Primal Scream (21 page)

"We found no semen in the bodies of either female or male victims," said DeClercq.

"That's because this killer climaxes in the post-offense phase. Penetration is nothing more than an act of anger reflecting what was done to him. It's not the core of the fantasy. The core is using the fetish as a masturbation aid. The child was hypnotized by the rings through the lips of Mom's sex, surrounded by a tangle of black public hair. His face was buried in the fearful, shameful maw, which he must stitch shut to conquer his fear and shame. The female body has a limited number of orifices. Fear and shame transfer mental focus from the dreaded, yawning hole below to the unthreatening head. The killer shrinks the head to hide what it really is. Now the hair can stand in for pubic hair, and the lips can stand in for lips of Mom's sex. The killer pierces the lips with rings to make a fetish of Mom, and laces shut the dreaded maw to try to bring his psychic stress to an end.

"Fetishism springs from a form of 'rape complex.' The need of the fetishist to impose himself on the sex substitute. When he tugs the thong through the rings to yank shut the lips, the Headhunter ejaculates a stream of rage."

"A primal stream?" punned Robert.

"A primal scream," Anda concurred. "To see orifice transfer at work, consider the Marquis de Sade. He, too, feared and hated his mother. De Sade first came to the notice of police when prostitutes reported his penchant for cutting shallow incisions in their skin with a penknife to pour hot wax into the slits. The symbolism is obvious. Having rejected natural orifices, the marquis made his own 'entrances' into the female body, before psychologically raping it by filling the pits with wax. At twenty-eight, de Sade was arrested for kidnapping a pastry cook's widow so he could make the same fetish of her.

"During the Reign of Terror, de Sade's prison cell overlooked the guillotine to which 1,800 men and women lost their heads in a single month while he was jailed. In 1792 he wrote to tell his lawyer that the Princesse de Lamballe had gone to the blade. Her head, stuck on a pike, was shown to the king and queen, and her body was dragged through the streets for eight hours after being subjected to debauchery. This included the slicing off of her mons, which the executioner stuck on her upper lip as a pubic mustache."

"Orifice transfer," echoed DeClercq.

"Because reality never lives up to fantasy," said Carlisle, "for fantasy is perfect and reality never is, the killer shrank fetish after fetish to try to get it right, while you recovered the discarded bodies of the women."

"Why'd he stop?"

"Perhaps he didn't. There could be headless women scattered around the globe. But my theory is what drove him to kill went into remission, then a recent incident reactivated him. Say an aggressive male made homosexual advances. The rage that welled up focused the fetish on the other abuser, the man with genital piercings like Mom's who raped the boy while she watched. Here we have psychology like we discussed before. After the attacks on men, he shrinks each head to mask what it really is, then, to reverse the rape, symbolically sews his anus shut against the rings."

"The fetish makes a psychosexual jump from female to male?"

"The complexity of psychosexual murder is directly proportional to the intelligence of the offender," said Carlisle.

"The Headhunter read de Sade?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. Sex offenders often read the literature of sex crimes. Are you aware the killer Up north is patterning his bush hunts on a real serial predator?"

"Who?" said DeClercq.

"Robert Hansen. The Alaskan businessman who acted out his fantasy in the 1980s. Attacking at least thirty prostitutes, he killed twenty of them. Hansen picked up exotic dancers in Anchorage topless bars for cruel oral sex. When one woman drew a knife, he yanked it away and stabbed her to death. 'When I thought about it,' Hansen later confessed, 'it was the sort of feeling I got when I bagged a trophy animal.' He was an expert big-game hunter. He soon began fantasizing about hunting naked women down in the woods, eventually turning his fantasy into reality. He'd drive a hooker into the forest for sex in his car. If she satisfied him, he let her go. If she didn't, he forced her out of the car at gunpoint to pursue naked across the snow with a rifle. 'I would let her think she got away, then flush her out to get her to run again.' Finally, he would shoot her, then bury the body."

DeClercq turned the information over in his mind. "The Headhunter reactivates as Shrink," he mused aloud. "Assuming we have
two
killers loose—Head-hunter here and Decapitator north—how have
different
psychologies led to such similar crimes?"

"Intriguing question," said Carlisle.

Where, Not Why

Nick Craven's emotions swung back and forth like a pendulum: I love her, she loves me not, I love her, she loves me not. . . . Last night saw him maturely swallow the fact if Gill didn't love him, he couldn't change that, so
Give me grace to accept the things I cannot change
. This morning the moment he saw Gill sharing the coffee cup and laughing with DeClercq,, he flip-flopped back in resolve. But what right had he: to feel betrayed? If not for DeClercq in the Africa case, Nick would be serving life in prison for killing his mom. And if not for Gill in the same case, he would be food for fishes in Davy Jones's locker.

