Primal Scream

by Michael Slade

  If she was offering.

  Because Apollo, not Dionysus, was the god he hoped ruled the ethics of his mind, reason in him vanquishing passion to win their Darwinian struggle for the nature of man, why did he feel compelled to bed both Anda and Gill? If love was Apollonian and sex Dionysian, did he love both women or was he succumbing to loveless sex from sexual poisoning?

  You think too much, he thought.

  "The tragedy of it," Gill said, "is the snuffing of four young lives. Who knows how civilization might have advanced had the students in the car exerted their potential. I forgot to ask where they were headed when the killer struck. Bron Wren undoubtedly we're better off without. For all I care, he can nourish the worms in the—"

  "Wren?" said DeClercq.

  "He's here, too. His body was buried a week or so before last night's attack."

  "Was Wren raped?"

  "Viciously. His wrists were lashed with ropes and his lower body stripped; then he was sodomized until he bled inside. After that his buttocks were slashed to ribbons."

  "While alive?"

  "Yes, a crime of hate."

  "Semen in his rectum?"

  "Only tests will tell. But I suspect decomposition is too advanced."

  "Are his genitals pierced?"

  "You mean torture?"

  "I mean rings."

  "Rings like a frenum? Hafada? Prince Albert? No, I saw no pierce holes around the groin. The only genital adornment is a tattoo. Tongues of flame licking up his abdomen, as if his sex organs burned with the fires of hell."

  "What's a Prince Albert?"

  "A dressing ring. Used by Victorian men to secure the penis to the leg when crotch-binding trousers were in vogue. Prince Albert had one inserted to retract his foreskin to keep the royal penis sweet-smelling for the queen."

  DeClercq blinked.

  "You'd be surprised, Chief Superintendent, what my job teaches me about the male body and how its secrets work."

  "I'm sure I would."

  "You would," she repeated.

  Gill held the coffee cup up to Robert's lips. His hands touched hers to tilt it so warmth flowed down his throat.

  "When it comes to sex, we all live secret lives. li know a front-line feminist who publicly berates men to sell books, yet she has this macho boyfriend with i lots of gold on his hairy chest, and I suspect she privately prances around in garter belts to heat him up for bed. For all you know, I might have piercings elsewhere than my ears."

  "It's a wicked world," said DeClercq.

  The sexual tension between them was palpable now. It had been over a decade since he had flirted with a woman, and he was enjoying himself flirting with Gill. All three parts of his triune brain were involved. The oldest part, the reptile brain at the top of his spine, matched her body language move for move and touch for touch. His middle brain, the limbic system, irrational and instinctive, was focused on the last of the Four Fs it controlled: feeding, fighting, fleeing, and fucking. It was the Dionysian part of man, and why there would always be sexual predators afoot, for some men control it, and it controls some men. His rational brain, the cerebral cortex, was the last to evolve, and this outer part engaged Gill in the civilized Apollonian game of sexual repartee.

  Apollo and Dionysus.

  A car drove into the lot.

  Jekyll and Hyde.

  The car pulled in beside them.

  "Do you?" he asked.

  Gill steadied the cup in both their hands.

  "My secret," she said as Nick Craven opened the door and got out.

  Had he been caught running away from her home with his pants around his ankles, a definite possibility i the way this was going, Robert could not have felt guiltier than he did now. Whoever said "All is fair in love and war" was wrong, for here was Nick confronted with Gill and Robert holding hands, the latter the boss who could ruin his career if he didn't back off, which was about as fair as soldiers raping civilian women from Sa-bine times till now, or British grunts buggering Argentine boys captured in the Falklands. The pain in Nick's eyes gave testimony to the betrayal he felt. Had Gill led him to believe her interest in Robert was platonic? Had Nick been dealt with squarely but refused to let go? Whatever the situation, the ethics involved were clear. Until Gill and Nick settled their relationship, Robert would be the one to back off.

  A cock may have no conscience.

  But he did.

  And if a cop learned only one lesson from the job, it was sexual ping-pong ends in tragedy.

  Robert and Nick.

  Anda and Gill.

  Anda it is, he decided.

