man's broad lips pull into a wide smile. "Sonja! Long time no see - so to speak."
"Back at ya. How's the virtual world treating you, Webhead?"
He shrugs bare shoulders covered in spider-web tattoos. "I was scheduled for a second trepanation, but the dude who was going to drill me got cold feet."
"Bummer."
"Yeah, but you didn't log on for small talk. What do you need?" He reaches off-screen to retrieve what appears to be a defused mortar shell.
"What do I always need you for?"
"Besides the hot monkey sex?" he leers, firing up the bong.
I snort good-naturedly. It's part of our ritual banter. "In your nightmares, kiddo! I need a search done -
newspaper archives, police databases, the discussion groups that cater to true crime and serial killer buffs, that kind of thing. I'm looking for unsolved homicides involving decapitations. Oh, and filter out those with known sexual assault."
Webhead lifts an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Time frame?"
"The last five years."
"You want me to charge it to the Swiss account?"
"Sure."
"You got it. I'll beep you when it's ready."
The PIP disappears, signaling our business transaction is at its end. I log off and stare at the blank face of the laptop's display for a long moment. There is no guarantee that Webhead will turn up anything of any real use to me, but it would be a start. Whoever the mystery man I ran into in the alley might be, it's clear he has his moves down. And you don't get that smooth without practice in the field.
I yawn and strip off my leather jacket, draping it over the back of the chair, one of the few pieces of furniture in the loft I've made my base of operations. Its getting harder for me to locate suitable space to crash out in during the day - most of the old warehouses are in the process of being renovated into yuppie condos.
I kick off my boots and drop onto the old mattress that serves as my bed. The ticking is stained and torn, and there are no bedclothes. Not that it matters. I never feel cold.
The ache in my shoulder pulls at my consciousness, urging me to surrender to the petite mort. I can already feel my blood pressure dropping, plummeting like a stone hurled down an empty well. My heart slows its beating. My lungs fold in on themselves like paper lanterns. I close my eyes, only to be swallowed by the dreamless void, and I am still as death and...
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) The sun is down.
I know this because my eyes are open again. I lay there, flat on my back, my hands folded in repose atop my breastbone, and wait for my heart to resume its pumping. I emerge from death, as easily as another woman would climb from a bath, feeling rejuvenated and restored. The pain in my shoulder is gone, the bone completely mended, the flesh bearing only the slightest trace of a scar.
I reopen my laptop and find an email with an attachment awaiting me. The file Webhead has compiled keeps the printer busy for over an hour. Most of it consists of archived newspaper accounts of badly decomposed bodies found in ditches, but that's not all.
There's a series of articles from the Portland and Seattle papers detailing "ritualistic" murders committed in 1995 by a killer dubbed the "Headhunter" because of his (or her, as the reporters were Politically Correct enough to point out) removal of the victims' craniums.
An unusual aspect of the Headhunter's killing spree was that all but two of the victims remained unidentified, and those two had each been listed with Missing Persons for several years. The killings, which transpired over a four, month period between several major metropolitan areas in both Oregon and Washington, ended abruptly in April of 1995. To date, the seven murders remain unsolved, the cases still open.
In May of that same year, three murders occurred in Chicago, the modus operandi bearing an eerie similarity to those in the Pacific Northwest. These slayings were attributed to the
"Back at ya. How's the virtual world treating you, Webhead?"
He shrugs bare shoulders covered in spider-web tattoos. "I was scheduled for a second trepanation, but the dude who was going to drill me got cold feet."
"Bummer."
"Yeah, but you didn't log on for small talk. What do you need?" He reaches off-screen to retrieve what appears to be a defused mortar shell.
"What do I always need you for?"
"Besides the hot monkey sex?" he leers, firing up the bong.
I snort good-naturedly. It's part of our ritual banter. "In your nightmares, kiddo! I need a search done -
newspaper archives, police databases, the discussion groups that cater to true crime and serial killer buffs, that kind of thing. I'm looking for unsolved homicides involving decapitations. Oh, and filter out those with known sexual assault."
Webhead lifts an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Time frame?"
"The last five years."
"You want me to charge it to the Swiss account?"
"Sure."
"You got it. I'll beep you when it's ready."
The PIP disappears, signaling our business transaction is at its end. I log off and stare at the blank face of the laptop's display for a long moment. There is no guarantee that Webhead will turn up anything of any real use to me, but it would be a start. Whoever the mystery man I ran into in the alley might be, it's clear he has his moves down. And you don't get that smooth without practice in the field.
I yawn and strip off my leather jacket, draping it over the back of the chair, one of the few pieces of furniture in the loft I've made my base of operations. Its getting harder for me to locate suitable space to crash out in during the day - most of the old warehouses are in the process of being renovated into yuppie condos.
I kick off my boots and drop onto the old mattress that serves as my bed. The ticking is stained and torn, and there are no bedclothes. Not that it matters. I never feel cold.
The ache in my shoulder pulls at my consciousness, urging me to surrender to the petite mort. I can already feel my blood pressure dropping, plummeting like a stone hurled down an empty well. My heart slows its beating. My lungs fold in on themselves like paper lanterns. I close my eyes, only to be swallowed by the dreamless void, and I am still as death and...
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) The sun is down.
I know this because my eyes are open again. I lay there, flat on my back, my hands folded in repose atop my breastbone, and wait for my heart to resume its pumping. I emerge from death, as easily as another woman would climb from a bath, feeling rejuvenated and restored. The pain in my shoulder is gone, the bone completely mended, the flesh bearing only the slightest trace of a scar.
I reopen my laptop and find an email with an attachment awaiting me. The file Webhead has compiled keeps the printer busy for over an hour. Most of it consists of archived newspaper accounts of badly decomposed bodies found in ditches, but that's not all.
There's a series of articles from the Portland and Seattle papers detailing "ritualistic" murders committed in 1995 by a killer dubbed the "Headhunter" because of his (or her, as the reporters were Politically Correct enough to point out) removal of the victims' craniums.
An unusual aspect of the Headhunter's killing spree was that all but two of the victims remained unidentified, and those two had each been listed with Missing Persons for several years. The killings, which transpired over a four, month period between several major metropolitan areas in both Oregon and Washington, ended abruptly in April of 1995. To date, the seven murders remain unsolved, the cases still open.
In May of that same year, three murders occurred in Chicago, the modus operandi bearing an eerie similarity to those in the Pacific Northwest. These slayings were attributed to the
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