope it works!
I guess my brother's murder precipitated my decision. But maybe it's deeper than that.
They never found his body so the motive's speculation, but I had seen the needle marks on the inside of his forearm. In this city we ail know that the monkey is motive enough.
My mother was devastated: she never came back from it. I watched her spark just fizz away as she aged a hundred years. She used to sit in my father's chair staring out through the shutters. The same chair I used when she died.
I know a guy who was terrified of hypodermic needles. He overcame his fear by becoming a doctor.
I guess it was preordained that I'd become a cop. God, why did I blow up those heads!
I'm back! You won't believe this! She asked me out to lunch! "Brunch," she said on the telephone. "Ten-forty-five." Oh happy happy day.
Another picture arrived tonight, and then the news we got him.
This one was different, not a Polaroid. It's almost as if the Headhunter knew we were looking to identify people buying that type of film. Genevieve will be happy now that her nightmare's over. I never got off the blocks.
"Watch out! Watch out! Watch out! I'm going to take her too."
Back to you, Cathy Jenkins, high school heartthrob of mine.
I think there are people in this world who Death likes to follow around. People like me.
You know that was a silly argument we had over graduation. I know the lottery meant you went to the dance with some other guy. It was all so adolescent. It's just that you were the only girlfriend I ever had. I wish I'd been able to tell you that before the accident.
Is that why I've got no umbrella in that graveyard driven with rain?
Losing my chance with women, that's the story of my life.
It's time to fade away.
Hey, surprise! I'm back. I guess you can't keep a good man down.
A cop is a cop, I suppose.
Something strange has happened: I don't think Hardy's our boy.
Here's what bothered
me. Each of the victims except for the last—and that's because of the interruption—was raped by the Headhunter before her head was carried away. Yet only the body of Joanna Portman showed signs of ejaculation. Now why would the Headhunter come only once: that doesn't fit a pattern?
Okay, start with the assumption that this particular killer is motivated by a sexual aberration.
He gets his rocks off by stabbing women before, during or after intercourse.
Or perhaps he can get it up but can't get off and holds women responsible. Then he stabs them for mental satisfaction and blows a load in his head.
So what's going on here? The night that John Lincoln Hardy was killed I had missed the seminar. It was my turn on graveyard shift—and besides I had told Genevieve I would help her in every way I could. So I spent several hours that night at my desk reviewing the investigation. That was when I found the note by DeClercq concerning the statement by Mrs. Enid Portman.
It read: Jack—have someone check out the possibility that Joanna Portman had a boyfriend. Sperm can be found in the vagina for up to thirty-six hours after intercourse. If she had sex within that period it explains the ejaculation. The point bothers me—DeClercq.
After reading this it bothered me too.
There was a subsequent report which confirmed the Superintendent's query. After a follow-up check by the Squad, a boyfriend had been located. He was a married surgeon who worked at the hospital. He had rented an apartment across the street from St. Paul's where he and Joanna Portman would slip away during supper-break when they were both on shift. And yes, during that last day of her work they had met and had been fucking.
Surprisingly, after the death of John Lincoln Hardy there had been no follow-up concerning him. Most cops don't like loose ends even when they have closed a file. But perhaps it was just overlooked in the joy that came with the release of public pressure on the Squad. Who knows the reason? Yet somehow it sat in the back of my mind and continued to bother me.
Now I'm bothered even more.
Because today I got the answer.
It took some time to find her.
First I spent a couple of nights driving up and down the streets of the West End. I checked each face on the boulevard against her mug-shot picture. The ones who were young and knew they had it stood directly under the lights, pursing their lips or plucking a nipple as I went by in my car. The ones who were ravaged by age or the needle kept themselves to the shadows. They showed more of their bodies in this competition to grab the attention of passing men. The hookers started at Bute Street, and down about Jervis and Broughton they were as thick as thieves. By Nicola they had relinquished the territory to young boys in their teens waiting for the chickenhawk. I didn't find her there.
Next I checked the Comer and all its greasy spoons, strip joints and shot palaces but she wasn't there either.
Then finally in a pub on Granville Street just before the bridge, I scored. Some score.
The guy at the beer tap must have weighed at least 280 pounds. He had a face that someone had once cut to ribbons with a very sharp knife or a barber's razor. He wore a black patch over one eye. Using his good eye to stare at the mug shot he glanced at me for a moment, then flicked a look at one corner. I found her sitting against the far wall of the pub.
I walked over and sat down opposite her.
Charlotte Clarke was slumped across a cigarette-burned table with a terry-towel cover, one hand clutching a beer glass, her face buried in the crook of her arm. Just to the side of her cheek I could see a fresh needle mark at her elbow with its telltale bubble of blood. I reached out and shook her once—then twice—then I waited awhile. After a few minutes she began to come around.
"I got the clap," she mumbled vaguely, looking at me with these opaque shiny eyes. She nodded once, then put her head back down and I had to shake her again.
"What the fuck do you want?" she growled at me from another world.
"Police," I said softly. "And I want some information."
The guy at the next table must have heard what I said 'cause he got up fast and made for the door. He left a full glass of beer behind on the table.
