Headhunter (39 page)

My theory wasn't welcome.

First Scarlett looked at me strangely, then he got up and left.

The others for a number of reasons soon followed suit.

I was left alone at the table with a rapidly cooling cup of coffee. I'd hit a dead end and knew it.

As the man says: Nothing in life is ten out of ten.

Is man not lost?
Now I ask you: isn't that a hell of a question?

Is that why you started drinking, Dad?

If it is I understand.

It was as I was returning the Headhunter files to the "morgue" that the negative slipped out of one of them and dropped onto the floor. I bent down to pick it up.

I had decided already that going on was just a waste of time; the investigation was over and Genevieve had surmounted her problem. Besides, I had other work to do. Crime waits for no one.

Strangely, I had completely forgotten about the picture. Perhaps it was repression, something along the line that Dr. Ruryk had described. But the moment I held it up to the light I knew I would take it home.

At the present moment it's over there, sitting on my en-larger. I feel a little queasy but I know I'll blow it up. My life has been reduced to mental masochism.

Can you hear me. Father? Are you out there listening?

You remember that day you spanked me cause I lipped off our neighbor? How angry I got at you? I told you you were no good 'cause you couldn't hold a job.

Well. Father, I'm sorry. Believe me. I wish I'd never said that.

I've atoned a million times since, hoping you were listening.

I killed you. didn't I? It was what I said that day that made you get that job?

If it weren't for me you'd never have been on that plane to Toronto, would you?

I'm so sorry. Dad. 'Cause now I'm lost too.

I guess we're both a couple of fools. Me with my obsession. You with your booze.

I feel pathetic, Father. Can you somehow forgive me? Believe me I'm doing penance.

Watch me blow it up!

There, it's done.

I put the negative into the carrier of my condenser enlarger. I checked the easel illumination and made an exposure. Now the picture of the head is a hundred times normal size.

Look at it with me, Father. I don't want to be alone.

I wish you could turn the cover over like you did before.

God, how a negative gives tone separation. It's not like a Polaroid. Look at her face, at the rictus of terror frozen into her muscles. Look at her skin stretched tight and gray and the bulge of her rolled up eyes. Look at her hair, how black it is, all matted in hanks and strands. Look at her mouth open to scream, look at her swollen tongue. Look at the way her nostrils have flared to let out the trickles of blood. And look at how shreds of skin from her neck curl around the pole like snakes.

Hey, wait a minute. That's new. The pole's in a bucket of sand. All of the other pictures ended part way down the stick.

Yes, now I can see what the killer has done.

The Headhunter returns with his trophy and puts it down on the ground. He shovels a pail full of sand and carries it and the head inside. Once there he places the bucket in front of a pinned-up sheet. A pole is stuck into the sand, and the head is rammed down onto the pole. Then he snaps the picture.

Do you think he tried to buy more Polaroid film, saw the trap and therefore changed to an undeveloped negative''

What a joke—his psychosis and my neurosis ending up the same.

Is this all your death is to my conscious mind. Father: a miserable severed human head stuck in a bucket of sand?

And, Dad—there in that bucket—what are those leaves mixed in with the sand?

Fall leaves.

I found a botanist out working in the VanDusen Gardens at 37th and Oak. He was digging over by Olga Jancic's marble,
Metamorphosis.
As I showed him the enlarged, cut-out portion of the bucket of sand and leaves I asked: "Are those from a maple tree?"

He put on a pair of glasses and looked, and then said: "Why yes, they are."

"How many maple trees do you think there are in the Lower Mainland?"

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "A hundred thousand, I guess." He looked at the photo again, pointing to two of the leaves. "Those are
acer macrophyllum.
We call it a Big Leaf Maple. The leaf has a classic deep lobe and is native to Western North America."

I nodded and thanked him for his time. Then as I turned to leave he added: "Of course you won't find the other type growing anywhere around here. They're from a Sycamore Maple or
acer pseudoplatanus.
That type of tree is native to Europe and Western Asia."

