Michael Slade - Headhunter

Good God, what a woman! You should see her!

Genevieve, Genevieve, Genevieve — where have you been all my life?

Just my luck she's married — so what if it's one-way love.

Oh God, to have this feeling again.

Genevieve DeClercq — I LOVE YOU.

Oh happy day.

So let's talk about severed heads.

The human brain can live for up to a minute on the blood-oxygen supply within it at any given time. Cut the head from the body and the mind lives on. Consciousness survives. Why do human beings so fear a severed head? Is it because we know instinctively that if decapitation should happen to us, our mind lives on? But tell me something.

If this is everyman's general fear, why must I be plagued with it multiplied a thousand times?

Why must this fear also be my particular neurosis? Can you answer that, YOU IN HERE WITH ME?

Genevieve, Genevieve, Genevieve! Will you be my salvation?

I listened to every word you said in the seminar tonight. Did I get it right? Genevieve, will you be my secret therapist? I hope you will — as long as you don't know. This will be my secret.

After the seminar tonight I spent some time in the sky. My camera caught a nebula and I saw the canals on Mars. I developed some shots of Jupiter taken the other evening, placing the prints — unenlarged — out on the drying table.

The Polaroids of the severed heads are now four in number. They were off to the side.

Genevieve, I've made up my mind to meet this MONSTER! head on.

Tomorrow after work I'm going to rephotograph the Polaroid prints and put the negatives through my enlarger. I hope it works!

I guess my brother's murder precipitated my decision. But maybe it's deeper than that.

They never found his body so the motive's speculation, but I had seen the needle marks on the inside of his forearm. In this city we ail know that the monkey is motive enough.

My mother was devastated: she never came back from it. I watched her spark just fizz away as she aged a hundred years. She used to sit in my father's chair staring out through the shutters. The same chair I used when she died.

I know a guy who was terrified of hypodermic needles. He overcame his fear by becoming a doctor.

I guess it was preordained that I'd become a cop. God, why did I blow up those heads!

I'm back! You won't believe this! She asked me out to lunch! "Brunch," she said on the telephone. "Ten-forty-five." Oh happy happy day.

Another picture arrived tonight, and then the news we got him.

This one was different, not a Polaroid. It's almost as if the Headhunter knew we were looking to identify people buying that type of film. Genevieve will be happy now that her nightmare's over. I never got off the blocks.

"Watch out! Watch out! Watch out! I'm going to take her too."

Back to you, Cathy Jenkins, high school heartthrob of mine.

I think there are people in this world who Death likes to follow around. People like me.

You know that was a silly argument we had over graduation. I know the lottery meant you went to the dance with some other guy. It was all so adolescent. It's just that you were the only girlfriend I ever had. I wish I'd been able to tell you that before the accident.

Is that why I've got no umbrella in that graveyard driven with rain?

Losing my chance with women, that's the story of my life.

It's time to fade away.

Hey, surprise! I'm back. I guess you can't keep a good man down.

A cop is a cop, I suppose.

Something strange has happened: I don't think Hardy's our boy.

Here's what bothered me. Each of the victims except for the last — and that's because of the interruption — was raped by the Headhunter before her head was carried away. Yet only the body of Joanna Portman showed signs of ejaculation. Now why would the Headhunter come only once: that doesn't fit a pattern?

Okay, start with the assumption that this particular killer is motivated by a sexual aberration.

He gets his rocks off by stabbing women before, during or after intercourse.

Or perhaps he can get it up but can't get off and holds women responsible. Then he stabs them for mental satisfaction and blows a load in his head.

So what's going on here? The night that John Lincoln Hardy was killed I had missed the seminar. It was my turn on graveyard shift — and besides I had told Genevieve I would help her in every way I could. So I spent several hours that night at my desk reviewing the investigation. That was when I found the note by DeClercq concerning the statement by Mrs. Enid Portman.

It read: Jack — have someone check out the possibility that Joanna Portman had a boyfriend. Sperm can be found in the vagina for up to thirty-six hours after intercourse. If she had sex within that period it explains the ejaculation. The point bothers me — DeClercq.

After reading this it bothered me too.

There was a subsequent report which confirmed the Superintendent's query. After a follow-up check by the Squad, a boyfriend had been located. He was a married surgeon who worked at the hospital. He had rented an apartment across the street from St. Paul's where he and Joanna Portman would slip away during supper-break when they were both on shift. And yes, during that last day of her work they had met and had been fucking.

Surprisingly, after the death of John Lincoln Hardy there had been no follow-up concerning him. Most cops don't like loose ends even when they have closed a file. But perhaps it was just overlooked in the joy that came with the release of public pressure on the Squad. Who knows the reason? Yet somehow it sat in the back of my mind and continued to bother me.

Now I'm bothered even more.

Because today I got the answer.

It took some time to find her.

First I spent a couple of nights driving up and down the streets of the West End. I checked each face on the boulevard against her mug-shot picture. The ones who were young and knew they had it stood directly under the lights, pursing their lips or plucking a nipple as I went by in my car. The ones who were ravaged by age or the needle kept themselves to the shadows. They showed more of their bodies in this competition to grab the attention of passing men. The hookers started at Bute Street, and down about Jervis and Broughton they were as thick as thieves. By Nicola they had relinquished the territory to young boys in their teens waiting for the chickenhawk. I didn't find her there.

Next I checked the Comer and all its greasy spoons, strip joints and shot palaces but she wasn't there either.

Then finally in a pub on Granville Street just before the bridge, I scored. Some score.

The guy at the beer tap must have weighed at least 280 pounds. He had a face that someone had once cut to ribbons with a very sharp knife or a barber's razor. He wore a black patch over one eye. Using his good eye to stare at the mug shot he glanced at me for a moment, then flicked a look at one corner. I found her sitting against the far wall of the pub.

I walked over and sat down opposite her.

Charlotte Clarke was slumped across a cigarette-burned table with a terry-towel cover, one hand clutching a beer glass, her face buried in the crook of her arm. Just to the side of her cheek I could see a fresh needle mark at her elbow with its telltale bubble of blood. I reached out and shook her once — then twice — then I waited awhile. After a few minutes she began to come around.