"Just routine."
"Coppers don't do nothing that's just routine, my lass."
"Have you seen him?"
"Nope," the barman said. "But I seen a lot just like him."
Macdonald looked at Lewis, and then back at the giant.
"You're looking for Jack, right? Jackie, our Headhunter?"
"You're correct," Monica said. "We're looking for him."
"And you're checking out the dirty-raincoat brigade, eh? The lads who come into the pub just for the show. Cause if there's an orifice up there, these fellers'll be hanging on to the rail looking up into it. Well, there's lots of them here tonight but I ain't seen this bloke."
The Yorkshireman tapped the picture then gave it back to Macdonald.
"If I was you, lass," the barman said, "I think I'd keep right on looking. Don't stop here. And don't stop with that picture."
"Why's that?" Macdonald asked.
"Coz there's three dozen lads what come into this pub alone have the eyes or the mouth to do what this Jack's done."
The Enfield
7:45 a.m.
"Robert, what in the world are you doing?"
Genevieve DeClercq stood in the doorway to the greenhouse and stared at the revolver in her husband's hand. The Superintendent looked up, then held up the Enfield.
"You mean this?" he asked. "I was just taking a breather and reading about Wilfred Blake. This gun was his service revolver. It was found in the snow of the Rockies after he disappeared."
Genevieve understood. She glanced at the library table and the open volume upon it. The book was Men Who Wore the Tunic. She knew then that her husband was searching for anything that would give him the strength to go on. Did he sleep at all? she wondered.
"Reinforcements?" she asked.
"I guess," he said, and he gave her the weakest of smiles. His face looked drawn and tired.
"I'm afraid I've got a faculty conference this morning. The Deanship is coming open and the infighting is fierce. Will you be here for dinner? It's my turn to cook."
"I don't think so, Genny. Tomorrow is the sweep. I'll be down at Headquarters until everything is ready. You'll see me when I get here."
Tomorrow is your birthday, too,DeClercq's wife thought. She turned to go, then stopped in mid-stride and glanced back at the policeman. "Do me a favor? Please," she said. "Take it easy on yourself."
"I will," he assured her. But his voice lacked conviction. Genevieve paused in the doorway as if she had something else to say, but in the end she said nothing and simply left the room. Several minutes later he heard her car drive away.
Alone in the greenhouse once again, Robert DeClercq stood listening to the rain on the glass roof. Thump… thump…thump. It sounded to him like the formal drum tattoo one hears at an RCMP funeral. He put Blake's Enfield down on the table and walked over to the greenhouse door to stare out at the angry sea. All the world before him stretched out dull and gray.
He thought about the Inspector. What sort of man had Blake really been? What had driven him on? No other member in the Force had left behind him such a strange, strange legacy. For within the formal version of history, the one which the RCMP records revealed, the Inspector was simply the finest detective that the Mounted Police had ever produced. His quota for stunning arrests had never been duplicated. It was said that his style of fighting in the British Army before joining the Force was awe-inspiring. The man literally knew no fear. His Victoria Cross had been recommended by the Queen herself.
Still, there had been rumors.
When DeClercq was doing research for Men Who Wore the Tunic, he had taken it upon himself to interview all the old-timers yet living from those early days of the Force. A number of them went back as far as the Royal Northwest Mounted Police.
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.