Headhunter (35 page)

Suicide

10:39 p.m.

Robert DeClercq had both cleaned and oiled his gun, then set it down on the desk in the greenhouse. Over the past hour and a half he had tidied up all the Headhunter files, taking them out and stacking them beside the front door entrance. That completed, he had written a long note to Commissioner Francois Chartrand outlining a few final thoughts on the course of the investigation, developing further one or two theories before he had signed off the letter by wishing the man good luck. He had written a note to Genevieve and tacked it to the greenhouse door.

The greenhouse was attached to the wall that made up the south side of the building. Though there were windows in the left half of the wall looking over the ocean, the right half that abutted the greenhouse was solid wood planking. A large oak door gave access, but other than that there was no other way to look into the glass outbuilding.

In the note to his wife Robert DeClercq had asked her to try and forgive him. He did not explain his actions, for she would understand. He simply said that he loved her, that he considered her the most unselfish individual that he had ever met, and he thanked her for the joy of their time together.

"I've gone to find Janie," he said in closing, "so please don't open the door. Just call the police and know that I have escaped from my dungeon."

As a final act of preparation, Robert DeClercq had brushed down his blue serge uniform and hung it on a hanger beside the files at the door. He had crossed to the liquor cabinet and consumed two swallows of brandy straight. Then picking up Janie's picture he had gone into the greenhouse.

He was just locking the door when he heard the noise that made him stop.

For someone had just come in through the front door.

When he looked back out into the living room, the Superintendent saw Genevieve running toward him. She had her arms outstretched and she was crying out through tears: "Oh, Robert, it was awful. Linda's been . . ."

And that was when he pushed her.

His hand connected with her chest, stopping her in her rush of anguish and suddenly sending her flying in the opposite direction.

"Goodbye, Genny," he said.

And he slammed the greenhouse door.

Genevieve looked up in wild amazement from where she was sprawled on the floor. She could not believe this was happening. What was going on?

First Linda, her student, had been killed after offering to go up to the car and retrieve the bottle of port.

Then the police had been called by some fellow out walking his dog and before she knew it the house was swarming with dozens of officers.

For an hour and a half she had tried to call home, only to hear from the operator that the line was out of order.

And now she had finally gotten away, had kindly been driven home by Joseph Avacomovitch who had asked to come in but who she had told she needed some time alone with her husband, and now this!

What is going on?
she thought.
I do not believe this night!

And then she saw it all. The room struck like a chime.

The telephone lying smashed against one wall.

The bottle of Scotch broken and spilled on the floor.

The files stacked beside the door and the hung-up uniform.

And then her eyes grew wide with terror as she came to realize that the uniform holster was open and its pistol was missing.
He's going to kill himself,
she thought—and then she started for the greenhouse door, knowing abruptly that it was a solid barrier of wood totally sealing him off, knowing also in that instant that in order to get to him she had to go right around the house. She knew that it was impossible for her to make it in time, but all the same that she had to give it a try. She scrambled in horror for the front door, fingers clawing at the wood, fingers slipping on the metal handle, wrenching it open wildly and running straight into another wall that was Joseph Avacomovitch.

"Where's Robert?" the scientist asked. "It's all over the air. Tipple, Scarlett and Spann have brought the Headhunter ..."

"He's in the greenhouse!" Genevieve screamed, frantically trying to push the Russian aside and pointing at the door. "He's going to shoot himself!"

Then she squeezed between the man and the doorframe and ran off outside.

Avacomovitch was moving.

He was coming across the living room floor and heading toward the door. He began to lead with his body, cutting the distance rapidly, lowering and coiling into a crouch, his left shoulder coming out to the fore as his head tucked into his chest, his right foot firm on the floor as he pushed off with all his strength, unwinding, hurtling, until finally at six four and 285 pounds, like a human battering ram, he hit the door. The wood never stood a chance.

With a fierce crack of protest it buckled right down the middle, the lock ripping free in a shower of splinters as both the hinges gave. Breaking free, the door crashed into the greenhouse. Followed by the man.

Robert DeClercq jammed the pistol barrel into his open mouth and bit down on the steel. The muzzle touched his palate, pointing at his brain.

