Headhunter (10 page)

What bothered DeClercq even more, however, was the positioning of the body. Just nailing the woman to the totem pole was attention-getting enough. Yet in this case the Head-hunter had hoisted her up almost fifteen feet and then hammered her hands to the crosspiece so that the carving on it provided a substitute for her head. That was too much work and risk unless there was a reason.

And finally it bothered him because of the totem itself.

It is difficult to live in the Pacific Northwest without picking up at least a rudimentary knowledge about the myth of the Indian totem. In the case of the Superintendent, he knew more than most.

Joanna Portman had been nailed to a mortuary pole. The Dogfish carving on it was a form of Pacific shark.

DeClercq was too experienced a policeman to overlook any possible motive, no matter how remote. Over the years he had learned the hard way that often the most stunning insight in any investigation will come from some small, almost insignificant detail that rises from the subconscious like a piece of driftwood floating up from a sunken wreck on the ocean floor. Any cop will tell you that the psychology of murder is a bizarre wasteland indeed. Had David Berkowitz not been ordered to kill by his neighbors talking dog?

There had never been to DeClercq's knowledge an Indian cult like Zebra. The basis, however,- was there. Recently British Columbia had been the focus of an awakening Indian movement.

Was it not fact.
DeClercq now thought,
that during the civil rights movement in the United States, most black leaders consciously sought out the roots of their people's past? Did some like the Black Panthers and Black Muslims not seek out the most violent traditions? And did the women's liberation movement not react the same? In this city, had the Wimmin's Fire Brigade not torched pornographic outlets? And what about the Indian? Did he not also look to the roots of his past? And would some not eventually seek the more violent traditions?
Was
that not the psychology of the frustrated everywhere?

DeClercq looked back at the corkboard wall, at the photo of Joanna Portman nailed to the Burial Pole.

All right,
he thought to himself.
Freefloat for a while.

You've got a mortuary pole. Of what significance?

It was the practice of many Northwest tribes to erect a mortuary pole near the burial place of the dead.

Give me another tradition.

Among the Kwakiutl, it was the rule to have people unrelated to the dead cut the hair of the mourners.

Is that why the head is missing? A symbolic cut of the hair?

No. it doesn't fit the ritual. She's dead, not a mourner.

Then give me a ritual which does fit in.

I can't. I think we're off base. This totem pole connection is just coincidence. There is no Indian ritual making use of a severed he . . .

Unless . . .

Unless it's not the head as a head that the killer is after. Then it fits Hamatsa and the Cannibal Cult.

DeClercq looked back at the picture.

Then several seconds later he picked up the phone.

9:36 a.m.

The telephone was answered on its tenth ring.

"Allo."

"Good morning. Did I get you out of bed?"

"Non, je suis tout juste de la douche. Attends un moment."

DeClercq waited. In his mind he pictured his wife naked, her auburn hair and lithe body dripping water all over the floor. In the background he could hear classical music, a concerto for flute and harp. Genevieve always played Mozart in the morning.

"Okay,"
she said, retrieving the phone.
"Je suis decente."

"The reason I called you, Genny, I've got a rather wild theory I'd like your opinion on."

"Shoot. I'm listening."

Once he had finished, there was silence from the other end of the phone. Then after a few moments' thought his wife slowly said: "Has there ever been an Indian Death Cult before?"

"Not that I know of."

"So your theory's based on Zebra?"

"Yes, that case and some others."

"Run the Zebra theory by me again."

"Okay, in April of 1975 there was evidence given at the trial of four Black Muslims in San Francisco that they were members of a group called the 'Death Angels.' The purpose of this cult was to start a race war by the random killing of whites. According to the chief witness for the prosecution, he had been approached in San Quentin prison by two men who asked him to teach them martial arts so they could murder Caucasians. According to a theory outlined by Mayor Alioto before the trial began, the Death Angels' organization had titles and offices to which advancement was awarded on the basis of criminal acts performed. The pattern of killing was by random street shooting or by hacking the victims to death with a machete, cleaver or knife. Decapitation and other forms of mutilation brought special credit to the killers from the organization. In the first Zebra killing, a woman was beheaded."

