Headhunter Read online

  Disgusted, the woman squeezed herself flat against the brick wall near his feet. "Gimme a kiss," the drunk slurred as she stumbled out onto the pavement. Then the woman turned down Carrali Street and made for Chinatown. The feel of the bricks on the skin of her palm had reminded her of The Wall.

  Now the traffic light at the empty intersection of Pender and Main turned red, suffusing the mist with a color so intense that it seemed as if a rain of blood dripped down on the city. The woman glanced down Pender Street, back the way she had come.

  Chinatown at 5 a.m. could be in another century. For at this hour the mystery and inscrutability that the West sees in the East is almost tangible. The woman could see a line of buildings stretching out in the rain, their facades as ornate as Chinese theater masks. Windows looked out on the road like dead man's eyes. In one of these buildings Sun Yat-sen had lived out part of his exile. In others Secret Societies had met in an atmosphere as thick with mystery as the smoke which fumed from their opium factories. While under the street— where she sat now—fabled tunnels had snaked from somewhere to somewhere else for some forgotten reason.

  This woman, of course, knew none of this—for she was new to this city. She had lived within it for a total of four days.

  Slowly struggling to her feet, she lurched toward the hotel.

  The Wall was right next door to the Moonlight Arms, the pub of the Moonrise Hotel, and it was built of old brick painted with the red and white stripes of a skid row barber shop. The white stripes had become a hookers' message board. For it was here that the prostitutes who worked the Downtown Eastside warned their sisters of the night about certain kinky johns. Messages like: Light blue Pontiac: This one's a cutter or Look out (shank!) and then a BC license number. Occasionally pimps used The Wall to contact their stables. Pimps like Johnnie.

  With a rising panic, the woman frantically searched for Johnnie's characteristic scrawl.

  Oh, God, no! He hasn't left a message!

  She didn't notice the vehicle that came around the corner.

  The car crept down the block from Main Street, its tires hissing over the rain-soaked tarmac, its license plate covered by mud. Ten feet from the woman, it headed for the curb. The passenger's window was open. The engine idled.

  The woman heard the motor purr and she slowly turned around. Then she stumbled to the window.

  "Want a date?" she croaked.

  On instinct she bent down to get a look at the driver, for hers was a dangerous business. Only yesterday afternoon she had heard that a working girl had been snuffed by a john. The guy had used a nylon to strangle her to death.

  Though the driver's face was shadowed, she could just make out the eyes.

  "Forget it," the woman said sharply, and she went to turn away.

  "Hey, wait a minute, lady. You don't look so well."

  "Fuck off," the woman said, glancing back over her shoulder.

  "You strung out, lady? I can fix that up. I want you for a friend of mine. He'll throw in some junk."

  "No!" the woman said—and then the cramps hit her again, worse this time.

  Ten seconds later, she climbed into the car. The driver eased the vehicle away from the curb and they drove off into the night.

  11:45 a.m.

  The maple trees were turning. Earlier that morning the rain clouds had blown inland and now, out beyond the panes of the greenhouse, the leaves were a riot of color. Hues of red and yellow and orange stood out sharply against the backdrop of English Bay with its blue-green waters whipped into foaming whitecaps. Bright October sunshine slanted in through the glass, hitting a row of prisms that threw rainbows across the floor. Inside there were also other colors in profusion, for they liked it here, the roses.

  The plants were growing in tropical wells and artificial gardens, row upon row of them, spread out around the greenhouse.

  Over near a door which led to the house was a section for hybridizing." In this section stood a single plant that flowered deep maroon.

  The man was sitting in one corner in a large white wicker chair. He was a tall, slender individual with piano-player hands. His hair was dark and wavy with a trace of gray at the temples, his eyes dark and brooding. There was a slight shadow of beard showing through the skin of his finely chiseled jaw, and his aquiline nose, on first impression, hinted at arrogance. It was only if you heard him speak that his humility came through.

  The man was sitting cross-legged with a pad and clipboard on his knee. Scattered about him, covering the surface of a library table, hiding the tiles on the floor, were several dozen volumes of history on the First World War. The floor space left between the books was littered with crumpled paper.

