Michael Slade - Headhunter

"Get a couple of psychics here and see what they have to say."

DeClercq then turned to Chartrand. "Francois," he said, "I want triple the manpower."

"You got it," the Commissioner replied.

5:12 p.m.

"I think you'd better look at this," a voice from up above said.

Avacomovitch turned from the body of Natasha Wilkes and glanced back up the hill. Corporal Murray Quinn of North Van Ident. Section and a dog master named Ingersoll were crouched down on their haunches about halfway up the slope that led to the cross-country ski trail. They were squatting alongside the route where the woman had tumbled down. Ingersoll was rewarding his German shepherd. King.

The sense of smell of a German shepherd is a hundred times stronger than man's. A dog can detect odors that otherwise go unnoticed. A police dog is trained to always work into the wind. A dog will pick up any scent foreign to an area. A police dog works for only one reason and that is its master's praise. In the present case King was one of the more senior veterans of the seventy RCMP dog teams in Canada. Once told to search up the hill it had taken him less than ten seconds to find the three threads.

"What is it?" Avacomovitch asked as he came plodding through the snow.

"The dog's found these," Ingersoll said, interpreting the animal's actions and pointing to the broken branch of a bush growing out of the side of the hill. He turned a flashlight on it, for dusk was rapidly coming down.

Avacomovitch crouched near the snow, removing a clean laboratory envelope from his coat pocket as he did so. With a pair of tweezers he removed the three ripped threads from the bramble bush. After he stood back up, he held out the envelope to Ingersoll and Quinn.

The pouch now contained two black threads.

And a third one, scarlet red.

Friday, November 12th, 6:30 a.m.

They had worked right through the night.

Robert DeClercq felt as though his body was half numb and his mind was rapidly shrinking down inside a small protective shell that hoarded what was left of his reason. He moved about Headquarters restlessly, checking and rechecking each and every aspect of the investigation, yet nothing seemed to be in perspective.

In one room a wall was papered with graphs and maps. There was a chart for the ages of the victims; there was a chart for their heights and weights; there was even a chart which showed the temperature at the time that each victim had last been seen alive.

In another room a police artist was working with a psychic.

There were a number of sketches of the psychic's impressions already tacked up on the walls.

Every computer terminal was in use, with several officers lined up waiting for time.

Two men from BC Tel were hooking up fifty more telephones.

At Headquarters paper was mounting up. The days and days and days of repetitive, tedious work processing an endless flow of data — indexing, filing and cross-filing — was threatening to drown the building. To DeClercq it seemed as though each detail within the mass was mocking him personally, challenging his weary mind to fit the pieces together.

But still he worked on.

At 7:23 a.m. a report came in that a burglar caught in the act overnight by two women had been beaten to death with a fireplace poker and shovel. Both women were over sixty.

At 9:17 that morning Coquitlam Detachment arrested a gang of seven "slasher" girls who had spent the past ten hours ripping up the faces of six men — blinding two — with knives and the sharpened spikes of high-heeled shoes.

Then at 10:05 a.m. women began to mount a vigil.

Within an hour there were more than three hundred people standing outside the Headquarters building holding lighted candles. Before another hour had passed, that number had doubled.

Still those inside worked on.

6:07 p.m.

Commissioner Frangois Chartrand found DeClercq sitting in his office staring at the corkboard overview. Softly, he closed the door. Chartrand took a seat across from the Superintendent. He lit a cigarette.

"We've known each other a long time, Robert, so I'm going to be blunt with you. I have spent a night and a day reviewing your investigation. I have not found one thing that I would do differently, but I have discovered a number of techniques that would never have crossed my mind. You've mounted as fine a manhunt as I have ever encountered.

"Now Robert, I think you know that I have loved nothing else in life quite like I love this Force. I literally grow and thrive off our tradition. And I miss being in the harness.

"That's why I've come out here. Not to check up on you, not because of political pressure, but because I want to be an active part of this undertaking. Robert, this is what we're about — this Force, you and me.

"To tell you the truth, it feels damn good to be back. So look upon me as fresh reinforcements and let's work this one together. And the first thing that I suggest we do, is have you get some rest. Let me hold matters here at the fort and you take tomorrow off."

DeClercq shook his head. "I'm all right," he said. "Robert, please, as a friend, just do as I say. Don't make me have to order you not to come in tomorrow."

6:35 p.m.

The Superintendent left Headhunter Headquarters by one of the side doors. As he walked outside he noticed a knot of riot police hidden within an alcove out of sight of the crowd. They looked edgy.

For a moment as DeClercq climbed into his car he surveyed the size of the crowd. There were now more than three thousand candles burning out on the street.

As DeClercq drove away he thought to himself: Come tomorrow morning they'll be calling for my head.

6:45 p.m.

They went home disappointed.

As Rusty Lewis accelerated to enter the 401 Freeway, Monica Macdonald said: "You live near here, don't you?"

"Yeah, just off Willingdon."

"If you've got booze at your place I wouldn't mind a drink."

"I've got booze," he said.

Five minutes later they climbed the stairs that led to his apartment. Once inside, Lewis brought out a bottle of Canadian Club and a liter of 7-Up. He mixed them both a strong one.

As with nearly everyone else on the Squad they had worked right through the night and then through the day. When the written report had finally come in from Special O stating that Matthew Paul Pitt had been under the eyeball of at least ten Members during the period when Natasha Wilkes had been killed, the two Constables knew it was time to call it quits. When Lewis had offered to drive her home, Monica had accepted. They both needed company.

"You know. Rusty, I was so sure that the Headhunter was Pitt." With a sigh of released frustration, Macdonald put her drink down on the small kitchen table.

"If it's any consolation, so was I," the man said. "Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. We'll be a winner next time."

"Yeah, sure," the woman said. Then she knocked back a stiff swallow of rye which burnt her throat going down. "Would you believe that I once made a choice between going to Art School and joining up with the Force. I had plans to open my own interior design studio. It was going to be called The Finishing Touch. What do you think of that?"

"Sounds sexy," Lewis said.

The woman laughed. "That's nothing," Macdonald said. "My original idea was to call it Monica's Interiors."

At that Rusty smiled. "My ultimate reason for joining the Force was to be in the musical ride. I still plan to get there. Besides, we put forth a good try and I think you're a good cop."

"May I ask you a question?" "Fire away," he said.

"Instead of as a cop, what do you think of me as a woman?"