Michael Slade - Headhunter

"Look, Francois," the Solicitor General had said, "we're not playing tiddlywinks. This situation's explosive. Something must be done."

"Edward, I have been right through DeClercq's investigation. Believe me this Force is doing everything in its power to bring this to an end."

"I'm well aware of that. Francois. I'm not talking about what goes on beneath the surface. I'm talking about public consumption. A bone to throw to the masses. Keep them quiet a while."

"What sort of bone do you mean?"

"I'm beginning to get reports about this fellow DeClercq.”

"What sort of reports?"

"Lawyers are screaming all over the place about their clients' rights being trampled under this so-called sweep. Some people are also saying that the man does not look well. Francois, a man who doesn't look fit can't go before the cameras. And if he's not good media what use is he to us? We're selling confidence here, plain and simple."

"Edward, I'm not selling anything. I'm trying to catch a killer. DeClercq's the best we've got."

"So he still works the case. Put someone else in charge." "I can't do that." "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to." For a moment there was a silence on the phone. "What does that mean, Edward?"

"It means that something must be seen to be done. That we must look like we're going forward." "And what are you suggesting?" "That you personally take charge." Again there was silence. Chartrand looked out the window at the hospital across the street. He reached for a cigarette. Finally he stated: "Do I have any choice?" "Just in the timing."

"Then give me at least a day and a half to get matters organized."

"Too long. The case is just too hot." "One day then. There's a lot to do before the press comes down."

"All right. One day. But not a second longer." "One day. But Edward…"

"Sorry, Francois. But that's the way it goes. This fellow DeClercq. The PM wants him pulled."

After Chartrand hung up the telephone he lit the cigarette. And as he did so he thought: Robert, old friend. I do hope you're relaxing. One day is all you've got.

3:20 p.m.

DeClercq had neither shaved nor had he eaten.

He walked over to the liquor cabinet and opened one of the doors. Most of the bottles that it contained were nearly full, a testimonial to how little he and Genevieve drank. At the back of the bottom shelf there was a bottle of Camus Napoleon

Cognac. He removed the bottle and found a glass and then went down to the sea.

Drink in hand he sat there, thinking of his daughter.

3:35 p.m.

"Still nothing?" Scarlett asked.

"Nothing," Tipple said.

The van was parked so that its rear doors could not be seen from the recording studio half a block down the street. Scarlett had come down a side street that met 12th Avenue in a T. When he climbed into the rear of the truck he saw Katherine Spann asleep on a cot behind the driver's seat.

"What gives with Rackstraw?" Scarlett asked.

Just then a tall black man about thirty years of age walked out the front door of the studio. Tipple picked up some binoculars from the dash. As he watched, the man stopped on the pavement in front of the building, put one index finger to his left nostril to breathe in sharply a couple of times, then walked to a blue Corvette and drove away.

"They were in there all night recording, and then half of the day. You should have heard the racket," the Corporal said.

"Who's in there now?"

"Just Rackstraw, I guess." Tipple punched a button and flicked a toggle switch. A speaker in the van cut in and Spann stirred on the cot. They could hear the sound of someone humming to himself.

"How does the bug transmit?" Scarlett asked.

"Radio wave hookup. All the room bugs feed into a small transmitter attached to the left side of the building and buried behind an evergreen bush. It's protected from the rain by the eaves above."

As he spoke it had suddenly started to pour, the force of the drops hitting the roof of the van rapidly building up sound. Water ran in rivulets, then streams, then a steady sheet across the tarmac of 12th Avenue.

Scarlett said: "Why don't you go home and catch some shuteye, Bill? I'll take it from here."

Tipple nodded. "Anything important and I want to know. Make sure I'm in for the kill."

"For sure," the other man said, and the Corporal moved to the back. He opened the rear doors of the van and jumped out onto the street.

4:45 p.m.

"Fuck this noise," Rick Scarlett said.

He removed his Smith and Wesson.38 from its holster and flipped open the cylinder. He checked the action, and that it was loaded, then snapped it shut. They were both now sitting in the front of the van.

"What's eating you?" Katherine Spann asked.

"I don't like farting around. And I don't like being conned."

"So spit it out," she said.

"Look, I know Hardy's the Headhunter and so do you. Rackstraw knows where he is. Yet while we sit around here with our thumbs stuck up our asses waiting for Rackstraw to lead us to Hardy. Hardy could be out there somewhere hacking off a head. Okay, I played it your way and we got in touch with Tipple. Now I'm going to play it mine."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning make that fucker talk."

"Uh uh," Spann said. "That could be professional suicide."

"Hardy's screwed us. Rackstraw's screwed us. Wentworth's screwed us. And I've had enough."

"Rick, we're both frustrated. But you know what Chartrand said after the McDonald Report came down? What you're suggesting could cost us our jobs. Plus a criminal charge as well."

"If you can't take the heat, woman, stay out of the kitchen. You stay here."

Scarlett climbed out into the rain and began to cross the street.

Katherine Spann followed.

4:48 p.m.

No sooner had Genevieve closed the door than she remembered the seminar. She walked to the phone in the living room and dialed the number of the student who was to host it. No one was home.

Earlier that afternoon, Genevieve DeClercq had decided to cancel this evening's class and had made up her mind to spend the time with her husband. Dead-tired from her night without sleep she had nevertheless spent the afternoon down at the public library reading up on police techniques in criminal investigation. This knowledge had now been combined with what she had learned at brunch this morning, and the woman felt ready to discuss the case with Robert. Bounce, she thought with a weak smile, that's what they call it . Bounce is cop vernacular for a brainstorm session.

But Robert was not at home.

A little surprised and a little worried the woman searched the greenhouse and the rest of their home. She noticed that nothing had been changed or moved since this morning: all the files on the Headhunter case were just as she had left them.

Good, she thought, that means Robert has not been working. Thank God he's taken a rest.

Her concern was heightened, however, by the fact that there was no note. He always left her a message if he was going out. Then she remembered that his car was parked at the top of the driveway, so he couldn't have gone very far. Eventually she crossed through the greenhouse and, with her shoulders hunched against the rain, went down to the sea.

But Robert wasn't there.

And neither was their boat.

4:52 p.m.

Rick Scarlett reached behind the evergreen bush and found the radio transmitter. He flicked the switch on the side that cut the power off. Then he returned to where Spann was standing and the two of them moved toward the studio door.

With what Rick Scarlett had in mind. Big Brother should not be listening.

And definitely not recording.