Headhunter (16 page)

By noon that Monday Monica Macdonald and Rusty Lewis knew a great deal about this man. They also had at least a rudimentary knowledge about a borderline state. The knowledge they had looked promising. Promising indeed.

Early yesterday afternoon, following DeClercq's briefing and their coffee together, the two constables had driven the 150 miles south on Highway 99 connecting at the border with

Interstate 5 to take them into Seattle, Washington. In Seattle they had found the FBI building and had talked to Monica's friend. The FBI agent remembered her very well (a little
too
well, Lewis thought, judging from the grin on the American's face), and he had told them: "From the word go you can make yourselves at home. Anything you need, just let me know."

"Thanks, Daryl," Macdonald said with a grin every bit as wide as his.

Uh huh,
Lewis thought.

The two RCMP officers had spent that afternoon and a good portion of Halloween night rummaging through the FBI files on known and suspected US sex offenders. There was a great deal of information. Both Bundy and part of the alleged Hillside Strangler team—not to mention the recent Green River Killer—were alleged to have murdered repeatedly in the State of Washington. Thus a detailed and thorough profile of sex crimes had recently been compiled by the FBI. By midnight, with the aid of a computer technician, the two Canadians had composed an American skin list of sixty-seven possible cross-border sex suspects who might just fit the Head-hunter's MO.

The man who sat at the top of this list was the Australian Matthew Paul Pitt.

Pitt was wanted by the FBI for questioning in a number of interstate rape/murders over the previous year and a half. In each of the killings the throat of the victim had been cut, and in two of them the head severed completely from the body. There had been one murder outside Los Angeles, California; one seven miles from Tucson, Arizona; two on the Stockton Plateau in Texas; one at a road junction near Wichita, Kansas; three twelve miles from Cheyenne, Wyoming, and two murders between Spokane and Everett, Washington. The FBI had concluded that all the murders were related.

Each crime scene was located just off the US Interstate Highway system. Each victim had had a Phillips screwdriver rammed through her nipples. One of the victims' vehicles had been pushed over a plateau, and both inside the car and among the push marks on the rear of the trunk a number of usable fingerprints had been found. Though these prints had come up negative for the" United States the FBI had routinely passed them on to Interpol where a match had been obtained. The prints, the International Criminal Police Organization told the Federal Bureau of Investigation, were a match for those of a mental institution escapee from Queensland, Australia, named Matthew Paul Pitt who coincidentally had been on the loose for the duration of the US murder spree. In consequence, the FBI wanted very much to have a little talk with Mr. Pitt.

"I think this guy is definitely our best bet," Monica Macdonald said as she placed a Xerox copy of the 752-page FBI summary down on her kitchen table, beside her sleeping cat.

"So do I," mumbled Lewis through a mouthful of bologna sandwich. As he talked a blob of French's mustard slipped out from between the pieces of whole-wheat bread to drip onto one of the Xeroxed FBI reports. He wiped it off leaving a yellow smear.

"Will you pass me that picture again?" Rusty Lewis asked, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. Macdonald rummaged through the papers spread out over the table in front of her and retrieved the photograph. She handed it to him.

Pitt, as depicted in the wire-graph, looked almost ten years older than he really was. He had jet black hair, obviously uncombed for weeks or maybe months, and a scruffy growth of beard. He was dressed in a sloppy shirt, dirty and open at the throat to reveal at least twenty slash marks along either side of his neck. Though it didn't show in the photograph Lewis was certain that the man's shirttail was hanging out of his pants. The Australian's face was bony and angular, with the gaunt stretched look of a concentration camp victim. His face had Charlie Manson eyes.

"Gives me the creeps," Lewis said tapping the photo lightly.

"Yeah?" Macdonald replied. "Well magnify your feelings a hundred times and you'll begin to have some grasp of his effect upon a woman."

She was now reading from the Australian hospital records that had been forwarded to the FBI. Judging from several psychiatric documents Matthew Paul Pitt was a very confused young man.

