The Homeless Killer

by Claude Bouchard

  She continued along past the marina docks to her left and then took the cut-off to her right leading her to the walking path alongside the river. There, she turned left and headed east towards the Old Clock Tower, enjoying the sound of the rushing river below. Reaching the tower she turned left again crossing over to the zigzag ramp which led to the lower level and the furthest point east of the quay. Once at the eastern tip, with water on three sides and the lovely potted trees behind her, she parked her cart, pulled out her rusted beach chair and settled down to rest her tired feet.

  As she sat gazing across the last marina docks at the Héritage du Vieux Port luxury condominium complex, she was startled by a voice at her side.

  “Lovely looking building isn’t it?” the man said pleasantly.

  “Ya scared me half to death, mister!” Sally replied, her hand clutched to her chest.

  “So sorry,” exclaimed the man. “I certainly didn’t mean to. I like coming out here in the evening when it’s quiet and nobody’s around to listen to the rush of the river.”

  “I know what you mean.” Sally agreed. “This is one of my favourite spots in the summer.”

  With a mischievous grin, she added, “And to answer your question, yes, that is a lovely building. In fact, I used to live there.”

  “Really?” said the man, taken aback. The least expensive units at the Héritage sold for over $350,000.

  “Yep,” replied the old lady quite seriously before breaking into her smile once again. “I lived there for a bit back when it was an old, abandoned refrigerated warehouse. Got kicked out when they turned it into a fancy place for the rich.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” replied the man sympathetically.

  “Oh well, twasn’t your fault,” said Sally, shrugging her shoulders. “And it ain’t like it happened yesterday.”

  “What I find fascinating is those four towers up on top,” the man said as he pointed upwards. “Each one of those is a five storey personal home with a private elevator.”

  “You’re joshin me,” exclaimed Sally in awe.

  Gazing up at the towers, Sally never saw the blow from the steel pipe coming that ended her life.

  Chapter 4 – Tuesday, July 4, 2006

  “Mom, can I go down the zigzag ramp to where the trees are like I did yesterday?” seven year old Cody asked excitedly, already flushed from his running around.

  “Go ahead but no climbing on the railing or anything else dumb. Get it?” his mother, Holly Nicholls, replied sternly.

  She managed to maintain her serious expression just until he turned and ran off yelling, “Got it! Whoop, whoop, whoopee!”

  Holly cracked into a smile and leaned against her husband as they continued at a leisurely pace hand in hand. “Where does he get the energy this early in the morning? It’s barely eight.”

  “And to think we were worried that he might be bored on this trip with only one amusement park to visit,” replied Owen, her husband.

  “He certainly did enjoy La Ronde on Saturday,” agreed Holly. “From the roller-coasters to the fireworks.”

  “And he’s only asked me when we were going to the water-slides about twenty times so far,” Owen laughed.

  This was the Pittsburgh-based Nicholls’ first trip to Montreal, first trip to Canada in fact, and they had enjoyed every minute since their arrival the previous Friday; much to their surprise, so had Cody. They were headed for Quebec City the following morning for a few days with one day being dedicated to the Valcartier Vacation Village water park.

  They were halfway to the Clock Tower when they heard a loud, wailing scream.

  “Jesus Christ, that’s Cody!” exclaimed Owen as he broke into a sprint in the direction his son had gone.

  As he approached the ramp with Holly at his heels, Cody came rushing up, running faster than he probably ever had, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Mommy, Daddy!” he cried, flinging himself into their arms.

  “What’s wrong, dude?” his father asked, crouching down to eye level as he hugged his son.

  “There’s a dead old lady down there,” Cody sobbed into his father’s t-shirt.

  “Oh my God!” Holly uttered. “Are you sure, Cody?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” snuffled Cody, nodding his head emphatically. “She’s dead with blood on her head. I know cuz I saw it. Don’t go down there or maybe you’ll be dead too!”

  “It’s ok, Cody. Don’t worry, we’re not going down there,” his father reassured him. “Come on. Let’s go call the police and tell them how brave you are.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Nice little circus we have going here,” muttered Dave McCall as he and Frank Bakes crossed the parking lot towards the Old Clock Tower.

  It was just past nine o’clock in the morning, less than twenty minutes after the call had come from Station 21 about the dead, apparently homeless woman but crowds were already starting to form. Curious onlookers lined the docks of the marina as well as the sidewalk along de la Commune Street across the water. A handful of motorboats cruised slowly back and forth around the end of the Clock Tower quay, their passengers trying to get a glimpse of the crime scene activity with binoculars, cameras and video cams. Three media vans were already in the parking lot, their camera operators and reporters milling about in search of a decent viewpoint.

  McCall and Bakes reached the top of the ramp where two officers from Station 21 stood guard by a parked crime scene van in order to discourage overzealous onlookers and journalists.

  “Captain, Frank,” Constable Alain Lesage greeted them. “The crime scene guys just got here.”

  “Morning Alain, Robert,” McCall acknowledged the officers as Frank nodded. “Have you been down there?”

  “Yes, Robert and I were the ones who responded to the call,” confirmed Lesage. “She’s dead alright, the back of her head’s all bloody.”

