"My name's DeClercq," the man said. "I command this investigation."
"I'm Enid Portman. Joanna Portman's mother."
A jolt hit the Superintendent. How am I so stupid! he thought, for there on the wail just behind this woman was the picture of her daughter's head stuck on the end of a pole. What the hell am I doing bringing the public into this room? DeClercq was angry with himself. How would he correct this?
"I apologize for the mixup with your daughter's… with your daughter," he said. "I realize how that must upset you."
Mrs. Enid Portman was about fifty-five years old. She was very thin and her hair was already white. She did not look in good health. Her eyes were sad and it was obvious that she had cried a lot.
Any policeman will tell you that the toughest part of his job is informing the next-of-kin that a wife, a husband, a child, a relative will not be coming home. It never gets any easier, and every case is different. Sometimes a mother will not say a word, just silently walk into the kitchen and plug in the kettle for tea. Another time a wife will break into hysterical laughter and shout: "Why that bugger! It's about time." Yet another occasion a father will attack you for bringing the news and have to be subdued. Every cop knows that a death close to home can bring forth any emotion: silence, a scream, sorrow, tears, hysteria, violence. What do you tell a widow who has lost her only child? That she'll remarry and have a baby and be happy once again? Not at fifty-five you don't, Robert DeClercq thought.
"Will she be cut up again?" Mrs. Portman asked.
"Yes. There'll be another autopsy."
"Is that my daughter's picture on the wall beside me?"
DeClercq's gut turned. "Yes," he said. "I'm sorry. Perhaps we ought to.
"It's all right. Superintendent. I'm not going to twist around. And I'm not going to cry. I've done enough of that to last me a lifetime. I was very angry at you people when my daughter's body was snatched off the train. But I'm not angry anymore. In fact I want you to have her remains if it will help you find her killer."
DeClercq found his throat dry when he tried to swallow.
"You see," Mrs. Portman continued, "I hope that one day very soon I can lay my whole daughter to rest. And I'll never be able to do that unless you find her head."
"We'll find her," the man said.
The woman looked up, holding back her tears. "There's something else," she said. "I believe my daughter had a boyfriend that no one knew about. She never mentioned it, and I never met the man. I think you should check it out."
"We will," DeClercq said quietly. "But what makes you think that?"
"A mother knows." she said.
The Superintendent used the intercom to call Inspector MacDougall. "Would you give us a statement?" he asked her.
"Certainly," she said. "You're French, aren't you?" she added. "Are you a Catholic?"
"Yes," DeClercq lied.
"So was I. Tell me, Superintendent, has your faith ever been shaken?"
"My daughter and wife were kidnapped and murdered twelve years ago."
The woman slowly nodded. "My father and my husband both died in a boating accident. For ten years I've run a Mission on skid road in Regina. I used to think God must be sad, looking down and seeing all that religion and so little Christianity. Do you know what I mean? Religion is just talking. The Christian work is doing."
Just then MacDougall entered the room and Mrs. Portman stood up.
"Well I don't believe that anymore," the sad woman said. "I no longer believe there is a God."
Neither do I, DeClercq thought, and he watched her walk out through the door.
While the Superintendent was talking to Mrs. Portman, Rabidowski and Scarlett and Lewis and Spann sat outside and brainstormed the case. Both flying patrols had staked out their course and were not afraid of pollution. Each told the other what they were doing and Rabidowski filled in the theories going around the main corps. Monica Macdonald was conspicuously absent. Dead beat, she was still out on the street following Matthew Paul Pitt.
When DeClercq finally ushered them in, the first thing he saw was the mask. Scarlett was holding the ebony carving gripped underneath one arm.
Thirty minutes later DeClercq sat back and digested what he had been told. He did not think much of Rabidowski's theory concerning the motorcycle club. While it was entirely possible that the rape murders were part of an initiation — several gangs throughout North America were known to demand a killing before a striker was admitted — and while the decapitations did fit in with the motif "Iron Skulls," DeClercq had been told that Special E Section had a spy within the gang. If that sort of trip were going down the RCMP would know.
Matthew Paul Pitt, on the other hand, was a very promising lead. The man was mentally ill; he was in the area now and could have been for the duration of the Headhunter killings; the US murders fitted. The real problem with the Australian was lack of evidence. They could bring him in like the others for questioning at the Pen, but gut reaction told DeClercq to play him another way. Give the man a little line and he might just lead them to a stash of heads. Was it worth the risk?
DeClercq looked at Rusty Lewis who was sitting beside Rabidowski. It was hard to believe that two men doing the same job could be so radically different, but then the Superintendent had chosen his team to cover every contingency. Balance was his buzz word. So whereas the Mad Dog was a superb marksman and a well-known rabble-rouser, Lewis was filled to the brim with steady common sense. If Lewis thought a suspect fit then the man was worth a hard look.
"Where's this fellow Pitt now?" the Superintendent asked.
"I don't know, sir, but I do know my partner is on his tail. I got a call from her in the middle of the night saying that she had spotted the guy in a place called the Pussycat Club. We've been trying to find him for a couple of days."
DeClercq glanced down at the twelve-page report sitting on his desk.
"Your outline convinces me. We'll call out Special O."
Then DeClercq turned to Spann and Scarlett. For the briefest of moments as he looked at the woman he found a strange thought intrude into his mind. Might Janie have grown up to be like this? he wondered. For DeClercq had handpicked this woman for the squad on the strength of her service record. She had distinguished herself by the cool way that she had handled her assignment in Iran. In addition, a number of other cases had shown she could take care of herself. There was something in this woman that given time would drive her up the ranks. DeClercq recognized the quality: he had had it once himself.
Rick Scarlett, on the other hand, was a different matter. He was just a little too sure of himself and that was dangerous in a cop: it made you tend to overlook things and unbending in compromise. On balance, however, the man did have a reputation for never giving up, and DeClercq knew that if a situation got really rough Scarlett would hold up morale. A good leader must know that a team has different parts.
At this moment the Superintendent was of the belief that Hardy was the best lead of all. Starting with nothing but a picture, Spann and Scarlett had connected him to Grabowski, the Moonlight Arms, and in some way the traffic of heroin; followed his footsteps through Tipple's wiretaps and made the hoodoo/voodoo connection; linked the voodoo element to a traffic in human skulls; found an ebony object perhaps in some way associated with Avacomovitch's finding of the splinter (though how he had no idea); and now were on to some sort of ritual or other act joined to New Orleans.
Not bad when you put it together, for two Constables working alone.