'Which are you, Miss Flesch?' the woman asked softly. 'Transvestite or transsexual?'
The man who was now a woman gave her a sloe look. 'I've had the nip and tuck,' he said.
'Do you mind if we come in?' Rusty Lewis asked.
'Yes, I'm afraid I do. I'm just on my way to work and I'm late already.'
'Where do you work? What do you do?' Macdonald asked.
'I teach women makeup art at a modeling studio. I transform frumpy housewives. Now if you'll please excuse me?'
'Miss Flesch, I'm afraid we can't. We're with the Squad investigating the Headhunter killings,' Lewis said.
Flesch blinked. 'I–I don't understand,' he said. 'What has that to do with me?'
'Can you account for your whereabouts in the last three weeks?' Monica Macdonald asked.
'My what! My what! You think I… You're crazy, sister!'
'I'm not your sister. Miss Flesch. And I want a straight answer. Where have you been for the last…'
Suddenly the cat-eyes widened as Flesch took one step back and tried to slam the apartment door. Lewis stuck out his foot in time to prevent it closing. With one hand he pushed the door back open sharply.
'You… you… you.. PIGS!' Flesch screamed shrilly, his voice turning very high-pitched.
'Take it easy,' Macdonald said. 'Don't let…'
'STAY AWAY FROM ME, YOU… YOU FUCKING PIGS!' Now there was a hysterical look growing in the transsexual's eyes. 'JUST WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE. CALLING ME… ME!.. A RAPIST!'
'Nobody called you a rapist!' Lewis said, raising his own voice.
'LEAVE ME ALONE! JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!'
'Calm down!' ordered Lewis, but before either Constable could make a move to restrain him, Flesch whirled on his spiked heels and leapt up on a glass table in the entrance hall of the apartment. The tiny sole on one of the heels must have worn away for an abrupt sound of metal scraping glass took a shred from Macdonald's nerves. Then her momentary shudder turned to awe as Flesch wrenched his belt free and dropped both slacks and panties.
Monica Macdonald found it hard to believe that here she was, standing in this man's residence, confronting this woman who was the man they sought, her eyes now staring at a set of female genitalia as anatomically perfect as any of the vulvas that she had seen bared on all those strip-show stages.
'DON'T YOU COPS UNDERSTAND! CAN'T YOU FUCKERS SEE!' Flesch shrieked, his face turning purple with rage, 'I'M NOT A RAPIST! I'M A LESBIAN!'
Then the outburst was over. Without another word Flesch crumpled down onto the glass surface of the table and rolled onto the floor. Then he started to weep.
A few minutes later Monica Macdonald took hold of his arm and gently helped him to his feet. By then the art of makeup on Flesch's face was streaked and smeared and running.
12:20 p.m.
The call for assistance was clocked in at just after noon. Scarlett and Spann were a mile away, having just come out of a dilapidated two-story walkup on East Broadway where they had failed to find a six-time convicted pederast. They caught the squeal on their patrol car radio the second they climbed in. Less than fifteen minutes later they were at the scene.
When their car had skidded to a stop on the rain-drenched pavement, Monica Macdonald left a doorway and came running through the storm up to the driver's side. Scarlett rolled down the window and a wet spray blew in.
'There might be a rumble,' the woman said. 'We're waiting on Rabidowski.'
'Where's the clubhouse?' Scarlett asked.
'Around the corner and down a block. Rusty's got it covered.'
'How did it come down?' As Scarlett spoke Katherine Spann drew her.38 from its Sam Browne and checked the action. She snapped the cylinder shut with a sharp flick of her wrist.
Monica Macdonald said: 'We were looking for a biker by the name of Whip O'Brian. Guy's out here from Alberta. Back home in Edmonton he strikes the colors of The Barbarians, but lately Special E says he's been riding bike with the Iron Skulls. He's got connections through a brother.'
'He's got a record?' Spann asked.
'O'Brian did seven, five, and one a few years back in Calgary for rape, buggery and bestiality. The guy's a speed freak. Some woman ripped him on an amphetamine deal so he got even by attacking both her and her invalid brother. The two of them had a dog. Believe me, this man's dangerous. He's not all there.'
'Is he inside the clubhouse?'
'Yep, with about ten other bikers. Maybe more. Rusty and I were casing the place when this group of guys on hogs came blasting out of the rain. They had a woman with them and they dragged her inside. She didn't look happy at all. Word from Special E is that the Skulls are taking strikers. I peg her for a mama to be used in the initiation.'
'A gang bang?' Scarlett asked.
'That's my bet,' Monica said. 'Today. Right now.'
'Damn. Where's Rabidowski?'
Just as he spoke a police van came wheeling out of the rain. The Mad Dog was at the wheel. As three large men with Remington pump shotguns and semi-automatic rifles climbed out from the back of the vehicle, Spann noticed a V of steel welded to the front bumper. It looked like a battering ram.
Rabidowski rolled down the window. 'Who can give directions?'
'I can,' Macdonald said.
'Okay, you and Scarlett come with me. Spann, you take these guys in the cruiser and follow right behind. The moment I take down the door everyone goes in. Got it? Let's roll.'
As Katherine Spann took the driver's seat, one ERT man climbed in front with her and the other two took the back, each one jamming his door open with a metal flashlight. The rear doors of a cruiser cannot be opened from inside.
'Hang on,' the woman said, and the four of them were moving.
Up ahead, Rabidowski took the corner in a skid and then fishtailed down the street. As Spann gained on him the van began a wide arc that led to the clubhouse door. Suddenly motorcycle hogs were flying in every direction and the brick frame dwelling where the Iron Skulls ruled loomed up out of the storm. The sound of the hit was deafening.
At just the last moment Mad Dog Rabidowski stepped on the brakes to hold back their momentum. The ram welded to the front of the van slammed the heavy-bolted door and threw it careening open. The police vehicle was seven feet down the entrance corridor and two feet into the meeting room before it screeched to a halt. The Mad Dog slid it into reverse and pressed the accelerator. Tires spinning, the vehicle came flying back outside just as the SWAT Team jumped out of the cruiser followed quickly by Spann. The woman's Smith and Wesson was gripped in her hand.
'Come on!' Rabidowski shouted, grabbing a Heckler and Koch from the seat and swinging open the door. Macdonald and Scarlett tumbled out. Then they all went running in.
The clubhouse was pandemonium.
In the center of the large room there was an eight-foot-high representation of a human skull made from welded and riveted iron plates. The room itself was in darkness, the only light cast by several Bosch headlamps which shone forward out of the eye sockets of the skull. The jaws of the Death Head were open and the teeth of the mouth, which were actually iron plates, bit down on the fuel tank of a 750 cc Harley Davidson that was half emerged from the throat.
The woman was tied facing the skull with each of her wrists roped to one of the prongs of the handlebars. Her clothes had been ripped down the center of her back and were now hanging off her in tatters. Standing behind her with one hand gripping her hair and the other clutching her waist was a man whose face was scarred by a dozen old criss-cross knife slashes. His hair was dirty and hung down in matted hanks, his body was naked except for a jean jacket with the sleeves torn off and a crest on the back which screamed FEAR THE BARBARIANS. His skin, in the light of the headlamps, shone with motorcycle grease and the man had an erection.