  “Any idea who she is?” asked Dave.

  “Sally Gordon is the name that we’ve always known her by,” replied Constable Robert Tanguay. “She’s been on the streets around here long before I started and I’ve been with the 21 for eight years now.”

  “Was she any trouble around here? Frank queried. “Any run-ins with any local shops, restaurants?”

  “No way,” Lesage laughed. “I’ve known old Sally for five years and she’s the sweetest old bag lady you could ever meet.”

  “Definitely,” concurred Tanguay. “I know for a fact that a lot of the restaurants around here fed her regularly enough that she was eating well every day. Some stores gave her clothes sometimes and she even had a number of sheds or garages available to sleep in or get out of the rain. A lot of people knew her and everybody liked her. She’d even pose for photos with tourists here in the summer.”

  “Seems like a damn shame,” said Frank.

  “It definitely is,” nodded Lesage. “Sally was a fixture here in Old Montreal. It might sound crazy but I’m sure people are going to miss her. I can’t understand why anyone would do this.”

  “Any other street people in the neighbourhood that might have had a problem with her?” McCall questioned. “This may be far-fetched but maybe one of them wanted her stuff.”

  “I don’t think so,” Tanguay shook his head. “Her shopping cart’s down there with her, chock full. Maybe somebody took something but I kind of doubt it. You’ll see when you get there but she doesn’t seem to have been abused or anything like that either. She’s fully dressed lying on the ground in front of her beach chair with a big, bloody gash on the back of her head.”

  “Who found her?” asked Bakes.

  “Family visiting from Pittsburgh,” Lesage answered, consulting his notes. “Holly and Owen Nicholls and their seven year old son, Cody. It’s actually the boy who found her. He had run ahead of his parents and came back screaming. Parents didn’t go down. They went straight to the guard’s hut at the parking entrance to report it. The guard called the station, the radio call came through, Robert and I were on Ste-Ca
therine near Amherst so we took the call, drove down here and voilà, we found her.”

  “Poor kid,” said Frank. “Kinda screws up a vacation.”

  “Where are the Nicholls now? asked McCall.

  “We had a car drive them back to their hotel,” replied Lesage. “They’re at the Mariott on St-Jean-Baptiste. I told them that you might want to meet them.”

  “Do you think it’ll serve any purpose?” Dave queried. “I don’t want to ruin their vacation any more than I have to.”

  “I really don’t think so,” Tanguay volunteered. “The parents didn’t go down anywhere near the body. We spoke to the boy and he said that when he got down there, he saw the lady lying on the ground. He stopped, said hello, got no answer and moved a couple of steps closer. Our estimate, based on how he described it when we questioned him is about five to six feet from the body. Then he noticed the blood and high-tailed out of there screaming. Parents confirm that Cody was down there probably less than 20 seconds from when he disappeared down the ramp to when he came back up.”

  “Call them and tell them to enjoy the rest of their vacation,” decided McCall. “We’ll contact them back if required but I seriously doubt it.”

  Turning to Frank, he added, “Let’s go see homeless victim number two. I hope they’re not related.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Did you hear about what happened in the Old Port?” Elena White asked her boss as he came strolling into their office suite in Westmount.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” smiled William Enright. “So, I guess I didn’t.”

  “It’s sketchy for now,” Elena went on, gesturing towards the flat screen on the wall. “No statements have been made by the police yet but it seems like a homeless lady was murdered by the Old Clock Tower. This just came on.”

  The television was set on a local all news channel as it usually was most days, part of Elena’s job as Enright’s executive assistant being to catch any news which might be beneficial to the Foundation’s cause. As Enright concentrated on the screen, Elena increased the volume with the ever-present remote in her hand.

  “…very little detail to date as no statement has been issued as of yet by the police,” was saying the CBC reporter on site, the Clock Tower visible in the backdrop. “Police have cordoned off the site and murder is suspected as a crime scene unit is present and Captain Dave McCall, head of the Special Homicide Task Force, arrived on the scene approximately thirty minutes ago.”

  The reporter stopped for a few seconds, pressing his earpiece more firmly into place as he received word from his producer.

  “I’ve just been informed that in a moment, you’ll be seeing live images of the crime scene captured from Montreal’s CJMT traffic copter,” announced the reporter as his camera operator scanned upwards and focused on the helicopter hovering up past the Tower.

  Seconds later, the image changed to that being projected from the chopper itself. The scene depicted showed several crime scene and police officials working around the body of a woman. Behind her was a beach chair, apparently rusted and worn and a few feet off to one side was an old, rusted shopping cart, filled with a variety of collected odds and ends.

  “What you are seeing now, live, is the crime scene,” continued the reporter’s voice. “We will know more once the police have issued their statement but based on the current visuals, it would seem that the victim is female and possibly one of the many homeless that we see in our city. This is Arthur Shein, CBC news, Montreal, at the Old Clock Tower.”

  “One less for our city council to worry about,” William spat out as Elena lowered the volume. “I’m heading over there; I should be able to make a statement as well, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Go get them, William,” Elena replied, her expression as angry as his.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Yes sir,” said Captain McCall into his cell phone. “That’s how I’m seeing it too. I’ll keep you posted on any developments.”

