The Homeless Killer

by Claude Bouchard

  McCall had coordinated the efforts to ensure additional police presence during the event. He had also contacted various media groups and had been pleased to see large articles announcing the lunch in all of the city’s daily papers on both Saturday and Sunday. Local television and radio stations had done their part announcing the event as well.

  The lunch itself would be burgers and hotdogs on the grill and, of course, fries with a variety of (non-alcoholic) beverages. Enright had seen to the rental of ten massive propane grills and three industrial deep-fryers which would be delivered and installed in the morning. More than enough off-duty police officers had volunteered as grill operators. Enright had seen to required dealings with food wholesalers who would ensure quantities on an ‘as needed’ basis.

  “Well, you look happy,” said Tim Harris as he reached McCall’s office. “Sitting there grinning like a clam.”

  “I hadn’t realized I was but, yes, I’m pleased with how this whole homeless lunch for tomorrow shaped up in such a short time,” Dave replied.

  “Apologies for doing so,” said Tim, “But I’m about to royally screw up your day.”

  “What?” queried McCall, noting Harris’ grim expression.

  “We have number seven,” Tim announced.

  “Ah, fuck,” the captain muttered. “Where?”

  “Eastern tip of the borough, behind a warehouse at Ste-Catherine and Bercy,” said Harris. “Rail worker found him and called 911 and Station 22 dispatched a patrol car. The cops actually know the guy from his rambling around the neighbourhood for years. Definitely homeless.”

  “Have they found anything indicating it’s our killer?” asked Dave as he reached for his jacket behind the door.

  “All they’ve done so far is secured the scene,” Tim replied. “They’re waiting for us and the crime scene unit.”

  “Well, let’s not keep them waiting,” said McCall.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  It was late afternoon as Dave relaxed on a lounger on the back deck, enjoying a cold beer following another frustrating day. The scene of the most recent homeless murder had not provided the slightest clue excluding another note which the killer had secured into the wire framing of the victim’s cart which read:

  Dear Captain McCall,

  Just a little something to keep you and your team busy on this glorious summer day.

  Best Regards,

  THE Homeless Killer

  As an added taunt, the note had been printed on the back of the lunch announcement flyer.

  He just hoped that the following day’s event would lead to something that might bring this whole sad story to a definite conclusion.

  Chapter 16 – Monday, July 17, 2006

  Dave was surveying the installations at Phillips Square when he recognized the big, black Mercedes edging slowly along on Union. He called out to a uniformed cop standing by an area which had been blocked off with work-horses and gestured to the car. The cop gave a thumbs-up and waved the Mercedes down then moved a work-horse to allow passage into the restricted section.

  Dave walked up as Enright was disembarking.

  “Good morning, William,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “I figured that us VIPs should be entitled to a small privilege.”

  “Quite thoughtful of you, Captain,” Enright approved. “Thank you. This big boat’s hard enough to park as it is.”

  They walked back into the square as Enright looked over the site. It was a curious sight to see bums in raggedy clothing and punks in torn jeans and spiky hair side by side with men in suits and ladies in office attire.

  “Splendid,” he said, happy to see the buzz of activity. “No problems?”

  “Nope, everything is going like clockwork,” confirmed McCall. “They just fired up the grills and will start cooking in about ten minutes. One thing has come up however. A number of people have been asking about making donations. It seems that not everyone wants a free lunch so I sent somebody to get a stash of donation buckets.”

  “Excellent,” Enright nodded. “It’s heart-warming to see how people really care.”

  “Yeah,” Dave agreed then added, “It’s too bad that it takes a bunch of murders to bring people out.”

  “How is the investigation going?” asked Enright.

  “Very little progress and we had another murder this weekend,” McCall informed him.

  “Really? I heard nothing about it.”

  “It happened in a quiet, more industrial area and I guess reporters don’t have their police scanners on early Sunday mornings,” Dave shrugged. “I’d rather we had media coverage for things like this today anyway.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” said Enright. “Still, it’s a shame that another poor soul was lost.”

  A shout of “Burgers off the grill!” caught their attention and they watched as homeless and others lined up in a rather orderly fashion and started the procession to the serving stations. The volunteer ‘chefs’ and serving assistants proved to be quite efficient and the lines moved quickly. Soon, hundreds of people sat, stood and walked around, munching hotdogs, hamburgers and fries in quite a festive, party-like atmosphere. Journalists mingled with the crowd and chatted as camera operators recorded the scene.

  “I guess we should get to our speeches while we have this volume of people,” the captain suggested. “I haven’t prepared anything specific. I’m unfortunately used to ‘off the cuff’ public speaking but I plan to keep it short and to the point.”