  "Nick," said DeClercq. "Join the powwow. Coffee?" he asked, holding out the communal cup as if passing a bottle among friends.

  Craven eyed the cup as if the other man had spit in it. He shook his head.

  DeClercq handed the cup to Macbeth.

  "Gill tells me Bron Wren is buried in the woods. Same M.O. and location as last night's attack, except he was buried a week ago and his buttocks are ripped to shreds. What's your take on that?"

  The bags under Craven's eyes told DeClercq he was walking the floor at night over Gill. Unrequited love was the nemesis of sleep, and the constant companion of trouble in mind. Out of empathy for Nick, DeClercq felt a sudden compassion for Al Flood.

  The cop who loved Genevieve . . .

  Unrequited love . . .

  His mental ouija was back in play.

  "Kathy called me," Craven said, "after Wren turned up. Now that he's one victim among many, odds are Wren was a random kill. If so, tracking the kids he abused is a waste of time."

  "Is that your reaction?"

  "I'm torn," Craven said. "Kathy thinks the killer overlapped his burial and hunting grounds so we'd find Wren and raise the body count. Logic says she's right. He's upping the taunt. My gut says little things don't add up."

  "Like?" said DeClercq.

  "Why choose a prison-hardened con as first victim? A pedophile puts next to no pressure on police. If the killer is into taunts, Wren was the last sort of victim to choose. But if Wren turned his killer into a killer, then killing him first makes sense. His buttocks were ripped apart because it's a crime of hate motivated bw sodomizing the killer as a kid. Beheading the students last night masks the motive, thrills the killer, and ups the taunt at us."

  "Where do you hide a tree?"

  "In a forest," said Craven.

  "Woodsman, spare this tree."

  "No," Craven replied.

  "My reaction exactly," said DeClercq.

  While Macbeth drove to work at the VGH morgue, Craven and DeClercq analyzed the scenes of crime with Scarlett and Spann. Then Nick left for ViCLAS?; at Headquarters to generate a pin map of Wren's hunting ground twenty-five years ago. To take advantage of having the two members of the flying patrol that had cornered John Lincoln Hardy—the Head-hunter?—together, DeClercq asked them back to his Benz. The Ident van had coffee. Sipping Java, they sat in his car and talked.

  DeClercq and Spann in front.

  Scarlett in back.

  Obviously pleased to be Included, Scarlett hunched forward between the bucket seats to intrude himself as DeClercq spoke:

  "Except for being male, these headless corpses are like the Headhunter's victims. Waylaid, raped, slashed, beheaded, and dumped. The heads of the women were never recovered, but this killer sent Wren's shrunken head to me. My gut tells me Shrink is somehow connected to the Headhunter case. I found this photo in the closed file on Al Flood."

  He passed around the picture of the rings in the burning tin.

  "Ident took it in the alley behind Flood's apartment on the night you and he shot it out, Kathy. The rings match those through the lips of Wren's shrunken head."

  "Jeez," said Scarlett. "How does that make sense?"

  "That's what we're here to discuss."

  "Hardy was killed six weeks before Flood and I shot it out," said Spann. "If Hardy shrank the heads missing from the Headhunter victims, who burned them in the tin
behind Flood's home?"

  "Flood?" said Scarlett.

  "Perhaps," said DeClercq. "The coke stashed in the hubcap of his car was the exact same purity as the coke you found in Hardy's mountain shack. Did they come from the same supply?"

  DeClercq turned to Spann. "Any idea who tipped you to Flood?"

  "Anonymous call. Woman's voice. I'd bet money on Charlotte Clarke. She became the main pro Hardy pimped after the Headhunter hacked Grabowski. I questioned her in the aftermath of Hardy's death, so she knew I was a cop. Before I could confront her about the tip, she had OD'd on smack."

  "Clarke?" said Scarlett, tapping his head. "Wasn't she the whore Flood ranted about?"

  DeClercq turned sharply. "Ranted when?"

  "When was it, Kath? That day in the caf at court? All of us were yakking—you, me, Mad Dog, Lewis, and who else?"

  "Tipple and Macdonald."