  “So, he agrees with you?” asked Frank as Dave snapped his phone shut.

  “The Director agrees with me wholeheartedly,” announced Dave with a grim smile. “I will tell the press about the guy on Mount-Royal on Saturday and will suggest that we possibly could be dealing with a serial killer. Memo will be going out to all stations; patrols will caution as many homeless as possible to be careful out there. The Director fully agrees that if we try to keep this hush and it escalates, it could all blow in our faces; not the kind of PR he likes.”

  “Speaking of escalation and shit blowing in our faces,” Frank said, gesturing towards the parking lot behind Dave.

  McCall turned to see the well known philanthropist, William Enright, climbing out of his black Mercedes S600 and heading towards the cluster of media vehicles.

  “I guess I won’t be the only one chatting with the media this morning,” Dave smiled tightly. “OK, let’s go talk to the press.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Thank you for your patience here this morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Dave began with a dozen microphones and several cameras trained on him. “I’ll tell you what I know about the situation here and I also want to bring something else to your attention. I’ll answer what questions I can afterwards but I ask you to bear with me; we’ve only been on the scene for an hour.”

  The various reporters nodded their heads or emitted sounds of agreement and McCall carried on.

  “The body of a female was found this morning at approximately eight o’clock on the lower part of the quay, east of the Clock Tower.”

  “Who found the body?” a zealous reporter called out.

  “I think we agreed that you’d hold off your questions until I was done,” the captain snapped at the journalist. “Did I say that part too fast?”

  The reporter just grinned and McCall continued.

  “The – body – was - found,” Dave said slowly, raising snickers from the media crowd, “By a family taking a walk out here this morning. Nothing was disturbed; they reported it immediately to Old Port Security who reported it to Station 21. Constables Alain Lesage and Robert Tanguay of Station 21 arrived at the scene at 8:20, confirmed that the victim was indeed deceased and called in to report and request back-up and a crime scene unit. Since foul play was suspected, we were contacted by Station 21 at 8:40 and arrived here around 9:00. So far so good?”

  The journalists grunted assents and nodded; nobody asked any questions.

  “We have a tentative identity of the victim, at least the name by which she was known apparently by many around here, but we will not be releasing that until we can confirm its veracity and find out if there is any next of kin.

  “As I mentioned, the victim was female, Caucasian, possibly in her sixties and, according to Constables Lesage and Tanguay who patrol this area, was a vagrant. As we learn more, we will issue other statements as required. Now, are there any questions?”

  Amid chuckles from his peers, the trigger-happy reporter asked the first question. “What was the cause of death?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not a medical examiner,” McCall responded. “So I can’t answer that. Cause of death will be determined by the M.E. following an autopsy.”

  “Well, was there any particular injury that you believe might have caused the death?” insisted the reporter.

  “There again,” the captain replied with a slight smile, “I’m neither a medical or crime scene specialist so I don’t feel it’s my position to venture a guess.”

  “Do you know the identity of the family who found the body?” another journalist piped in.

  “Yes,” Dave bluntly replied.

  “Uh, would you give us their names?” the reporter tried.

  “No.” Dave smiled. “These people were unfortunate victims themselves, simply by showing up somewhere at the wrong time. I’m not going to ruin their vacation any further by siccing a pack of… the media’s finest on them.”

  There were more chuckles as McCall went on. “If these people wish t
o contact anyone of you, they are free to do so. I’ll leave the choice up to them. Are there any other questions?”

  Following a few seconds of silence from the reporters, Dave continued.

  “This is the second suspicious death of a homeless person in less than a week,” he announced to the surprised group of reporters.

  “Saturday night, a homeless man was shot on Mount-Royal at approximately 11:00 p.m. Several witnesses heard a single shot as did two police officers who were patrolling the mountain. Nothing was found that night or the next morning following a search. A civilian on a hike on Sunday afternoon came across the body and reported it to the police. The victim has not yet been identified and I don’t know that he will be any time soon, if ever. That’s about all I can tell you about this case.

  “We don’t know if these two killings are related. Chances are that they are not. However, on the off chance that they are, we are concerned about the safety of the homeless in our city. A communiqué from the Director’s office will be sent to all members of the force this morning instructing them to inform every homeless person seen of the possible danger.”

  “Captain, are you telling us that a serial killer is out there preying on the homeless?” a young reporter asked with a look of concern.

  “No, I’m not saying that with any degree of certainty,” Dave clarified. “I’m telling you that it is a possibility and that we intend to do whatever is required to stop such a person if one exists and secondly, that we will do everything in our power to keep everyone safe from harm in our wonderful city, including these unfortunate individuals. On that note, I have to go now. It’s unfortunately looking to be a busy day.”

  “If I may, Captain McCall, before you leave,” a resonant voice called out from behind the reporters.

  The media group parted the way as William Enright moved towards Dave.

  “I would just like to publicly thank you,” announced Enright, “In the presence of these fine representatives of the media, for your obvious concern for the people who I battle for day after day.”