"Come again?" I said.

"These leaves here in the bucket, mixed in with the other ones." He took the photo back from me. "You see how they're smaller than the Big Leaf, about half to three-quarters the size? They're not as deeply lobed, either. They don't grow around here."

I blinked and I guess my look made him think again.

"Well, not around these parts," the botanist said, "unless one of them's been transplanted."

I knocked on the door and waited.

After a while I heard this sound like a scurrying mouse in the attic. Then the door opened a crack with the burglar chain still fastened. All I could see was one twinkling eye at about belt buckle level. "Yes?" a brittle voice asked.

"Good morning, ma'am," I said. "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Elvira Franklen." "My name's Al Flood, ma'am," I said, and flashed her my shield.

The dwarf suddenly opened her twinkling eye very wide (at least she looked dwarf-height to me) and gasped: "You've come about the library book, haven't you? I told them I'd return it. It's not that long overdue."

"No ma'am," I said, "I'm not here for a library book. I was told at VanDusen Gardens that I'd find Mrs. Franklen . . ."

"Miss
Franklen," she corrected.

"Sorry . . . Miss Franklen here. I'm a detective with Major Crimes down at the VPD."

"A detective!" the woman exclaimed, agitated, then she surprised me and swung the door open wide. "Oh
do
come in. Detective Flood.
Do
come in!"

Elvira Franklen reminded me of that little swamp creature in one of those Lucas
Star Wars
films. She was under five feet tall, a pudgy wrinkled little old lady with white hair and bulgy blue eyes that were alight with mischief. I would bet ten dollars that she'd seen seventy-five. She wore this frumpy wool suit and had a brooch fastened at her throat.

"May I see your shield again?" she asked as I was ushered in through the door.

"Of course, ma'am," I said. I gave her the case with my tin pinned next to the ID card.

"It says here your name is Almore Flood," she said, looking up sharply. "A person should use their full name, my mother used to say. That's why you're given it."

"Yes, ma'am. But people continually equate mine with that rabbit Bugs Bunny."

Elvira Franklen smiled. "Just like Meyer Meyer," she said. "You'd think people would learn."

"I don't understand."

"Meyer Meyer, Detective Flood. The 87th Precinct. Surely they make you read those books when you're in police school?"

"Ma'am?"

"Did anyone ever tell you that you talk like Jack Webb?" She lowered her voice several octaves and growled, "Just the facts, ma'am."

She was putting me on. This time
I
smiled.

"Do you remember at the end of
Dragnet
how there used to be that sweaty hand stamp out the letters 'Mark VII' with a heavy hammer. Did you know that was Jack Webb's hand ' I like an actor, don't you, who does his own stunts ? Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you. Yes, I would."

"Darjeeling or Poonakandy? Queen Elizabeth drinks Poonakandy. That should be good enough for us."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "It sounds like that decides it."

Down a dark hallway she led me, all rich oiled woods and Royal Doulton figurines. She ushered me into a living room to wait while she put the kettle on to boil. That wait was like being in a museum. For there were shelves and these tiny antique tables everywhere around me. On one of the tables she had out on display every Royal Coronation mug since the days of Queen Victoria. China was displayed on another surrounded by photographs of Prince Charles and Princess Diana. Prince William had a wee table of his own. The furniture in the room looked so old and delicate that I was afraid to sit down for fear of breaking it. But the pictures hanging on the walls were the best part of all. I counted fifty-two of them. Detective writers. Each of the photos was autographed and set in a silver frame.

I heard the clink of china and turned to find Elvira Franklen wheeling in a tea trolley. There were two fragile teacups, a silver pot smothered beneath a crocheted cosy, a cream and sugar set, two spoons, two knives and enough plates of scones and crumpets and muffins and Eccles cakes and pastries to feed the entire British Falkland Islands Expedition.

"I see you're looking at the pictures?"

"Yes," I said. "Quite an illustrious company."

She smiled and the movement made her face crack into a hundred pieces.