Why do fools fall in love? The lover's question
, he thought.

Nick felt like a stalker.

Was that next?

From UBC, Nick drove to Headquarters and parked in the lot behind Special X. Trudging up Heather from Thirty-third to Thirty-seventh was a slip and slide. He entered the Operations Building, passed Security, and climbed to ViCLAS on the second floor.

Vancouver leads the world in geographic profiling. The
Where
, not the
Why
of hunting serial killers and sex offenders. Like most human activities, choosing a crime site has geographic logic. When you go to the store for a quart of milk, you don't bypass twenty stores to shop across town; you stop at the nearest one. What governs you is a quantifiable spatial rule as the least-effort principle. The same behavior governs crime, just as fear of arrest creates a buffer zone of predictable dimensions around a serial killer's home. Right-handed killers tend to flee to the left, but move to the right when they encounter obstacles. They discard evidence to the right, and hide near outside walls in buildings. A serial sex offender prefers a corner house which offers four, not two, escape routes.

And so on.

Each time a serial offender meets, attacks, kills, or dumps a victim, he leaves behind a point on a map. Except in the case of a transient killer with no roots, the crime site is linked by spatial behavior to anchor points like the killer's workplace or home. Since such behavior is governed by quantifiable rules, it can be analyzed by a computer. All the crime sites are plotted on a screen map. The computer draws a box around this "activity space" and divides it into a grid. Then using an equation based on criminology research into typical journeys to crime sites, the computer takes a beginning point on the grid and determines the distance from that point to the first crime site. The equation calculates the probability of that point being the bad guy's home, then repeats the process for all points on the grid and each crime site.

The result is a geographic profile of the activity space. Overlaying the street map of the city, it looks like a three-dimensional isopleth relief map like those used in school texts to show elevation or rainfall. The amoebas of the profile are different colors. Gray areas are least likely to be the bad guy's home. Hot spots in red predict the most probable home base of the serial offender.

His anchor point.

Nick was after nothing that elaborate today. Since he already knew where Bron Wren had lived twenty-five years ago, what he required was a map of the "activity space" generated by the six cases from four sites that had gone to court. The space would indicate where to look for other victims in the hair-fetish album. Album photos would be sent to all primary schools in the catch basin to match with past enrollment records. Once he had the names, he could hunt them down.

"All you want is a pin map?"

Rusty Lewis, the ViCLAS hotshot, was disappointed.

"Pins for the homes of his victims. And a star for Wren's basement suite."

Craven seated beside him at his office desk, Lewis booted up the ViCLAS computer and clicked the mouse on the Maplnfo icon. Opening a work space, he asked for a map of central Vancouver. The screen developed an image from seven overlaid maps: cosmetic layer or foundation; BCPLACES from the gazetteer; ADDRESS to pinpoint street locations; SWRIVER for creeks and shorelines; LMROAD to add highways and trains; municipal boundaries; and then attributes like Indian reserves.

Nick was glad this wasn't a Rorschach test.

Stanley Park and Point Grey looked like penises to him.

"You're looking down on the city from forty kilometers up," said Lewis.

"Zoom in on the North Shore from Lions Gate Bridge to Second Narrows."

"There," said Lewis. "Now you're looking down from four Ks up."

The image showed North Vancouver's shore along the inner harbor. Craven fed Lewis the addresses of victims in the court case twenty-five years ago, and where Wren had been living then. Lewis entered some location queries to add pins for the homes of the six victims and a star for Wren's anchor point. He labeled Lions Gate Bridge, Lonsdale Avenue (the main street with Nick's home), and inserted a compass.

"Why no buffer zone between the star and eastern pin?" said Nick.

"A pedophile is a driven man. Wren was overpowered by compulsion to molest the kids near his home even if it chanced arrest."

"I'll find them first."

"The ugly thing about sex crimes is how stigma and guilt attach to the victim. Sometimes the innocent will shed the name connected to what they see as their dirty self. Before you waste time chasing the shadow, I'd fax a request to Gazette records to check if the name was changed."

"I'll do that," said Nick.