Amid the tumble of shelves and potted plants, with dirt flying everywhere, the Russian somersaulted across the floor until, one foot smashing through the glass, his body came to a halt.

DeClercq's thumb snapped back the hammer as his finger closed on the trigger.

"Don't do it, Robert! You got him! A flying patrol brought him down!" Avacomovitch yelled.

And he didn't pull the trigger.

There was an awkward moment while Robert DeClercq sat at his desk with the pistol still in his mouth, looking down at Avacomovitch stretched out on the floor. Then slowly he took the gun barrel out and placed the .38 down on the leather.

"What are you doing here, Joseph?" was all he could think to say.

"I've come for that party, Robert. Don't you remember?" The Superintendent nodded.

And that was when, beyond the greenhouse wall and standing out in the rain, Robert DeClercq saw his wife's face and hands pressed against the glass. For a moment he looked at one of his own hands, the one that had pushed her away, then he got up from the desk chair and moved toward the door.

As he reached out to undo the lock he saw Genevieve waiting outside. He watched her face in the windowpane and the streaks running down from both eyes and he wondered briefly if they were tears or just the rain on the glass.

Cop a Feel

Seattle, Washington

Saturday, December 4th, 10:02 p.m.

"Apart from making Corporal, what was the best part of the case for you?" Katherine Spann asked.

Rick Scarlett smiled. "When the Prime Minister—not fifteen minutes after telling the House of Commons that DeClercq had been pulled from the investigation—had to go back in and inform them that the Superintendent had brought the Headhunter down. The man looked like such a fool."

Both Corporals laughed.

As they had been promoted, this trip was a celebration. Bill Tipple-—now a Sergeant—had been asked to come along, but he had begged off saying that Commercial Crime was hot on the tail of something big and he could not desert at the moment. "By the time you two return," he'd said, "I'll probably be an Inspector." The way things turned out, Rick Scarlett was pleased, for now they were alone.

The restaurant was a part of Pike Place Market, serving French cuisine at skyrocket prices. For a few extra bucks under the table the maitre d' (Parisian, of course) had seated them by a window where the view out over Elliott Bay was positively breathtaking. They were dining up on the second floor of a building constructed on stilts so that it jutted out over the edge of a bluff. Before the sun had set "the mountains really had been out," as the people of Seattle say. But now all that could be seen were the lights of the boats bobbing out on the water beyond the candle flame reflected in the glass. They had just finished dessert and a third bottle of wine.

"I wonder what he did with them, Kathy?" Rick Scarlett asked. His words were slightly slurred. He had consumed most of the alcohol.

"With what?" the woman replied.

"With the severed heads."

"I have no idea. And I doubt we'll ever know."

"Yeah," Scarlett said. Then they both fell silent.

He motioned to a waiter and, when the man came over, ordered two Courvoisiers. As he turned back, once again— inadvertently—Scarlett looked the woman up and down. Spann was wearing a black dress cut low in the front and a simple string of pearls. Her hair was swept up on both sides of her head and pinned back. Scarlett's throat was dry by the time the cognac arrived.

"You know," Spann said slowly, swirling the liquid around in the snifter and glancing out through the window, "the thing I like most about the States is that the people are so overt. I mean sure there's a lot of shit in this country too, but the Americans are not afraid to bring it to the surface. I believe that takes guts: they're a lot more honest than we are."

"Perhaps," Scarlett said, and he looked down her cleavage.

Fifteen minutes later the bill arrived. Though Scarlett insisted on paying for the meal, Katherine Spann declined. "Not my style," she said. So they split it down the middle and then went outside.

Immediately the aromas of Pike Place Market assailed their senses of smell: the meat, the fish, the spice shops, the bakeries and the delis. Lingering above all these was the pungent sea-salt air, blowing up Puget Sound and tugging at their clothes. Just outside the restaurant Rick Scarlett tripped and fell. Spann broke his catapult motion and said: "You've had too much to drink."

"No way," the man said, regaining balance. She looked at her watch.

"We better make for Sea-Tac," Katherine Spann said. "Let's hail a taxi or we're going to miss our plane."

Scarlett didn't move. Instead he grabbed her by the arm. They were standing at the top of a wooden staircase that led to the street below. Stretched out before them was the black of Elliott Bay.

