Headhunter

right hand. It was also a mug shot, but a different type of one. Tipple picked that up also.

'Here,' he said turning to Flood and handing him the picture. 'Another piece for your puzzle.'

'Thanks,' the Vancouver Detective said, reaching out with nicotine-stained fingers. There was a puffiness under his eyes.

Looks like a cynic. Tipple thought.

Rood added: 'This one's from our own VPD mugbooks downtown.' He wagged the photograph which he held in his right hand. 'The woman's name is Grabowski, she's up for heroin possession. The shot that you just gave me is from the files of the New Orleans PD. I believe the black dude in that surveillance photo in your hand is also linked to her. And to New Orleans.'

At the words 'New Orleans' Tipple almost jumped as if he'd been jabbed in the ribs. 'Can I see that again?' he asked, indicating Grabowski's NOPD picture. Flood gave it to him.

For a minute or two the RCMP Corporal examined the two American photographs, front and back. The names of the persons depicted were printed on the reverse side of the shots. Then Tipple put both pictures in his left hand and dug his notebook out of his jacket pocket with his right. Flipping over several pages, he stopped and nodded. 'Well I'll be damned,' he said. 'Will you take a look at this.'

Flood looked at the notebook and at a name written on the page. Tipple held out the photograph of the black man and indicated the name printed on the back. Both names were the same.

John Lincoln Hardy.

9:45 p.m.

It was while Robert DeClercq was pinning the wiretap transcripts from Commercial Crime up on the corkboard beside the photo of John Lincoln Hardy that he noticed his hands were shaking. Lack of sleep,he thought. It had been an exhausting day.

After leaving the scene of the nun's murder he had gone directly home and tried to get some sleep. But sleep wouldn't come. For no matter how hard he had tried to clear his mind of all its nagging thoughts, he could not shake off the sense of tension and urgency that the latest murder had caused. The killings were coming so quickly that the city was bound to explode. And now explode it had.

After obtaining the body release order early in the afternoon, the Superintendent had spent half an hour arranging to have the CPR train with Joanna Portman's body intercepted along the line and her remains rerouted. Then he had left the courthouse and driven out to UBC. Next to the University Hospital, in the Department of Psychiatry building, he had found the office of Dr. George Ruryk where a secretary was waiting.

DeClercq had reached the point in the investigation where he thought it advisable to obtain a psychological profile based on the information that they now had on the Headhunter. He knew as well as anyone that this was a very long bow to draw, that there are as many psychological profiles as there are people on this earth. Being married to a psychologist, however, he had also learned that a disease of the mind might strike any one of those individuals at any time, and that if it did, depending upon the mental illness, that person would show certain recognizable symptoms. There was always the chance that observed symptoms might lead them to the killer.

It was a weak straw to clutch at, sure.

But a straw nonetheless.

'I hope your back is strong,' Ruryk's secretary had said. She had pointed to a box filled with books off to the right of the office door. 'George marked the relevant parts with bookmarks but said you might want the rest of the volume in order to get your bearings. Otherwise we would have Xeroxed. I understand you're to leave him a synopsis of the investigation.'

DeClercq walked over and placed it on her desk.

'He'll pick it up after his evening lecture,' the secretary said.

'Would you tell him that I'll expect him tomorrow any time after nine?'

'Right. Does he know how to get there?'

'Genevieve's my wife. I believe he's been over before.'

'Oh, right,' the woman repeated, and then DeClercq had left.

Once back at Headhunter Headquarters, the Superintendent had asked Inspector MacDougall if he could round him up a sandwich and following that had sat down and unpacked the box of books.

By the time that MacDougall had entered the office later that night with the wiretap transcripts just sent over by Tipple of Commercial Crime, Robert DeClercq was struggling just to keep his eyes focused. He welcomed the break.

'We might have some good news,' the Inspector said. He handed the wiretaps to the Superintendent. 'We just got a printout from Headquarters in Ottawa. Interpol might have traced the identity of the bones. A German national named Liese Greiner left Switzerland eight months ago for a camping trip in North America. She never returned, and hasn't been heard from since early August. She was by herself. Six years ago she was badly injured in a car accident and suffered a number of bone fractures. Interpol sent the X-rays. Joseph is going over to the morgue to compare them with the North Van skeleton.'

'Good,' DeClercq said. 'Anything else come up?'

'The autopsy on the nun proved negative for sperm. Perhaps our man was interrupted by the Sister going up the path to close the gate.'

'Probably not. She'd have seen him lighting the pumpkin.'

'A Corporal named Tipple at Commercial Crime thinks he's got Grabowski's pimp on some of his wiretaps. The target is a guy named Steve Rackstraw who calls himself the 'Fox.' Land fraud. Corporate rip-offs. That sort of thing. Evidently an unknown male known as the 'Weasel' started turning up on the tapes. Tipple later pegged him as John Lincoln Hardy. He's a cousin of Rackstraw. There's also another guy known as the 'Wolf floating around on the taps. He's Rackstraw's brother. Tipple culled out some of the calls and sent them over. You've got them in your hand.'

'How's Chan coming along with the computer enhancement?'

'One or two more days and he'll have the sweep sheet ready. He wants the psych profile in order to feed it in.'

'He'll have it tomorrow. I'm reading up on it now.'

'Right,' MacDougall said. 'I'll leave you to what you're doing.' He left the room.

Ten minutes later the Superintendent had just completed pinning the wiretap transcripts from Commercial Crime up on the corkboard wall when MacDougall once more knocked at the open door. DeClercq turned around and saw the envelope that the Inspector held in his hand. His heart lurched. In his other hand MacDougall was carrying a portable tape recorder.

'Another one?' DeClercq asked, a flatness to his voice.

'The nun,' MacDougall answered. He held out the manila folder.

Inside the Superintendent found a Memorex tape and a Polaroid photograph. The picture was of another head slammed on the end of a pole, same white background, nothing more, the head of the nun still wearing a black, white-banded cowl. A wave of nausea spread through DeClercq's stomach at the sight of the rolled-back eyes. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of one of them.

'It was left in Christ Church Cathedral under one of the pews. No one saw it placed there,' Jack MacDougall said. 'I've had it dusted. No prints, except the Father here.'

Beyond the door DeClercq could see a Roman Catholic

priest, his face etched with a troubled look of deep concern. 'Play it, Jack,' he said.

The Inspector set the recorder up on the Superintendent's desk. Both men listened.

They heard a guitar, party chatter, whistling in the background, and then words:

The police walked in for Jimmy Jazz

I said, he ain't here, but he sure went past

Oh you're looking for Jimmy Jazz

'Good God,' MacDougall whispered.

Sattamassagana for Jimmy Dread