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don't make newspapermen like "Skip" O'Rourke anymore. Too bad.
    The Skipper was a rotund man late of Her Majesty's Navy who sported a belly made of Guinness and a tattoo from Taiwan. The tattoo was a reminder of the perils of too much drink, for when O'Rourke sobered up from his final shore leave before obtaining his discharge, the needle portrait was waiting, engraved on his lower left arm. How he obtained it, where he obtained it, or why he obtained it, O'Rourke had no idea. What he did know, however, was he hated the thing from the moment his sober eyes saw it. The tattoo was one of Popeye, spinach can in hand.
    Today, as always, O'Rourke was sporting one of his long-sleeved shirts.
    He sat at his City Editor's desk, butt in mouth, reviewing the four star page proofs when Edna approached him from the left. Edna was a skinny, flat-chested woman. To Skip O'Rourke she looked like a reincarnation of Olive Oyl.
    "This just arrived," Edna said in her squeaky voice. "Someone's marked it Personal: Eyes of Editor Only."  In her hand the woman held a brown manila envelope.
    "Put it in the basket. Can't you see I'm busy?"
    "Yes, sir,"  Edna squeaked. Then she huffed off back to the mailroom. The Skipper merely grunted, but he was smiling to himself. The Headhunter,  O'Rourke thought, I think that's what we'll call him. It's got a catchy ring.
    Skip O'Rourke was an editor straight from the dinosaur school. In these times of Video Display Terminals (VDTs to those in the know), cold process web-offset, and computer pasteups, O'Rourke still longed for the old days of yellow copy and hot metal type. To the Skipper the word "scoop" meant more than an ice-cream cone. Thank God, at least the page proofs still came down like before.
    Page proofs were the first take before a print was run—and each day O'Rourke read them almost religiously. You never knew what embarrassments a typographical error could throw up.
    Completed, the Skipper sat back and put his Hush Puppies up on his desk. He lit a wooden match with his thumbnail and passed it back and forth across the end of the cigar. Then he thought about the bodies and how to handle the story. He was looking for a connection.
    In this city, both The Vancouver Sun and The Province were owned by Pacific Press. This was just a minor monopoly in a world of shrinking presses—and nothing to worry about. Besides, who cares if bad news comes from one or many sources? Bad news is bad news, right, no matter how you print it.
    That morning both papers had used an identical headline. In 96-point type they had asked their readers:    IS SOMEONE HUNTING HEADS?  Skip O'Rourke had decided that the final edition of the Sun should be different. It would ask commuters:   HEADHUNTER ON THE LOOSE?
    Once you're dead you're dead, O'Rourke thought philosophically. What's the difference to the victims, may they rest in peace? But a homicidal psychopath—ah, that would sell some papers.
    The Skipper was an editor, true, blue and—well, tattooed.
    His job was selling newsprint. And that was what he'd do.
    Satisfied, O'Rourke sat up and reached for the envelope that Edna had found in the mail. He ripped it open with a letter knife and dumped the contents onto his desk. All that fell out were two photographs and a magazine clipping. The pictures landed face down.
    O'Rourke picked up the clipping and shook his head in wonder. It was a printed subscription form for a sophisticated men's publication called Buns and Boobs Bonanza. At the top of the form was depicted a. woman naked to the waist. She had the biggest pair of breasts he had ever seen. The caption under the picture read simply: Looking for These?
    O'Rourke shook his head once more and picked up the photographs. He turned them over. Then the cigar dropped abruptly from his lips and the Skipper yelled out those magic words at every editor's heart: "Jesus Christ, somebody stop the bloody presses!"
    For each picture was of a woman's head, severed at the neck