In addition to the neck slashings that could be seen in the photo that Rusty Lewis held, Pitt had over one hundred horizontal cuts along the inner aspect of each arm, over fifty cuts on each leg. Four years ago, one of the doctors had noticed that while watching a western on television in the hospital common room Matthew Paul Pitt had obtained an erection. Asked why, he had answered: "I like seeing blood on TV but I like my own blood better. Is it true that women have the reddest blood of all?"

Macdonald turned to several handwritten sheets found in Pitt's room after his escape and began to read:

My drems are very weerd. I hope I can remember my drem to night cause I want a gril with tits. Maybe why I can't remember my drems is because someone is maken me forget them, so I can't write them down, or its something to do with me. I got to get out of hear. It is almost like I am be in Brain Washed everytime I wake-up. I just keep on sayin to myself, I am going to meet a gril with tits in my Drem or Drems tonight. I will tell you about the drem to-morrow when I wake-up. thats if I Remember it. never know I mite meet you.

Good night, Sleep tite, and don't Let the Bed Bugs bite.

Good night.

Tits! titstitstitstitstitstitstitstits! tits! tits! TITS!

Women are just like screen doors, once they get banged a few times they loosen up.

When Monica Macdonald was finished reading she looked up at Rusty Lewis and said: "Did you get a look at these writings by Pitt?" "Uh huh."

"Well, I'd have diagnosed him as retarded too." "Yeah, but those notes mean very little. Pitt's got a learning disability. So he's a case of stunted growth. His mind's got a natural intelligence even though he can't express it. No doubt that's what the shrink means about his being a complicated case."

"I wonder how a guy like this ever got out of Australia and into the United States?"

"Who knows? Remember that guy acquitted here a few years ago on a murder charge by reason of insanity? He escaped too and made his way to the States and then into Australia. I guess it works both ways."

"Perhaps. And I sure think he's a good candidate to be our Headhunter. Breast fixation. Severed heads. And gone, gone, gone in the mind."

"Right, but how do we try and find him?"

"On that, I have an idea. There's a note in the FBI summary saying that after the fingerprint ID they put out an all-points pickup poster. A highway patrolman in Washington State later saw the poster and recalled checking this fellow for hitchhiking about a week before. He went back to the area and found a bush camp in the woods about thirty feet in from the road. It had been abandoned, he thought. Then he heard the noise of breaking branches some way off and went to investigate. Pitt must have seen him coming and made a run for it. He wasn't caught. When the patrolman rechecked the camp he found a lot of utensils, which later revealed Pitt's fingerprints, a tent and a knapsack."

"That fits the tattered tent where those little girls found the bones."

"Right. Anyway, in the knapsack he found several hits of acid, some hash and some speed. And also seventy-seven matchbooks."

"The man must smoke a lot of hash to need that many matches!" Lewis said with a grin.

"Every one of the matchbooks advertised a different American strip joint."

"Are you suggesting that we start spending our time hanging out in strip clubs watching women disrobe?"

"Rusty Lewis, shame on you. I got your number. You know, that's the first time since I met you that you've looked wide awake? And yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting."

"You're on," Lewis said.

12:47 p.m.

"We got troubles, Mr. Schmidt."

"Yeah? What kinda troubles?"

"Three women just barged in without stopping to buy tickets."

"I'll be right out." Schmidt said, and he slammed down the intercom receiver. As he pushed away from his desk he thought.
We ain't got no troubles like these twats are gonna have.

Kurt Schmidt was in no mood to have another problem. He was sick and tired of problems. Every week he had problems with Canada Customs just trying to get a few measly skin flicks across the border from LA. Every month he had problems when the Vice Squad came sniffing around just to hassle him: they couldn't get an obscenity conviction on softcore in this city with a jury of Mennonite ministers. Yesterday he had finally managed to smoke a little of the old in/out footage past the Provincial Censor—a raunchy little New York private eye flick called
Hot Dames on Cold Slabs
—
and thought maybe for one day he'd get away from problems, problems, problems, and now this.
Well, a few cheapskate cunts are gonna learn not to mess with
this
theater manager.

Schmidt came storming through the door from his cubbyhole office. "Where are they?" he yelled.