  "Yeah, that's right. When Flood walks up and says he thinks we got the wrong guy. Says he spoke to Clarke and she claimed Johnnie was a stud. Hardy! liked to bang his stable on the side, every day, every girl, liked to fuck, our John, and it was rocks off every time. So why did the Headhunter leave no come if it was Hardy doing the dog?"

  "Good question," said DeClercq. "Begs an answer. I suspect the Headhunter was a killing team. Remember the hunt for the Hillside Strangler? Turned out two cousins were with him. Hillside Stranglers, actually What if that's what happened here? Hardy being ham of a killing team. Now the other half is back on the hunt, going after men instead of women."

  "A switch hitter?"

  "Who kills from rage. Couldn't come with women and can't come with men."

  "Hardy's dead. So is Flood. Is Steve Rackstraw the other half?" said Spann.

  "Is he out?"

  "Paroled recently. Did a lot of time for importing coke. Jailed at the end of the Headhunter case. He was sprung about the same time Bron Wren got released. Does that explain why the killings resumed? And why Wren was the first victim?"

  "Jail vendetta?"

  "Why else choose such lowlife scum? Jail explains the sex switch, too."

  "You're on the ball, Kathy."

  Not to be outshone again, Rick Scarlett scooped up the ball and ran:

  "Voodoo cult in New Orleans was the start. Haitian matriarch, two sons, and their cousin. Cult worked out of Louisiana slums. It sold tricks, spells, dolls, and drugs. Fanatics paid for heavy stuff out on the bayou, like that ritual Kath and me saw, with dancing, masks, slaughter, and a snake in the crone's puss. One son was the zobop who ran the cult. Other son was Rackstraw, living here. Hardy, the cousin, was a fuck-up. So Aunt sent him north to learn from Fox.

  "Wolf, Fox, Weasel. Remember, Kath?

  "Foxy Rackstraw was hip to scams. Corporate fraud, land deceit, music kickbacks, dealing in cocaine. Drugs came north in voodoo masks. The masks were for his rock act, Voodoo Chile.

  "Rackstraw was here when Greiner got snuffed. That accounts for the first Headhunter victim. We never knew if Hardy was here. We know he came later with Grabowski in tow, as right away she got busted on the Stroll. The last thing Fox needed was heat, so maybe he and Weasel iced her as a team. They liked the thrill so much, they launched a doubleheader."

  "And the shrinking?" said DeClercq.

  "Voodoo, Chief. You don't get shit weirder than we saw in New Orleans. The skulls on the bayou? Remember, Kath? Rackstraw rapes 'em. Hardy shrinks 'em. Skulls go down south."

  "And Flood?"

  "Somehow he found the cache of shrunken heads, and the coke he hid in the hubcap of his car. He could sell the drugs for cash, and blackmail Rackstraw in jail for more. Somehow Rackstraw tumbled to him, and turned the tables on Flood. While Flood was away, someone burgled his home, stealing back the heads to burn in the alley tin. With Hardy dead, did Charlotte hook for Rackstraw? Did she do the B and E, then tip Kath to the drugs? Flood freaked at arrest, and bang, bang, bang."

  "Kathy?"

  "Fits, Chief."

  "Rick, you work with us. Find Rackstraw and lean on him."

  Scarlett grinned.

  And left the car.

  And walked away with a spring in his step.

  "There goes a frustrated man," said DeClercq. "You and he were off and running after the Head-hunter case. Now you're inspector, and he's still corporal, shifting laterally around the Force. You looked troubled, Kathy. Something on your mind?"

  "Nothing, Chief."

  "Just between you and me?"

  "You don't rat on your partner."

  "I agree. Unless he does something damaging to the Force. Police departments turn corrupt unless we voice such concerns."

  Spann sighed.

  "Out with it."

  "What if Hardy and Rackstraw didn't form a killing team? What if the Headhunter is still loose? Does that mean Hardy was framed? Only the real killer could plant the head and knife in Hardy's mountain shack before we went up for the bust."

  Spann sighed again.

  "And?" urged DeClercq.