  Engrossed in what he was writing, the man failed to notice that a woman had entered the room. She stood for a moment just this side of the door to the house, contemplating him. Her eyes were large and green and sparkling with life. They were set in a flawless face. Her cheekbones were slanted high and her lips were full. Her hair was auburn. She was twenty years younger than the man, in her early thirties. She wore a maroon silk blouse and a tailored suit over her full figure. The suit was gray.

  "Eh bien, Robert,"she said in French,"Est-ce qu'on prendra un lunch aujourd'hui?"

  The man looked up from his work and smiled. He put the clipboard down."Oui,"he said."J'aimerais bien. Combien de temps as-tu?"

  "Juste une heure,"the woman replied."J'ai une classe de seminaire en fin de la journee."

  The man stood up and crossed over to where she waited at the door. She touched his arm as they turned to leave but the man paused for a moment. He looked at the single plant in the hybridizing area, picked up a pair of shears and snipped off one of the buds. The rose was from a strain that he had bred himself. Up until now it had remained unnamed.

  "As-tu pense au nom que tu lui donnerais?"the woman asked him.

  He held out the rosebud just in front of her heart, maroon on maroon for a perfect match.

  "Genevieve, "he answered, now giving it a title.

  With a light laugh, Genevieve DeClercq broke into a smile.

  And in that moment, it seemed to him even brighter in the room.

  Monday, October 25th, 6:30 p.m.

  It is common knowledge that for physical setting there are only six great cities in the world. Rio de Janeiro, Sydney, Cape Town, Hong Kong and San Francisco: these are five of them. Vancouver is the sixth one.

  The young man who leaned on the port rail of the BC Government boat was watching the city pass by on the left. He was six feet tall and lanky, with a long face, good teeth, and blond hair that blew in the wind.

  The boat was returning from a salvage check up the bite of Howe Sound. The Sound lay just north of the city harbor, one of the million indentations that make up the ten thousand rugged linear miles of the British Columbia coastline. The boat had just reached the mouth of English Bay, the gate to Vancouver Harbor. Point Grey lay ahead, Vancouver to the left.

  It was the shank of the day; the sunset, the time Heller enjoyed the most. His work completed, he could now relax with nothing more important to do than breathe in slow, deep lungfuls of the salt-sea air. To the north and left the backdrop peaks of Hollyburn and Grouse and Seymour Mountains were burnished copper by the sun. In the foreground where slope met sea the Point Atkinson Lighthouse was winking. Far away in the distance which comprised the State of Washington, the volcanic cone of Mount Baker stood guard above the scene.

  Heller loved the sea because the sea knew no control. Here English Bay one moment was a sheet of calm green glass, its freighters and tugs and sailboats slipping among the tide lines like small fish through a net. Then the sky would change suddenly as a storm came crashing in, the boats then tossing in the wild waves like corks in boiling water. From all around would come the shouts of men in rubber raingear, and the clouds would open up to pelt the angry waters.

  It had been like that this morning, but now the sea was calm.

  Dan Heller turned around and waved to the
man in the wheelhouse. Glen Simpson gave him a thumbs up back.

  Now the boat had crossed the harbor mouth and the city lights slipped away. Looming up before him were the sandstone cliffs of Point Grey. Down near the water Heller could see the tower gun emplacements which had waited for the Japanese during the Second World War. High on the cliff were the buildings of the University of British Columbia, the glass walls of the Museum of Anthropology ablaze with the setting sun. Behind Point Grey lay the Fraser River.

  Ten minutes later, as the boat turned into the North Arm of the Fraser, Heller saw a heron lift off from Wreck Beach. A log in the water thumped along the hull. Then they were home and the boat bumped the dock.

  Glen cut the engines and left the wheelhouse once Heller had secured the lines. They were moored to the Government Wharf of the Provincial Ministry of Lands and Forests. A helicopter was landing on the helipad, its rotors flashing and throwing off rays of blood-red sunlight. Glen joined Heller at the rail.

  "Like a cup of coffee?" the wheelman asked.

  "Thanks," Heller said, taking the mug. The brandy warmed his stomach.