  “As do I,” Enright confirmed. “No point in boring everybody and ruining the party.”

  They moved up onto the small stage and as McCall headed for the podium, a sound technician faded the playing music out and nodded to the captain.

  “May I have your attention please,” said McCall although the crowd was already growing quiet. “Thank you. I would like to thank all of you for accepting our invitation and showing up here. I hope our chefs made the food worth it.”

  The crowd looked towards the grill area, applauding and cheering for a moment before returning their attention to the captain.

  “The purpose of this lunch,” Dave continued, “Was to gather as many people as possible, those without homes in particular, to increase awareness that there is a killer in our city, a killer who is preying on the homeless. We are asking you, every one of you, to remain alert and vigilant. We are asking you all to report anything you might think could lead us to catching this monster. We all have the right to live in a city where we feel safe, regardless of where our home is. I now ask you to welcome Mr. William Enright of the Patrick William Enright Foundation for the Homeless, without whose assistance, today’s lunch would not have been possible.”

  The crowd applauded as McCall stepped away from the podium to be replaced by William.

  “Thank you, Captain and thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” said Enright. “I will try to be as brief as Captain McCall and will address myself specifically to my people, although I do wish to thank all of those who generously made donations today. Now, to my people; every life which this killer has taken was one life too many. I beg of you, go to the shelters or, if you won’t, please remain in groups at night. The main issue is your safety. Please, don’t allow this maniac to make you his next victim. I also wish to mention that our new Overdale shelter will be opening in two weeks to provide a number of you with an additional safe haven. Thank you.”

  As he stepped away from the podium and the crowd once again applauded, a man near the stage staggered forward. He wore old, dirty suit pants, ripped off at knee length, simulating Bermuda shorts, which showed his mud spattered legs underneath. A ripped, sleeveless, checked flannel shirt did its best to cover his dirt encrusted torso. His ensemble was completed by a ratty Canadiens tuque, a scratched pair of old taped up sunglasses and mismatched canvas sneakers held to his feet with rubber bands.

  “I wanna say sumfin!” he slurred loudly.

  “Dougie, yur bein stupid!” Another bum intervened, trying to pull the first one back.


  “I said, I WANNA SAY SUMFIN!” Dougie bellowed, pushing his buddy away who stumbled and fell. He then tried to scale the stage but lost his balance and ended up on the ground as well.

  Joanne, Tim and several uniformed officers approached quickly as did a few reporters with their camera operators trailing close behind.

  McCall looked at the cops and gestured for them to hold off.

  “You want to say something, Mister?” he asked as the bum managed to get back to his feet. His buddy rejoined him without, however, attempting to pull him away again.

  “Yeah… I wanna say sumfin,” Dougie mumbled as he wavered unsteadily.

  “Go ahead. We’re listening,” Dave encouraged the drunk. “What do you want to say?”

  The camera operators zoomed in closer as mikes were extended near the bum.

  “I wanna say tha ain’t no muth-fuckin nobody… NOBODY… gonna kill Dougie… NOBODY! Me n Bob er gonna kill th’ fucker ‘fore ee kills uth… Goddat, muthefucker?”

  “I’m sure that he’s got that,” McCall said soothingly, patting the drunk on the arm to calm him down. He looked over at the reporters and quietly said, “We’ve got enough, right guys?”

  A couple of them nodded and signalled to their cam operators to cut it. As they moved off, the others followed suit.

  “What’s your name, buddy?” Dave kindly asked the bum.

  “M’name’s not Buddy,” the drunk laughed. “Is Dougie an thas Bob.”

  He raised his arm to point at his partner and nearly fell over in the process. In the meantime, the other stood facing the stage, looking at the ground and mumbling to himself.

  “You had yourself a couple of drinks, didn’t you?” McCall teased Dougie.

  “Juss a drop,” Dougie stated as formally as he could, demonstrating the minute quantity by pinching his forefinger and thumb together. He then winked at the captain.

  “Oh, I think you had a bit more than a drop, Dougie,” McCall cajoled the man. “Maybe you should sleep it off a little bit, don’t you think?”

  “Mebbe,” Dougie shrugged and teetered.

  “Why don’t you let my friends Tim and Joanne take you and Bob somewhere where you can get a bit of sleep,” Dave suggested. “Then we can get you something to eat if you like.”

  “Ur you ‘rrestin uth?” Dougie slurred, his eyes drooping.

  “No, no, no,” McCall reassured him. “We’re just going to let you get some sleep somewhere safe. You’re not being arrested. Is that alright?”