"I guess this must really be something for you, eh?"

"What do you mean?" Spann said. "Do you always talk in riddles?"

"I mean what with you being a woman, and making Corporal and all. That's quite an achievement. You're one of the first."

The woman shook her head as if in disappointment. "Rick," she said quietly, "I'm the same age as you. I've been a cop just as long as you have. And you made Corporal too. What does being a woman have to do with this promotion?"

Scarlett shrugged his shoulders. "You know what I mean."

"No, Rick. I don't."

"Look, Kathy. My father was a member of this Force back on the prairies. For as long as I can remember I have wanted to be in the RCMP. That's how
I
come to be here."

"So? I come to be here because ..."

"Because of feminism and the liberation of women. It's written all over you."

"Oh, is that so?"

"You bet. You thrive on besting men within a domain that has been traditionally male. For you it's a challenge, and I admire that."

"Is that how you see it?"

"Yes, and so should you. If you don't recognize that, you're just being blind."

"And just who am I talking to? Is this Rick Scarlett speaking ? Or is it two bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape?"

"I'm not drunk."

"I think you are."

"Come on, Kathy, admit it. Be honest with yourself. Deep down inside you're just like the rest of us. You want power. And you like to get ahead. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Come on. Rick, let's . . ."

"And you like to get fucked."

Katherine Spann frowned and took a step away from him.

"Don't look so shocked. It's not against the law."

Again the woman shook her head. "Let's catch that plane."

"Let's not, Kathy. Let's stay here and have a little fun. Believe me, it'll be worth it. I'll make sure of that."

"Come on, Romeo. Let's go home."

Scarlett gripped her tighter. He had yet to let go of her arm. "Don't treat me like I'm some little kid."

"Then quit acting like one. And let go of me."

Scarlett dropped his arm as anger came into his eyes. "Aren't we the cold one? Tell me, woman, just what does a guy have to do to get somewhere with you?"

"Shut it down, Rick. I've had a good time. Let's not spoil it."

"Answer me! What's the matter? Don't you like men?"

"Rick," she said slowly, beginning to clench her teeth. "I work with you and you're a part of the job. I like you as a partner, but we can't be anything else. Can't you see that?"

"Don't be absurd. What does that matter? I won't tell anyone else."

"That's not the point."

"The point is, Kathy, that I am crazy about you. I have been ever since I first saw you standing at that bulletin board checking the assignments. You dominate my thoughts."

"I said shut it down, Rick. I want to catch that plane. Are you coming or not?"

"You listen to me!" Scarlett almost shouted. "Don't you turn your back on me. I won't have it! For two months now I've kept my feelings to myself. Business is business and I'm a professional too. Fine. Okay. But now the case is over. The Squad is disbanded. We'll be reposted and that's the end of that. But that doesn't alter the way I feel. Nothing can change that. I
want
you, Kathy! You drive me out of my mind!"

"I'm leaving, Rick," she said. And Spann turned to go.

"Fuck you!" the man yelled. "Don't hold your cunt so tight!" And with that he reached out with his good arm—the one without the stitches—and grabbed her breast.

Katherine Spann seized his hand, pried her body free of his grip and pushed him away. "Do that again and I'll slug you," she said. Her right hand balled in a fist. "Now leave me alone. I don't fuck cops. That's incest, you ass!"

Rick Scarlett's face grew livid with drunken rage.

"You bitch!" he shouted. "You tight-ass bitch! It's all a game to you, isn't it? All a fuckin' game! You dress up in the uniform and hold your back erect, masking it as protocol while you show off your tits! And look at you tonight! You hypocrite! Cut it any lower and that dress would show your snatch!"

"You child," Spann said, and she turned on her heels and left him ranting in the night.

She took the steps three at a time to gain the road below. As luck would have it there was a cab waiting at the bottom. Twenty minutes later she was at the Sea-Tac Airport with very few minutes to spare. She was the last passenger to board the final flight to Vancouver that night.

It was only as the DC-9 gained altitude and the water dropped away that she finally began to relax and let the tension unwind.

Oh hell,
Spann thought, closing her eyes.
Why is it that just when things begin to go right, someone has to spoil it?
Now she'd have to watch Scarlett.