"Go suck yourself off," the young lady whispered. "I ain't holdin' so you can blow it out your sweet ass." When she went to put her head down this time I stopped her with my hand cupped under her chin.
"You were Hardy's girl," I said. "I want to talk about him."
"Lemme see your shield."
I flashed her the tin.
As she looked at my ID card this smile came over her face. Wrinkling her nose like a rabbit she said: "Eh, what's up, doc?" She found it very funny.
I didn't. "I said I want to talk about . . ."
"You killed him!" she said sharply, then her face changed expression and suddenly she slapped me. I slapped her back. The guy at the table two seats down jumped up and made for the exit. Like the junkie before him he left beer and change on the table.
"I didn't kill anyone. Don't try that again."
Tears came to her eyes. "If you're a cop, you killed him," she said. "That's how it is for me."
"Did he do it, Charlotte? Did he kill those women?"
"Aw, shit, man! Will you lemme alone? My old man's dead, can't you understand? He may not have bin worth a turd to you, but he meant a fuck of a lot to me." The rush was wearing off.
"Try me," I said.
But she didn't say a thing.
"I'll pay you the price of a cap."
"Don't con me."
I counted out seventy dollars and placed it on the table between us. She knocked it onto the floor, but then had second thoughts. I knew I was sure to win the game that junkies always lose.
"Two caps," she said finally with this smirk on her face.
"Sorry," I said. "No can do. This is from my own pocket. It's me as man wants to know, not me as cop."
"Know what?" she asked—and I knew I had her.
"Did you ever fuck him? John Lincoln Hardy?"
Her eyes opened wide and they were shining like stars. "Did I what?" she asked of me, incredulous.
"Did you ever fuck him?"
"Come on! He was my old man."
"Word on the street is he wired you. You peddled your ass for him. Word is he beat you once or twice, beat you up real bad. A girl doesn't need to screw her pimp, you and I know that. Once again, Charlotte: Did you ever fuck him?"
"Yeah, I fucked him."
"Often?"
"Every night. Johnnie was a man."
"Did he come?"
She frowned at me in wonderment, then tossed away one hand. "Everyone comes for me," she said, getting up from the table. She bent down for the money on the floor and stuffed it in the waistband of her jeans. Then she turned to leave, stopped, and this is what she said:
"That's the last of the answers, fuzz, and I don't want you comin' back. But here's somethin' for free. Johnnie was a good man and he was a hell of a lover. He was the one who hooked me on junk, kept me in junk—and he was the only guy in my life who ever made me feel wanted. Do you understand what it means to need to feel wanted? You think I was just some sweet girl working in a Dairy Queen who got fucked over by some black stud who beat her black and blue." She sat down again, and leaned across the table towards me. "Maybe I deserved it. I stole from him once, you see, when I needed some junk. I stole something precious. I stole this wooden mask. So he beat me, and beat me and beat me. But I loved the guy and you killed him. And I'd do it all over again the exact same way tomorrow."
"Why'd you sell the mask? And not his Polaroid camera?"
"Camera? Don't make me laugh," Charlotte Clarke said looking puzzled. "What would Johnnie have done with that? He never owned no camera." Then she got up and walked away.
I let her go: she'd told me what I wanted.
She got another fix and I got a hundred caps' worth.
But I knew that when that junk hit her vein she'd see it the other way around.
And that was good.
&nb
sp; At least someone would be happy.
I found them in the courthouse coffee shop down at 222 Main. They were making cop-talk as I sat down at the table.
"So she told me she stole the lighter because she was so nervous about stealing the other goods that she needed a cigarette, but didn't have a light," Rick Scarlett said.
"We all smiled at that one and William Tipple said: "Not bad, but I think Mad Dog gets the prize. Anyone dissenting? Okay, Rabid, there you go. Six quarters."
"What is this?" I asked. "Some sort of reunion?"
"Nope." Bill Tipple said, "just coincidence. Scarlett, Spann and I are down here to speak to the Department of Justice prosecutor about more charges against Rackstraw. We want him for both importing cocaine and for conspiracy McDonald and Lewis are here for an evidence interview on the US application to extradite Matthew Paul Pitt. Mad Dog Rabidowski has a theft under trial."
"Ain't life a bore," Rabidowski said, "since they disbanded the Squad. I wish we hadn't caught him."
"Maybe we didn't," I said.
At that moment, with that comment, I learned just how Colonel Tibbets must have felt when he dropped the A-bomb on Hiroshima.
So I told them what bothered me. Why would a man who has a normal sexual release go out and rape and kill women yet never have an orgasm? Why wouldn't he just kill them if it was a psychological thing? Wasn't the killer more likely to be a man in a frenzy unable to ever come? Maybe he picked up syphilis and hated every woman.
My theory wasn't welcome.
First Scarlett looked at me strangely, then he got up and left.
The others for a number of reasons soon followed suit.
I was left alone at the table with a rapidly cooling cup of coffee. I'd hit a dead end and knew it.
As the man says: Nothing in life is ten out of ten.
Is man not lost? Now I ask you: isn't that a hell of a question?
Is that why you started drinking, Dad?
If it is I understand.
It was as I was returning the Headhunter files to the "morgue" that the negative slipped out of one of them and dropped onto the floor. I bent down to pick it up.
Headhunter Page 37