On the Hunt

Totem Lake

The Mad Dog was a man struggling to overcome his
ists
. The Mad Dog was sexist, but he respected Spann. Not only was she a broad who understood guns, for they had once had a battle of knowledge and she had won, but Kathy had scaled the ladder of ranks from the same rung as him, him having it easy because he fit the past, her having it hard because she didn't, and look where Spann was now. Because he was the Mad Dog, he bonded with her in his own way, by asking her to stand with him when he hitched with Brit. A bonus was he would be the envy of all the guys, flanked by the
two
best sets of knockers you ever saw.

His kind of wedding.

Hefner style.

The Mad Dog was racist, but he cottoned to George. Not only was Ghost Keeper as good a tracker as him, but he had been shut out of climbing the ranks from within, a "special" constable in the 3(b) Program for reserves, and through sheer ability had forced the Force to bring him in before it was ready. Because he was the Mad Dog, he bonded with the Cree in his own way, by turning to him now and saying . . .

"Wanna go hunting with me?"

George was stunned.

They stood in the light of a rising moon near Zulu base, and watched as caged dogs were unloaded from Bush Dodd's plane. The same way motor vehicles replaced the silent horse, snowmobiles phased out the silent dog patrol, gone but not forgotten by Yukon throwbacks like the Mad Dog. If the rebels sought to smuggle weapons in through the bush tonight, would it not be Keystone Kops to buzz around on snowmobiles, here we come, ready or not?

So
voila
.

"Where'd you get them?" Chandler asked.

"Friend of mine. Races them in Alaska competition every year."

"How many you bring in?"

"Two sleds. Seven dogs each."

The sleds unloaded from the hold behind the sling seat in back of the plane were adapted toboggans. Sleds with runners were useless in deep drifts unless a trail was already broken. Edged with metal strips to hold the course and prevent slipping, these sleds, fashioned from parallel slats of hardwood, had been steamed and bent in front like runners. The flat bottoms got rid of rocker effect. Uprights, a top rail, and handlebars meant they could be driven standing up. The chain fastened to drag in a loop under each bottom would retard speed and act as a brake.

"Well?" said the Mad Dog.

"Let's do it," said the Cree.

For George the patrol would have a dual goal, for it was in the forest south of the plateau where Flint died and north of Totem Lake where Vanderkop was killed that winter had compelled them to abandon tracking Winterman Snow.

A half hour later, the Mounties were ready. White parkas and white accessories camouflaged both men. Each sled was stocked with light provisions for swift speed: a medical kit, and treats for the dogs, and an array of weapons.

"Okay," said Chandler. "Here's the plan."

Huddling in a circle by the unhitched sleds, Dodd pooling a flashlight for them to see, they watched Zinc carve an oval with a stick in the snow, then punch an indent up top. "Totem Lake, and the rebel camp. We have the lake covered by sharpshooters with night sights, so any smuggling that way we'll pick off." He drew a west-to-east arc north of the camp. "Here's the blind spot to patrol. Sweep high and you will cross any tracks coming down. Find some, you follow. If not, sweep back closer to the camp, tightening the arc with each pass. For the final patrol, sweep high to the plateau where Flint was shot, and there you'll be waiting, Dodd, to pick them up."

The pilot nodded.

"See you there," he said.

Then off he flew to retrieve his snowmobile, which winging in the dog sleds had forced him to leave behind in Alaska.

To benefit from enthusiasm and minimize frustrated excitement, which leads to fights and chewing the line, dogs aren't harnessed until it's time to depart. Once a skill in every Mountie's repertoire, this was the first time Chandler had seen hitching performed. The tow-lines were laid out so each leader's harness and tug rope was in front, followed by sections for three pulling pairs. The trains were anchored to poles back of the sleds by ropes extending under the slats. Hitching in pairs with a single dog leading gives the best results: freedom of motion and minimum difficulty with corners. The Mad Dog and the Cree brought their leaders out first, each dog gripped by the collar as it left the cage so front legs could be lifted if either tried to turn its master into a sled. Footing on ice is insecure, and many a man has been dragged by the chain.

Live and learn.

Vising the dog between his knees at the flanks hold it securely while the harness was slipped over its head, each man pulled the neck strap through the collar and fastened the belly band, then snapped on the chain as the dog was released. The leader held the line taut while the others were brought out singly and harnessed front to rear. Tug ropes fastened to towlines, each man climbed on back of his sled to release the anchor rope, freeing the team to jump into its collars and dash the patrol away.

Zinc hoped to hear a hearty "Mush!" as they were off.

But the start command is "All right!"