  "Rick assaulted me, Chief. In Seattle. The evening we went down to celebrate both making corporal. He got drunk and tried to bed me. I refused and told him I had a plane to catch. He went berserk and grabbed my breast and railed at me. Fuck you! he exploded! 'Don't turn your back on me! I won't have it! Don't hold your cunt so tight! It's all a game to you, you tight-ass bitch! You dress up in the uniform and hold your back erect, pretending it's protocol while you show off your tits! Look at you tonight! You hypocrite! Cut that dress any lower and it would show your snatch!' I had to threaten to hit him. I caught the plane alone. And that was the end of us as a team."

  "You should have told me."

  "Couldn't, Chief. Rank and file shun us if we play the sexist card."

  "Rick's misogynist?"

  "And locked in a bind. He's too caught up in macho to come out, and all that frustration is eating him up inside. He almost shot Rackstraw during the Head-hunter case. Rage and frustration builds in Rick, then when he blows, he blows!"

  Kink

  Vancouver

  Robert DeClercq was surprised to find a padlock on the door to George Ruryk's office. The padlock was open and hooked in the eye, but the door was also bolted inside. He knocked and waited in the hall of the building on Maple Tree Square until someone approached, released the bolt, and swung the door open to admit him into the office.

  Anda Carlisle.

  "Break-in?" he asked.

  "Worse, I'm afraid."

  "George around?"

  "No."

  "I came to see him . . . and you."

  "I'll have to do, Chief Superintendent. George may not be back."

  "He's sick?"

  "Possibly. Just between you and me, the College of Physicians and Surgeons is investigating him. I've been asked to go through his files."

  "George?" Robert said. "I've known him for years. What's the allegation?"

  "Sexual misconduct with patients."

  "Good Lord. He's Methuselah's age."

  "You've heard the phrase 'dirty old man?"

  "What kind of misconduct?"

  "He's alleged to have subjected female patients to a master-slave relationship. The patients suffered from a psychological malady called erotomania. The condition caused them to fantasize about sexual encounters, which they believed had actually occurred. The end effect was they couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what wasn't. The allegation is George advised each patient she had an internal disciplinary problem, which he could help by applying external discipline. He told them to call him 'master' while he called them 'slave,' and ordered each to crawl to him naked on her hands and knees. When she failed to be a good enough slave, he's alleged to have used a leather whip to lightly lash her back."

  "Are you convinced?" Robert asked.

  "I'm skeptical. No lash marks were seen by doctors, and other patients sat in George's waiting room while each whipping allegedly occurred. Does no corroboration mean more erotomania fantasies?"

&n
bsp; "The women know each other?"

  "The two at the university. But not the one here."

  "Who blew the whistle?"

  "George went to Britain for a lecture series. When he was gone, the two university women had psychotherapy from another psychiatrist. Repressed-memory syndrome is controversial. The Canadian Psychiatric Association has warned us about it. 'Abuse hysteria is loose in North America, and some therapists are preoccupied with sexual abuse as the root of psychological ills. It's become an ideology. Some emphasize sexual abuse out of proportion, and their patients fall into it because it's difficult for them not to have some explanation for the way they feel. The therapist who saw the women while George was away applied so-called memory-enhancement techniques on them, namely drugs and hypnosis to help 'recover' abuse memories. The risk is such techniques can lead to false accusations, since false memories of sexual abuse can be implanted by therapists who shape what patients tell them through their implicit expectation that such abuse occurred."

  "I see," Robert said. "The repressed memories this therapist recovered from George's patients were of sex abuse by him."

  "Yes, and she took her findings to the university and college for discipline."

  "What happened?"

  "In the end, nothing. The women suffered a malady that made them believe in fantasy. Since they knew each other, they may have fed each other 'facts.' And there was nothing objective to back them up. But universities today are very politicized about sexual harassment, and George thought he was the scapegoat for a P.C. witch-hunt. He quit the halls of academe for private practice here, and brought me in, I suspect, as female counterbalance to revive his reputation. When he retired, I would take over."

  "You took a chance."

  "I thought he was innocent of the allegations."

  "And now?"

  Anda shrugged. "What George allegedly did to those women was never made public. Now a patient from private practice who doesn't know them has alleged an identical abuse here."