Michael Slade - Headhunter

"Daddyyyy!" A stark shrill scream shatters the autumn air.

"Let go of me!" DeClercq cries out to the silver trees around him.

Frantic now he tries to run, tries to free his other leg, tries to reach the silver cabin from which that scream is coming. His heart is now straining in his chest and pains from overexertion are running up and down his left arm. He can feel the tension in his temples and in the cords of his neck.

"Daddyyyy!" This time it's longer, the scream suspended in the air.

"Don't leave me, Princess," DeClercq cries out. "I'm coming! For God's sake I'm coming!"

Then his legs are free and he is moving forward, dragging half the forest floor with him, closing the gap, the door before him, the clods of earth breaking away from his feet as the roots rustle like snakes in the autumn leaves around him, past the body with the crossbow bolt jutting out of its eye, up the steps and across the porch and swinging the door open wide, the knife now piercing his stomach, the blood now flowing down his abdomen and legs, his hands now closing tightly around the throat of this man in his path as the eyes, the tongue, the killing fades and the body drops to the floor.

"I'm over here, Daddy," Janie cries. "I'm hiding in the corner.''

So he whirls about in the silver room, searching the monochromatic space, desperately trying to find her.

"Princess! Janie! Where are you?" he cries, and at that very moment he sees her eyes in shadow in the corner.

"Oh thank God!" he says aloud, running to her and taking her small body in his arms, a body that now shrinks, getting thinner and thinner until it becomes a pole.

In utter horror DeClercq steps back and looks at those innocent eyes. For Janie's head is stuck on the end of a stake.

"I knew you'd come, Daddy," she says, and then she begins to cry.

He awoke in a sweat to find himself on a roll-away cot in the greenhouse. For a moment he was disoriented, then he sat up with a start. He looked at his watch and saw that it was 9:30 in the morning.

"Genevieve," he said aloud as he climbed out of bed.

He searched the entire house for his wife.

But Genevieve was gone.

9:45 a.m.

The value of fiber forensics stems from a theory that is known as Locard's Exchange Principle. Postulated by a French criminologist half a century ago, this theory states that a person passing through a room will unknowingly deposit something there and take something away. British researchers have subsequently found that most of the hundreds of loose fibers on a person's clothing are shed and replaced every four hours.

Until recently chemists could look at a fiber with seven different types of microscope and bombard it with neutrons, X-rays and fluorescent light. They could measure its density, weight, melting point, solubility and patterns of refracting light. When they finished they could tell whether or not it was permanent-press and the shape of its molecules — but they could not state that the fiber came positively from a particular piece of material.

Avacomovitch had changed that.

For his theory was based on identifying a fiber according to how it ages. Under the scientist's technique, a laser light scattering was used to study the molecular changes in a fiber as it becomes worn. Though two men may buy a similar shirt made from identical fabric, after those shirts are worn a while they will be very different. Body oils, perspiration salts, exposure to sunlight, whether laundered in hot or cold water: all these factors will alter a fiber. Although such knowledge is not crucial for synthetic materials — here specific characteristics can be measured by size, shape, chemical composition and by looking at the arrangement of additives — it is essential for natural fibers. Without the Avacomovitch laser scatter technique, cotton threads from a Mississippi mill are hard to distinguish from those produced in Georgia. A laser scatter, however, gives each fiber a unique characterization. So unique in fact that it's like a fingerprint.

Joseph Avacomovitch had worked right through the night. By 9:45 that morning he had determined that the two black threads from the bramble bush were synthetic nylon fibers from a fairly new water-repellent garment. The red fiber, however, was natural and he suspected that it was a twilled worsted or woollen material. To take his assessment further he would need some laser equipment. He had arranged for access to such machinery later on in the day. It was time to take a break.

That morning as Joseph Avacomovitch left the RCMP laboratory a thought picked at his mind.

For that red thread looked a lot like the color of red serge. Red serge is the fabric used to make the RCMP scarlet tunic.

10:45 a.m.

He recognized her at once.

For though her hair was now black instead of auburn and she was with another man, a woman like Genevieve DeClercq does not slip from the mind. The moment that she walked into the restaurant, Joseph Avacomovitch looked up from his meal and instantly connected her with the photograph on the corner of the Superintendent's desk. He watched them take a table on the far side of the room.

On leaving the laboratory the Russian had suddenly felt hungry. It had been at least twelve hours since his last meal — and besides he wanted to think. What was concerning him was the fear there had been a screw-up. He was worried that perhaps one of the several dozen Members at the site of Natasha Wilkes' killing had broken the cardinal rule about preserving a crime scene and had snagged his or her red serge tunic while tracing the route that the body had tumbled by climbing up to the trail. With time of the essence Avacomovitch did not relish wasting hours analyzing a red herring.

At the back of his mind, however, he had another thought: What if the killer did leave the thread? And what if it is red serge?

The restaurant was crowded. Avacomovitch had never dined here before, but DeClercq had mentioned to him once that it served the best eggs in town. As the scientist enjoyed a good omelette he had decided to give it a try. It was as he was finishing off his meal that Genevieve and the other man came through the door.

For a while the Russian toyed with the idea of crossing the room to their table and introducing himself. He nodded to the waiter and motioned for the check. Then he sat there unnoticed, watching Genevieve. She was without a doubt one of the most vivacious and animated women that he had ever encountered. Occasionally as she talked with the man, perhaps to emphasize a point, she would reach across the table top and touch him lightly on the arm. At the moment the waiter came to take their order she crossed her legs and a slit in her long skirt parted. Avacomovitch caught himself eyeing the sweep of her leg and thigh.

Once more he thought of his friend DeClercq and turned his gaze away. In that moment he made two very quick decisions. One was that he would not tell the Superintendent of this encounter. DeClercq had problems already. And the other was that he would not walk across this room. For what bothered him in what he saw was not so much Genevieve: it was the man whom she was with. The Russian knew in the back of his mind that he had seen the fellow before, though just where he could not place. What he could put in perspective, however, was the look in this man's eyes.

He's in love with her, Avacomovitch thought. Then he paid for the meal and left.

3:02 p.m.

Politics, Chartrand thought with disgust as he hung up the telephone. All for expediency.

The Commissioner had taken the call from the Solicitor General, Edward Fitzgerald, in DeClercq's office at Headhunter Headquarters. The Opposition, it seemed, had been roasting the Government once more about the lack of progress in the Vancouver case. It had not helped matters any when both the CBC and CTV television networks had shown footage on the news of several thousand candle-carrying citizens holding a vigil outside this very building all through the night. The Prime Minister himself had told Fitzgerald to make the call.