Idaho hunter Jed Vanderkop had actually been no hunter at all. He had been one of several American militia members who hoped to set up a heavily armed training camp in the wilds of B.C., far away from the watchful eyes of FBI and U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agents. So last month he and his cousin Vern had driven through Smithers hi a truck with Idaho plates, turning northeast from Mosquito Flats on a road that made only local maps, to lose themselves and their smuggled arms in backwoods north of Blunt Mountain and west of Natlan Peak, above the Shegunia River, which flowed when thawed into Totem Lake. There they camouflaged the truck in a cleft of rock, where Jed set up camp to guard the cache until spring training while his cousin Vern snowmobiled out.

Jed the Survivalist.

Who didn't survive.

For though not actually a hunter, Jed went hunting one day, and had the misfortune to get bagged downriver by Winterman Snow, who stripped him, raped him, chased him naked west to Totem Lake, and dropped him with an arrow by the falls. Jed left here for the happy hunting ground (reported missing by his mom, who thought he
was
hunting in Canada), but the cache of smuggled arms was still around. The thought of arming "red niggers" would incense the militia, even though they, too, feared the New World Order, but cousin Vern—not a member—saw it as a chance to make a buck, so he sold to supporters of the rebels.

Quite a few bucks, actually.

C.O.D.

The deal was he would deliver the arms to a party of Doomsdayers from the camp, the meet set for tonight a mile up the Shegunia River. The rebels would haul the cache back to camp, and Vern would be off to drive the truck to Smithers for payoff so he could haul his cash down south. That's why Vern and his buddy Bo were here on the frozen river, snowshoeing under a hunter's moon, hugging woods on the bank so the shadows of the trees would mask them to spotter planes should one pass overhead.

Ropes over their shoulders, both gunrunners lugged sleds.

Under tarps on the sleds hid a military arsenal of illegal guns, explosive shells, and survival gear. A .50-caliber Barrett semiautomatic long-range rifle used by the U.S. Army to pierce armored vehicles and blow up mines, penetrating plating the 5.56mm or 7.62mm can't punch through, destroying 500-pound bombs at a distance of 500 yards. Eight army-issue cases of ammunition: 500 shells for the air-cooled infantry-support gun, shotgun shells that spray steel darts, shells that splash high-temperature metals that ignite everything in their way, and high-octane fuel for flame throwers. Chemical suits and gas masks and bulletproof armor. Mortars, and best of all ...

A surface-to-air hand-held Stinger missile.

Gitxsan oral history describes a string of wars in 1600 or 1700 that culminated in the epic adventures of Nekt. A band of Haidas from the Queen Charlotte Islands raided a Gitxsan eulachon fishing camp at the mouth of the Nass River, and carried off a beautiful young woman of high rank from Kispiox named Lu-traisuh. She became the wife of Qawaek, the Haida chief, and gave birth to two sons her husband smothered by blocking their mouths with his tongue. He feared the boys might later avenge the murders of their uncles in the abduction. Lutraisuh deceived her husband concerning the sex of their third child, saying he was a girl to spare his life. Killing her husband, she cut off his head and escaped by night in a canoe, her child kept quiet in the bow by suckling on the tongue protruding from his father's mouth. Nekt—which means "tongue-licked"—grew into a strong man with one ambition: to punish the wrongs he and his mother had suffered. He made a coat of armor from grizzly bear skin reinforced inside with a coat of pitch and flakes of slate, then began his career as a raider of Coast and Nass settlements. He wanders through legends of the Nisga'a, Tsimshian, and Haida nations as well as those of the Gitxsan. Thanks to bearskin armor and the magic "strike-but-once club" in his front paw, he was seen by his enemies as the Medeek, a mythic grizzly bear whose attacks can't be resisted. Expanding Gitxsan territory, he soon controlled all trade in metal and weapons. Nekt built his ta'awdzep fort on a pyramid hill at Kitwanga. To protect this stronghold against surprise attack, he raised a fence of logs around its five Houses, with a trapdoor covered by deer hooves that rattled when they were moved. One night his enemies tried to scale the slope to the fort. Nekt released logs that rolled down and crushed them. Later, his enemies massed to defeat him, and legend goes Nekt was wounded by a bullet from the first white man's gun up from the coast, as he was donning his grizzly bear armor for an expedition. Then he was clubbed to death.

Shortly after, the first white arrived.

Winterman Snow was thinking of Nekt as he stalked through the woods, quiver of arrows on his back and the compound bow in his hand.

Nekt was the last great warrior of his people.

It angered him that a white man's bullet had ended the myth.

There were no myths after the white man came. Just sorrow and suffering. But here in the woods and moonlight he sensed the spirit of Nekt.

Nekt was him.

On the hunt.