Michael Slade - Headhunter

"In one case a robbery suspect's fingerprints were recovered from a whisky bottle discovered floating in the bilge of a stolen yacht. In another case prints were lifted from an oil-covered cashbox at the scene of a business break-in."

"I must be going to rust," Robert DeClercq said.

"Not your department," the Russian replied. "But I'd like something else."

"What's that?" asked the Superintendent.

"Remember this morning you suggested that I take a look at the bones kicked up by the two young girls? Well I think I'd like to take a look at all four victims. I might find something in my field that a pathologist wouldn't look for."

"Good idea."

"That means a court order. They've already released Port-man's remains to her mother. But the other three are around." He looked once more at the nun.

"We'll apply for the order tomorrow," the Superintendent said.

"Do you think there's anything in the fact that both the Portman woman and the nun were Catholic?" MacDougall asked. "Maybe some sort of satanic cult. Black mass or black magic."

"Might be," DeClercq replied.

"I'll check it," the Inspector said, "but in the meantime, why don't you go home and grab some sleep? No use all of us being wasted when the panic hits later this morning. I know where to reach you if anything comes up."

"I agree," the scientist added.

For a moment DeClercq hesitated then he said, "I guess you're right." He glanced at his wristwatch and at the sky to the east. Four hours and it would be his normal time for waking. He did feel fatigued. There was little more he could do here, and come the groundswell of terror that was sure to arrive with morning a clear mind would be important. He had set the machine in motion, so let the machine do its work.

"I'll see you later," he said, and the other two men nodded.

DeClercq turned his back on the victim and followed the silver path up to the gate. Outside he could see the cordon of royal blue patrol cars, and beyond that a hodge-podge of spectators and reporters. As he reached the gate flash bulbs started popping. And just as thunder follows lightning, the second he went outside he knew the questions would be coming. At the gate he turned.

Back down the path near a silver statue depicting the Crucifixion, a group of three nuns were huddled together as if seeking warmth from each other. Behind them the convent rose up like a silver mausoleum.

It had been a long time since Robert DeClercq had been a practicing Catholic. In fact he had not set foot in a cathedral, except for the funeral, since the day that he had walked down that country road with his dead daughter in his arms.

What was it Christ had said? he thought. " Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe." So where does that leave me? Are those men damned who have seen too much and therefore cannot accept him?

Robert DeClercq went home.

It hit like a plague, the fear that came in a wave with the morning papers. Then from mouth to mouth it spread like a virus uncontrolled throughout the city.

In a banner headline from every newsbox The Province informed each working citizen HEADHUNTER STRIKES AGAINin 96-point type. The subhead screamed out NUN AS FOURTH VICTIM.

There are times when information is dispersed at lightning speed, but only once since the end of the Second World War had it spread so fast in this city. That was the day that President Kennedy took a bullet to the head.

The panic that came along with the fear showed itself in a number of ways. All of them edged in black.

7:00 a.m.

Artie Fripp drove down to the warehouse to count his profits. All of his staff as usual had the first of November off.

Fripp parked his Corvette behind the building in the space marked "President" and entered the warehouse through the rear door. Weaving among the shelves of merchandise, he made for his small front office. Business this particular Halloween had been even better than expected: monster masks had sold out, makeup kits had sold out, fireworks had sold out, trick-or-treat candy sales were up a whopping 31 percent. It looked as if Artie Fripp would once again winter in the Caribbean.

As he passed the section of his warehouse reserved for pornographic supplies — the soft-core paperbacks and sexual toys that sold so well in the winter — Fripp was smiling to himself, thinking of all the jerks who put out money for this junky titillation while he, dressed in Bermuda shorts under the tropical sun, got a real eyeful of almost-naked female flesh. Titillation, Fripp thought, now that's my kind of word. Any word that starts with ' 'tit' 'is…

And that was the moment that Artie Fripp, president of Get-A-Whiff Productions, stepped on a twelve-inch dildo left lying on the floor and instantly was airborn. The dildo was one of those electric types sold under the byline of "hum a different tune." During the party last night after work the staff had used it for their own version of that time-honored game known as "spin-the-bottle." Someone it seems had forgotten to put it back on the shelf.

So that was how Artie Fripp found himself flying with arms akimbo down the pornography corridor of his Burnaby warehouse, past the penis-shaped cigarette lighters sold as "Flick My Dic," past the stacks of paperback books like Hump Happy, whizzing by cartons of "Prolong Cream" and "Lustfinger," and "Hap-penis," zooming by a special display platform of "Anal Intruders" complete with batteries and an additional free "Butt Plugger," finally crashing into a four-tiered plywood shelf stocked with lifesize "Johnnie The Bucking Stud" and "Suzie Your Wild Teen Nympho" dolls, wrenching his back in the process.

"Oh, shit!" Fripp screamed as the pain spread out from his spine, for he had just injured the same vertebra that he had dislocated last year in Vegas while trysting with a blond show girl by the name of Belinda.

It took Fripp more than five minutes to drag himself to the nearest telephone, and it was just as he was about to pick up the receiver to call hospital emergency that the instrument rang. This particular telephone was reserved for his bookie so it was a single line.

Fripp grabbed it and groaned into the mouthpiece: "Call me a doctor and get the fuck off this circuit. I might not walk again!"

"Hey, Artie, it's me. The Flashman. At Play-It-Safe

Security."

"Get me a doctor, Flashman. My sex life is in danger. Minutes count."

"Artie, Artie, baby. No time for that. You read the morning rag. Some nun got iced. My phone's been ringing off the hook for those lipstick alarms. The ones that screech like a banshee."

"Flashman, you prick. I'm dyin'. Now get the hell off…" "I'll take two thousand to start, with an option on two thousand more."

"Flashman, you jerk…" But suddenly, Artie Fripp shut up. He had just remembered that the mark-up on those lipstick alarms was 400 percent.

"When?"

"Now!"

"Cash on the line?"

"If I get 'em right away. I just drew up an ad to run in the afternoon rag. Catch the panic before it breaks."

"Okay," Fripp said. "Call me back in five minutes."

As soon as the phone was free it rang again — then again — then again — for Artie Fripp did a sideline business in Mace, pepper squirters and whistles.

By 11:00 a.m. all of his staff were back on the job at double pay filling an endless stream of orders. It was only then as he sat in his office smiling at the green numbers in the little window of his Japanese calculator that Fripp remembered the pain in his back and his need to see a doctor. Who knows, maybe this year he should forget the Caribbean. Go a bit further afield, like the French Riviera.