The Headhunter

The Headhunter.

John Clapham, ace detective, and all round action hero walked down the dimly lit street briskly. He smiled to himself at the thought. His square jaw with a permanent twelve o clock shadow, could have come straight out of one of those pulp crime novels, that are found at all airports. The top button of his crumpled shirt was open and the paisley tie, an artefact from the early nineties, was pulled down. John’s eyes, ever alert, scanned the dark alleyways as he walked past them. The smile began to fade from his face as he recalled the reason for his presence here in the slums of the city.

In his left hand he held a piece of paper. A simple note with only four words written on it.
                      MEET ME. ASHBRICK. HEADHUNTER.
Ashbrick Road, home of prostitutes, pimps, junkies….and now the most notorious killer of the last decade. The detective, thought briefly about why he was following the instructions on the note without any backup. Pride, was the only answer he could come up with. The killer known as the Headhunter, had being on a killing spree now for the last five months. Thirteen victims had falling foul to him, their decapitated bodies found dumped in the streets of the city. Fully clothed, the victims were not missing any valuables upon their persons, only their heads. All of them were young white males in their early thirties, all professional and successful businessmen.

John felt the first spatter of rain on his head and silently cursed. His mack was back at the precinct. He had left it there, the humidity in the city was stifling and the weather forecasters had predicted no rain. Damned phoneys, thought Clapham. A figure lurched in front of him and he reached instinctively for his gun. But the figure, a drunk, just staggered past the cop. What the hell was he doing here! The thought ran through the mind of the detective again.
“I should be in the bar downing a scotch,” he muttered to himself.

The detritus of humanity lay all about him on the street. This was the forgotten side of the prosperous city, the place where the darkness resided. As his eyes grew accustomed to the weak light, he saw that the alleys were teeming with life. Small groups of people, huddled in pitiful circles and he could now here the low drone of their voices.
The Damned, the word came unbidden to his mind. Suddenly, John Clapham did not want to be here. His earlier visions of himelf being feted for capturing the Headhunter now seemed like folly.

It was at that moment that he looked up and saw the figure standing beneath the neon light of a tattoo parlour. A whisp of smoke rose up above the head of the man and John saw the brief flare of a cigarette.
He slowed his pace, all his instincts were telling him to go back. There was danger ahead, fear tinged the air. The figure seemed to shimmer in and out of the light. A trick of the flickering neon light, thought John, licking at his dry lips.

He was still walking forward.

Darkness fell behind the detective as he moved on. The figure under the light dropped the cigarette and turned to face John Clapham.

He was smiling, yellow teeth bared in a feral grin.
“Welcome,” the Headhunter said.