Headhunter

Officially, within a few short years of joining the Force, Wilfred Blake had set himself up above all others as a first-class troubleshooter. The man's tracking ability was legendary, supposedly learned both in the Far East and from the North American Indians. If a task seemed impossible, it was assigned to Blake. For somehow he always came back with his man.

The rumors were born out of the fact that so many came back dead.

According to some. Commissioner Herchmer thought the Inspector's methods excessive. That was the reason that Wilfred Blake never rose in rank. Others, however, said that was because the Inspector enjoyed his position. Blake was just not the sort of man to ever abandon the hunt. He turned down promotion in order to stay exclusively in the field.

Whatever the rumors, DeClercq soon learned that they died with the mess hall chatter. For the Inspector's official service record had not one black mark upon it. Citation of Merit upon Citation of Merit continued in an unbroken succession. Most surprising, perhaps, was the recorded fact that in any given year toward the end of his service, Wilfred

Blake spent eleven months out on the trail by himself. He never took a partner.

The brass of the Force at that time put it down to dedication.

Dedication, DeClercq now thought. What would Wilfred Blake do if he were here to take on the Headhunter?

He'd do whatever was necessary. Just like you're going to do.

DeClercq turned away from the door and once again picked up the Enfield. He could still see the flecks of rust caused by the time it had spent in the snow.

Yes, you do what you have to do, he thought, then he sat down at the table.

Inspector Chan had completed his computer-enhanced list of sex offenders, feeding in the psychological profile obtained from Dr. Ruryk. The list presently contained every pervert within the province over the past thirty years. A second list of names covered those from across the rest of the country.

Tomorrow the Headhunter Squad would go out to sweep the streets of those offenders. Each one who could be found would either be questioned then and there or arrested for interrogation. The old British Columbia Penitentiary in New Westminster was now vacant and slated for eventual demolition. By Order-In-Council the federal government in Ottawa had placed the building at DeClercq's disposal.

Canada had a brand-new Constitution and a brand-new Charter of Rights. The Superintendent did not like the idea of abrogating such freedoms. But if that's what it took to catch the killer, that's what he would do.

Tomorrow, the Superintendent knew, his investigation would step over the line of the law.

But he also knew with the mood in this town, politically no one could stop him.

Follow That Man

12:17 p.m.

Corporal William Tipple was elated.

He had just returned from an overnight hike in the local North Shore mountains to find a message requesting that he call either Rick Scarlett or Katherine Spann at Headhunter Headquarters concerning John Lincoln Hardy. There was an even more important message, however, from Inspector Jack MacDougall ordering him to suspend whatever Commercial Crime investigation he was presently embarked upon and immediately prepare a complete set of wiretap transcripts on Steve Rackstraw. And then to top it off, a follow-up request had come from Sergeant Rodale on behalf of Scarlett and Spann asking for those same taps.

Tipple had begun surveillance of Rackstraw because of possible land transaction scams. Soon the case had expanded to include alleged music industry kickbacks and perhaps a prostitution ring. But that was all pretty dry stuff compared to a homicidal nut loose in a terrified city. Now fate it seems had intervened to steer the course of his investigation toward the Headhunter murders.

Corporal William Tipple was elated because he too was involved.

He had his foot in the door.

12:42 p.m.

Junk recognizes no holidays, no break in the daily routine. For in the world of the junkie, life is measured out in eye-droppers full of heroin solution. To the body cells of the junkie, life is but a continual pulse of shrinking and growing and shrinking again, the never-ending cycle of shot-need for every shot-completed. Junk is a prison guard: junk controls the cells.

Per capita, Vancouver has the highest percentage of junkies in all of North America.

Not so many years ago the wise ones who sit on Vancouver City Council decided to close off Granville Street, the town's main drag, and turn it into a mall. A solid concrete mall stretching for many blocks.

Now the city fathers and mothers have never been known for their musical taste, and five'll get you ten that none of them listen to the Rolling Stones. For it is rumored that they prefer instead the sort of classical sound that one can hear played again and again and again in any high-rise elevator. Of course if only they had listened to Exile On Main Street they might have understood a bit about the junkie's frame of mind when it comes to environment. And if they had really listened, well then they'd never have built that mall. And Vancouver would not now have for its main thoroughfare a slab of concrete with down its center a single weaving bus lane just about as straight as the snakes that curve down the inner aspect of every junkie's elbow.

Vancouver can thank its Council for creating an instant slum.

The RCMP ghost car came slowly down the mall.

From the window on the passenger's side Katherine Spann peered out through a light gray mist of rain to probe the face in each doorway.

She dismissed the woman with deep-sea eyes who seemed to stare out vaguely as if through a murky medium that she carried around with her.

She turned from the boy who jerked about like a marionette on a string, his slack jaw making him look like a ventriloquist's dummy.

She let the man go who was dressed in women's clothing and whose fleshless hips twitched as if to say, 'You should see me in the nude.'

She cast aside the peripheral dopers, the ones high on angel dust or benzedrine or knocked out of their skulls on goofballs.

She paid no attention to the fellow who staggered out of an alley with his face jerking at intervals like dead flesh coming alive, who fell down like some galvanized corpse with a toothless mouth pursed to give the impression that it had been sewn together with thread, his limp arm flopping in the gutter while a drop of blood bubbled up at the crease of his inner elbow.

For she had no interest in any of the regular junktown people today. Today she was searching for either the Indian or John Lincoln Hardy.

'Nothing here,' Spann said. 'Let's go back to Gastown.'

It was as the ghost car entered Gastown's Maple Tree Square that afternoon — with its quaint narrow alleys and antique restaurants and liberal lawyers' offices — that Katherine Spann yelled suddenly: 'Turn right. Rick! It's him!'

The Indian was running before they were even out of the car.

He had been walking on the north side of the square about five feet away from Gassy Jack's statue when the screech of tires on pavement told him: 'Run, you fucker, run.'

He ran.

By the time Rick Scarlett's feet hit the cobblestone pavement the Indian was climbing a wire-mesh fence at the end of Carrall Street and making for the water. The fence was eight feet high and it separated the City of Vancouver from the CPR lands that ran along the harbor. For one brief moment the cop caught a glimpse of the Indian outlined against the snowy ski-fields of Grouse Mountain across the Inlet, then the man vaulted the fence and dropped like a cat to make his way in leaps and bounds across the rain-slick railway tracks. Fifteen feet behind him, Scarlett hit the wire fence at the exact same moment as Spann.