"Where's the term 'Zebra' from?" Genevieve asked.

"The police radio band used in the case."

"And you think Zodiac was a similar form of cult?"

"Yes, but he was never caught. He or they, that is."

"Isn't it 'they' if you're talking about a cult?"

"Not by my definition. A single killer may think that he's part of a group—even if the rest of the cult exists only in his head. Zodiac used to send messages to the police bearing an astrological sign and stating that when he died he'd be reborn in Paradise with all the people he had killed as his slaves."

"Sounds like 'Reverend' Jim Jones and his Guyana cult."

"Exactly. So what do you think?"

Again there was some silence, then Genevieve said: "I agree that the totem pole must have some form of meaning. I also agree that there could very easily be a radical fringe group within the Red Power movement. The fact the heads are missing is certainly bizarre. But don't you think that cannibalism is stretching it a bit?"

"Perhaps. But then there's a precedent in the Hamatsa. It all depends on just how weird this cult or killer is."

"Don't we have a book on that?"

"Yes, it's in the spare room bookcase. On the lower shelf."

"The title?"

"A History of the Potlatch."

"Hold on. I'll go and get it."

DeClercq heard Genevieve put down the phone, and her footsteps creak a floorboard. For several minutes he sat in his office with his eyes closed imagining the scene at his home. His wife would be dressed in one of four floor-length bathrobes. She'd have it belted at the waist and as she walked the slit front would reveal glimpses of her legs.

Over the years, Robert DeClercq had certainly enjoyed the show. For in her own way Genevieve was as much an actress as Kate had been.

Then the thought of Kate brought back the scene of that leaf-strewn, windswept graveyard. His eyes snapped open and he shook off a sudden chill.

During the early years of his second marriage DeClercq was always touched by guilt when he remembered his first family. Not an hour seemed to pass without a thought of Kate or Jane. Particularly Janie sitting on his knee. When the Superintendent remembered Kate, often as not his mind would return to that night in New York when he met her. The month had been November, just before Thanksgiving.

DeClercq had been in New York for an extradition hearing. An NYPD homicide cop, on learning that the Canadian Corporal enjoyed a night of theater, had offered to get him a scalped ticket for a revival play on Broadway. DeClercq had readily accepted.

The production was one of
Rosmersholme,
by Henrik Ibsen. Kate had played the lead.

Even today DeClercq could clearly recall the thrill, the tension, the erotic shiver that her acting had fired within him. She seemed to physically hold the stage and rivet his attention. Never before in all his life had he been stunned by such a feeling. It was strange and intangible. Just watching her seemed to fill his existence with meaning. He felt like a fool, sitting anonymously in that crowd and tumbling head over heels in love with this woman. What a wild, insane sensation.

Don't hold yourself too tight, 
was the thought that ran through his head.
For once throw caution to the wind—go backstage and see her. Whatever have you got to lose? If you get the brush-off, you're going to recover. But if you don't try it .. . My God, what an actress.

The security guard had stopped him at the door. "And just where do you think you're going, my friend?" the heavyset man had asked him.

"I was hoping to get backstage. Isn't this the way?"

"You got a pass to get there?"

"No."

"Then for you this is not the way."

It was only for a moment that DeClercq had hesitated. Then he'd reached into his pocket and flashed his Regimental Shield. "Is this pass enough?" Then leaning forward he had whispered, "Let's avoid a scene."

The guard had let him through.

Well, what's a little fraud in the name of love?
he pondered. He certainly had no legitimate business backstage— why, ninety-nine percent of the males in the audience that night must have fallen in love—and his shield held no authority in the USA. Yet there he was wandering the corridors, searching out the dressing rooms, fearing exposure at any moment for his amorous deceit, his heart beating in his throat while sweat dripped from his armpits, asking someone for the way and then before he knew it, knocking on the door. It had suddenly occurred to him that he'd thought of nothing to say.