"The one of Conan Doyle of course is my favorite. He signed it for me personally just before his death. Will that be one lump or two, Detective Almore Flood?"

"One, thank you," I said.

She poured me out a cup of tea then offered me the fattening feast spread out on the trolley. I took an Eccles cake. As I munched it Agatha Christie watched me from one of the walls.

"Well now tell me, Detective. What brings you to my door?"

"I was hoping, ma'am, that you might help me catch a killer."

I'm sure if the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe had walked into the room she would not have been more surprised. Or any more pleased. in fact.

"Me?" she said, sitting bolt upright and putting down her

tea.

"Miss Franklen," I said, lowering my voice so Raymond Chandler could barely overhear, "we have had a body dug up and dumped in our jurisdiction. This body was covered with dirt and leaves and wrapped in a sheet of plastic. The leaves are of two types of maple. One type is called a Big Leaf ..."

"That's an
acer macrophyllum,"
she whispered, leaning forward in her chair.

"Yes, which is native to British Columbia. The other, however, is not. It is a Sycamore Maple, or
acer pseudo-platanus,
which grows in Eurasia. Now if we could ..."

"... if we could find some place where
both
trees grow," Miss Franklen continued, "then we might be able to find out where the body was originally buried. And maybe killed as well."

"Precisely," I said.

"Well," Miss Franklen said abruptly, "I think we'd better get started. No time like the present, my mother used to say." And with that she sprang to her feet and beckoned me to follow.

We went down a hall that led toward the back of her Edwardian house, and I found myself looking out at what in spring would be a most magnificent garden. Even though it was late November there was color here and there, a brown or red or yellow leaf clinging to one of the trees the pastel shades of Nature's paintbrush splashed within many a greenhouse. At the end of the L-shaped corridor we came to another door. She swung it open.

I was stunned by the number of books. There were probably several thousand more volumes than in the Library of Congress. All of them hardcover.

"I do reviews," Miss Franklen said, "for several publications. You don't read mysteries, I gather."

"Cops don't read detective stories, ma'am," I said. "They read science fiction."

Elvira Franklen crossed the room to yet another door. She pushed it open and disappeared.

We were now in a somewhat smaller chamber, but just as overwhelming. And I thought
I
was obsessed! For here then-were pamphlets and magazines everywhere in stacks around the floor. Tables were spread with sheafs of faded and yellowed newspaper clippings. There were cubbyhole shelves crammed full to overflowing with curled mimeographed sheets and thousands of newsletters. All around there were large-paged books of pressed flowers and leaves preserved between pieces of ironed wax paper. Otherwise vacant patches of wall space were covered with numerous framed certificates.

"I've been President of eighteen different horticultural societies," Miss Franklen said. "You take the desk by the window," she said. "I'll take the one over here."

"But this could take
years!"

"Shame on you," Miss Franklen said, wagging her finger at me. "And you a detective."

And so we set to work.

December

Cold turkey, from that moment on I managed to quit my smoking. There were rules in this house and that was one of them.

But even more amazing was this woman's capacity for work. She literally left me exhausted. The first day we spent six hours going through her clippings.

By the time I arrived after shift the next day she had covered over seven hundred publications. Having finished with
The Arborist
—
June 1931 to September 1952—she had moved on to
The Horticulturalist's Digest
starting in 1923.

For ten days straight we worked.

By the second week in December I managed to wangle a few days off and we really covered ground (no pun intended). On one of those nights Elvira suggested that I sleep at the house. "Then we can get a real early start tomorrow," she said.

"Won't the neighbors talk?" I asked, giving her a wink.

"It wouldn't be the first time," the old woman replied.

So I stayed.

That night before retiring we had Horlicks and Peek Frean biscuits. When I settled into the guest room I found this book laid out on the table. It was
Ten Plus Qne
by Ed McBain, and I tell you that guy missed his calling.

Instead of being a writer, he should have been a cop.

You would have liked her, Mom: I felt like I'd been adopted.

We worked for seven days straight, at one point spending six hours in the same room and never speaking a word.