  The two men were silent for several minutes as they watched the hustle and bustle in the estuary. Log booms lined the river and boats were everywhere. Jets came and went from the International Airport on Sea Island, across the water.

  "How many boats you think'll be gone by this time next year?"

  "Who knows?" Heller replied. "Maybe twenty percent."

  "That high? Man, oh man. What a change in the weather. Want another coffee? There's some left in the pot."

  "Why not?" Heller said. "But you better hurry. Less than a minute till the sun sinks in the sea."

  "I'll make it," Glen said, heading for the wheelhouse.

  But he didn't make it—and both men missed the sunset. For as Glen Simpson grabbed the rail that ran up to the pilot's station, he happened to glance at the water and his eyes caught something floating.

  "Hey, Dan! Come here! And bring that gaff behind you."

  "What's wrong?" Heller asked, joining him at the boat rail.

  "You see what I see?" Glen pointed at the water.

  And there, half submerged and bumping the hull, was the body of a woman. Naked. Bloated. Just a body ending at the neck. The corpse was missing a head.

  11:31 p.m.

  Commercial Crime Section (Special "I")

  Target: Steve Rackstraw (aka "The Fox")

  Tape installed: October 25th. 0900 hours. (Tipple)

  Tape removed: October 25th. 1130 hours. (Tipple)

  u/m only known as "The Weasel."

  Outgoing local call.

  Weasel: Hey.

  Fox: Hey. Hey.

  Weasel: Sorry I forgot to call ya . . . forgot all about it.

  Fox: Ya did, huh?

  Weasel: Sorry.

  Fox: Well ya better grab your ride and get your black ass over here. Now.

  Weasel: I can't, not now. Later maybe.

  Fox: Is that our lady, Ms. Billie Holiday, I hear behind you, man?

  Weasel: Yeh, you know how pussy reacts to that. I need time man, time to get this horse in the stable.

  Fox: Yeh?

  Weasel: Time to get this here filly broken, ya know, broken, so I don't need no rope, ya know, to keep the bitch from leaving.

  Fox: So? So what?

  Weasel: Stay cool . . . Hey, just a moment (Shouting: Turn that music down. U/f: Come on. Baby. Make me fe-e-el good.

  Weasel: In a bit, just git your selfishness ready.) Ya still there, man?

  Fox: Okay. Okay, a bit more time. But I'm warning you, cousin, get your priorities straight. Important things are beginning to break and you had better be ready.

  Weasel: Yeh, yeh, I be ready.

  Fox: When the Wolf calls, you had better have your shit together, man. Don't use your dick, use Sister M.

  Weasel: What, what the . . . (inaudible) . . . zombi walks.

  Fox: By the by, man, where is H.G.? She been missing for a week.

  Weasel: Yeh, I know, like that's cold, real cold.

  Fox: You better find her, man, before the Wolf finds out, or you'll be cold, stone dead cold if there's a leak.

  Weasel: No, no worry. I can do . . . Fox: We will be waitin' on you all.

  Weasel: Bye.

  Fox: Huh. Huh. (end of call)

  Tuesday, October 26th, 8:15 a.m.

  Winter had arrived early within the four walls of the room. It was that cold. The air had a chill, brittle quality to it and there was a light condensation on the stainless steel surface. The pathologist wore gloves.

  Doctor Kahil Singh was an elderly man with close-cropped silver hair. His face was long and angular and he wore rimless glasses. Dr. Singh was one of three pathologists at the Richmond General Hospital. Today he had drawn duty in the hospital morgue.

  He had arrived for work at 7:30 this morning to find three accident victims waiting for him in their drawers. Two of the bodies had come from a motor vehicle collision last night on Highway 99, the police report stating that a bottle of Cuervo Tequila was found smashed on the road. The third corpse was a floater fished out of the Fraser River.

  Dr. Singh did not like floaters. So he took that one first.

  This had been Singh's practice ever since medical school, for as one of his professors way back then had so wisely put it: "If you take the ugly ones first, the worst is over." And this one was certainly ugly. Bloated and immense, the girl's body was partly decomposed and here and there fibrous strands of muscle clung to exposed bone.