"You enter at your own risk," called a voice beyond the door. "Take warning, I'm not dressed."

And now here he was almost twenty-five years later, sitting at his desk and imagining another unattired wife.

Patterns, 
DeClercq thought. Then: 
Janie, how I miss you.

Again and again in those early days of his second marriage, the Superintendent had told himself that it was wrong and unhealthy to spend so much time in the past. Things happen. That's life. Or fate. Or God-knows-what. The living go on living. Sure they had been good times, but that part of life was over.
Besides, think of her.

You're a lucky man, Robert DeClercq, who's acting like a fool. Few men are fortunate enough to find love once in their lives. And you've found it twice. Can't you get it through your head that any other man in your position would be down on his knees in prayer that Genevieve came along? Where would you be now had she not picked up the pieces?

But then he would think of Jane, and that toothless baby smile.

DeClercq had never seen Kate as happy as the day their daughter was born. In truth he had never been as happy himself. Then promoted to Sergeant within the RCMP, he had stood in that Montreal hospital room and watched his wife, hair matted and streaked with sweat, cradle the newborn infant lovingly in her arms. He had been overwhelmed by the sight of that shriveled-up, wrinkled prune. But a prune with such eyes.

Many years later that same image had been in his mind on a cold snowy night in December, when sitting in front of the embers of a rapidly dying fire, the wind of winter wailing along the coast of West Vancouver, Genevieve had touched his arm and crouched down to sit beside him. "You look troubled, Robert. Tell me what's the matter."

"Just thinking," he had said.

"About Kate or Jane?" she inquired.

"About Kate
and
Jane, I guess." He had poked at the fire.

"It wasn't your fault, Robert. I wish you'd remember that. I wish somehow I knew a way to lessen the hurt."

DeClercq had looked at her with veiled sadness in his eyes. "You do, Genny. I mean it. Every minute. Every day. I really don't know where I'd be without you. I love you and I need you—but still I feel this guilt."

"For what? Their deaths? Your life? The hand that Fate
has dealt you? Robert, you
'
ve
got to learn to be easier on yourself.
It wasn't your fault!"

"Wasn't it, Genny? I think it was. If I hadn't been a cop it never would have happened."

"If you hadn't been a cop you'd have never got backstage. And you never would have met her. And if you hadn't met her, you would never have had the child and all the joy she gave you. It may have been a short time, but Robert, it was worth it. I know that. And you know it too. Besides, if you hadn't been a cop I'd never have met you either. Then where would I be? Can you give me an answer?"

"You wouldn't be with a man who can't forget the past."

"I wouldn't be with you, love. And that's all that matters." Then ever so softly—was it spoken?—she whispered to the fire: "Oh God, I'd give my very life to bear you another child."

"I know," he said gently, and took her in his arms.

For a long time they sat there just looking at the embers. Red, orange, yellow sparks danced hotly before their eyes.

"Genny," he said finally. "This isn't fair for you."

She turned around and looked at him, frowning, and said: "Don't you think that I'm the one to decide what's fair for me?"

"Of course. It's just that . .

"It's just that you think you're using up my youth. You think,
cheri,
that I have a world of experience before me, a world that if I don't taste now, I'll live to regret later. You are deeply worried that you're using me as a crutch. You think that to be fair to me, to give me the sort of love that I need, you must forget Kate and Jane. That you can't seem to do, so you think you're unfair. Have I got it right?"

She reached out and touched his face and warmed him with her eyes. "Believe me, Robert, it's good
for me
for you to remember them. Please try to see you and me from my point of view. I've never met a man or woman who could find total satisfaction—physical, mental, emotional—with just one other person. The odds are stacked against it: we all develop in different ways. Yet all of us seem to want that. To find somebody special in a relationship or marriage. Then later we're disillusioned and we look for someone else—maybe for a sexual fling or maybe just to talk. Even those who never break away, it doesn't stop them thinking.