The lobby of the Silver Screen Theatre was deserted except for Doris, his platinum-blond ticket seller, who was now quite agitated and frantically pointing at the door of the viewing auditorium from beyond which a lot of shouts and obscenities were now issuing. "They're in there," she said.

Schmidt quickly traversed the lobby and tore open the door. Then he stopped in disbelief.

With their faces chalked white and wearing fedoras pulled down to shade their eyes, three women were standing in the main aisle of the theater heaving objects at the screen. The objects were splattering bursts of color all over the celluloid image of
Hot Dames on Cold Slabs.
The objects were eggshells filled with oil-based paint. "That screen's worth a thousand bucks!" Schmidt screamed as three more bursts exploded. Then he realized that it was not his patrons who were shouting and swearing—it was the intruding women.

Schmidt grabbed the nearest female by the arm and yanked her around, hissing, "You cheap snatch, I'll . . ."

He stopped dead when the straight razor slashed across his belly, slicing his jacket, his shirt, and nicking the flab that covered his intestines.

Then he stood there, frozen in disbelief, as the women backed out through the door.

12:52 p.m.

Rabidowski pulled the unmarked RCMP ghost car over beside a drainage ditch and switched off the engine. Then he and Rodale climbed out. Around them harvested fields stretched for acres, most of the crops recently cut and the rich brown earth plowed under. On the edges of the fields they could see the jerry-built condominiums encroaching on farmland. The only thing holding them back was the downturn in the economy.

One hundred feet down the potholed road stood the produce outlet. Ying's Market consisted of an old shed open on one side to face the roadway. It was crammed with bin upon bin and shelf upon shelf of freshly harvested fruit and vegetables. There were several customers in the shed, each with a basket on their arm, each poking and squeezing the produce. A man wearing a leather apron was standing beside a barrel of Macintosh apples. The two policemen approached him.

"Police," Rabidowski said, flashing the tin.

The man looked up with a wary smile and said, "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Rabidowski moved off to the man's left and unbuttoned his jacket. Both he and Rodale were in plain clothes. Though the Sergeant had never worked with the Mad Dog before he knew him by reputation: word was that for action Rabidowski was the man.

"We're looking for Fritz Sapperstein," Rodale said. "We understand he works here."

A look of some concern came over the man's face. He glanced at Rabidowski, then nodded and said: "That's me. Is something the matter? I've been clean for years."

"Mr. Sapperstein," Rodale said, "I won't beat around the bush. A woman was killed last night and her head was cut off. In its place someone left behind a pumpkin. That pumpkin's got your fingerprints all over it. We want to know why."

Sapperstein blinked. Then he looked from Rodale to Rabidowski and down at the visible gun. Finally he let out a deep breath to dissipate his tension and said: "Can I show you something? It's just out that back door."

Rodale nodded. "But take it easy," he said.

When the three men reached the doorway Rabidowski stopped Sapperstein by lightly gripping his arm. Rodale walked past them and took a look outside. All he could see was a field that stretched for five hundred feet partially filled with pumpkins.

"We plant 'em near the shed cause those mothers are so heavy. Within the last ten days we harvested nine-tenths of the crop. I picked a lot myself. I must have sold a thousand. You are aware that yesterday was Halloween?"

Rodale looked at Rabidowski who let go of Sapperstein's arm.

The man with the apron tried a weak grin. "You give me someone's description," he said, "and chances are better than ten to one that a person matching what you say purchased one of our pumpkins. I didn't kill anyone."

Rabidowski took his hand off the butt of his gun.

2:11 p.m.

There are no mounted Mounties in the City of Vancouver. The only mounted officers are with the VPD.

That afternoon when the call came through from Downtown, Sergeant Scott Barthelme was sitting in his office in Stanley Park. Just down the hall were the stables and today the office smells of ink and fresh paper were overpowered by the earthy aroma of straw and manure. Except for the occasional munching of feed and shifting of hooves the stables were quiet. Bandit, the black-and-white stable cat, had tired of leaping around the bales of straw pretending to look for mice. He was now stretched out on the office window sill.