  Singh assumed at first that the skull had been sliced away when it met with a boat propeller. A drowning suicide, he thought, with a subsequent clean cut. So the doctor peeled back the waterlogged flesh that had closed around the neck, and using a strong magnifying glass examined the top vertebra.

  Two minutes later, Singh called the RCMP.

  Corporal James Rodale was not pleased with the telephone call. It was not that he was a lazy man neglectful of his duty. It was just that Rodale was one of those men with a weak breakfast stomach. He did not need the scales of nausea tipped by a morning autopsy. Luckily, Singh was a perceptive man. When the doctor noticed the look on the Corporal's face as he entered the autopsy room, he suggested that Rodale wait for exhibits on the far side of the morgue. Rodale was grateful.

  "There's a phone on the table," the doctor said. "Use it if you want."

  Corporal James Rodale was slim and his movements precise. He wore the brown serge working uniform of the RCMP. His hairline was receding so he always wore his hat, and the regimental badge sat square in the center of his forehead. Rodale had since birth had different colored irises: the left eye was reddish brown, the right one green. At school the other students nicknamed him "Stoplight."

  As the autopsy was performed, Rodale sat at the table with his back to Dr. Singh. Though he kept his eyes averted he knew what was going on. The pathologist was recording his findings by means of an overhead microphone. Between the calls that Rodale made on his other investigations, some of the comments got through.

  "The body is that of a white female in her early twenties. Needle marks cover the interior aspect of both arms . . .

  "There is a 4.5 cm. incision on both the left and right sides of the neck close to vertical plane. There is a horizontal cut from the anterior to posterior aspect of the neck 6 cm. superior to the suprasternal notch . . .

  "The heart weighs 280 grams. The coronary arteries show minimal atherosclerotic streaking and are widely patent. On sectioning, the myocardium is of a uniform tan brown color. The aorta is intact . . .

  "The labia are bruised. There are a few adhesions of the fallopian tubes ..."

  Almost an hour later. Dr. Singh was finished. He wiped his gloves on a clean cloth and walked over to where Rodale waited. As yet the RCMP exhibit jars on the table were empty.

  "May I have a print sheet?" the pathologist asked.

  Rodale found the requested form and handed it to the doctor. Singh then c
rossed back to the stainless steel table that held the cut-up remains of the woman. He injected glycerine into all ten wrinkled fingertips and then one by one he rolled each fingertip across a pad of ink. He fingerprinted the form and returned it to Rodale. The officer put it on file.

  "Well?" the Corporal asked finally, meeting the doctor's eyes.

  "She didn't drown," Singh said. "The lungs are free of water. That means she was already dead before she entered the river. There's a perpendicular slit on both sides of the neck, consistent with a stab wound sideways through the throat. The weapon has a thick blade. A second horizontal cut removed the head from the body."

  "A sex attack?" Rodale asked, writing in his notebook.

  "I can't tell from the genitals though there's bruising in the area. We'll do a smear for sperm, but she spent at least a week in the water. The only other injury is a slash across both breasts. It cuts right to the sternum that joins the ribs together. It bisects both nipples."

  Rodale nodded. "Is the cut that took the head away from a motorboat propeller?"

  "No," Singh said, removing a jar from the table. He walked back to the body.

  The Corporal averted his eyes as the pathologist picked up a scalpel from a tray of shiny instruments to his left. Rodale felt bile rise to his mouth as Singh returned to the table. Fighting it down, angry with himself, he forced his reluctant eyes to focus on what the doctor held in one blood-streaked hand. The glove contained a single human vertebra.

  "See these marks?" Singh said, indicating the upper surface.

  Rodale stared at several lines scraped into the bone.

  "They move in a zigzag pattern like you get from a sawing cut. There are two of them, a quarter centimeter apart. Perhaps a nick in the blade. I don't know a propeller that moves with that sort of motion."

  The pathologist dropped the neck bone into the jar he held and passed it to the Corporal. Rodale sealed the bottle, labeled it, and marked the paper square with time, date, place, and his regimental number.