  “Tha’s awright,” Dougie mumbled enthusiastically. “Comon, Bobbie. Les go.”

  McCall nodded at Tim and Joanne who helped both drunks make it to the car. They got them into the backseat without too much trouble and drove off.

  “Well, that was certainly interesting,” Enright exclaimed, having witnessed the whole incident from the relative safety of the back of the stage. “Where are they taking them?”

  “We’ve got a couple of holding cells at our centre,” replied Dave. “We’ll let them sleep it off there, won’t even lock them in. It’s not the first time, nor the last that this kind of thing happens.”

  “Is that right?” said Enright, impressed.

  “Oh yeah,” McCall laughed. “I’ve gotten to work more than once to find a drunk curled up on our doorstep. We invite them in to sleep on a cot instead.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Dave walked into the Task Force headquarters, whistling, his jacket flung over his shoulder.

  “Well, someone’s in a chipper mood,” Joanne commented as he came by.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Dave challenged with a grin. “That whole thing went great.”

  “Except for the drunks,” said Tim as he walked over. “But they haven’t been a problem at all. They came in and went to the cells without a fuss. I checked on them a couple of times. They’re not sleeping, just laying back and mumbling to one another but they seem to be enjoying the mattresses and the AC.”

  “Let me go check on them,” Dave said, going off at a jaunty pace.

  “What’s with Mister ‘Smiles and Chuckles’?” Joanne asked, puzzled.

  “Damned if I know,” said Harris, just as perplexed.

  “What going on?” asked Frank, returning from the men’s room. He had stayed at the centre as senior officer that morning but was aware of the day’s events as well as of the two bums in the holding cells.

  “I don’t know,” Joanne replied. “Dave just got back, looking and acting goofy, and now he’s off to check up on the two bums back there.”

  As she finished her sentence, she saw McCall returning from the cells with the two bums in tow. He stopped briefly, turning to them and saying something as he pointed to the conference room to one side. The two entered the room as Dave resumed his stroll back to his detectives.

  “Come on back here,” he told the three, still smiling. He turned on his heel and went back to the conference room.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Harris as they followed.

  “Damned if I know,” Nelson replied. “I think they’re not the only ones who’ve been drinking.”

  They entered the room to find the captain seated at the table with one of the bums seated on either side. Although both their expressions were neutral, McCall’s was all grins.

  “Have a seat,” the captain invited them. “And Tim, shut the door.”

  They complied and found themselves staring at McCall and the two drunks who remained wordless.

  “Dave, with all due respect,” said Bakes after a few seconds, “What the hell is going on?”

  “Look at these guys,” McCall laughed. “Don’t you love it?”

  “What are you talking about, sir?” Joanne asked, rarely one to address the captain with such formality. “Are you ok, Captain?”

  McCall turned to one of them and said, “You, I can understand that they don’t see it.” He turned to the other and said, “But you? Absolutely beautiful.”

  The three senior detectives turned to look at each other as the second bum McCall had addressed replied, “Dave, they haven’t seen me in a while.”

  All three zoned in on the man, Dougie, who had burbled out his drunken death threat to the homeless killer as media cameras zoomed in on his face. His speech now was clear, concise and, familiar.

  A few seconds of silence filled the room before Frank Bakes blurted out, “Holy shit.”

  “Frank, you always had a way with words,” Dougie replied with a smile.

  “Chris Barry,” whispered Joanne.

  “Fuck,” muttered Harris.

  “And, my humble superior, Jonathan Addley,” added Chris as he gestured towards ‘Bob’.”

  “Jonathan Addley, that rings a bell,” said Harris, searching.

  “Director of Police Relations with the Ministry of Defence,” Jonathan half stood and bowed slightly.

  “Ok, now I know who you are too,” said Joanne, “But I still don’t get it? What’s a bureaucrat, pardon my language, playing an undercover drunk in the park with Mr. Barry for?”

  “Captain McCall has sworn to me that you three are as trustworthy as is possible,” said Jonathan as he rose. Regardless of his appearance and wardrobe, the man’s presence was suddenly commanding and made everything else disappear. “I trust your captain’s word with my life so let me explain who Chris and I really are…”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Yeah, I was meaning to talk to you about something,” Dave said hesitantly. “I apologize for going directly to Jonathan about this.”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” Chris reassured him. “Chain of command and all should be respected. We’re just pleased you called.”

  They and Jonathan had returned to Chris’ condominium after their meeting with Bakes, Harris and Nelson. All three senior detectives had been left in a stupor with what they had learned but Jonathan and Chris knew that they had won three additional allies.

  “Let’s just hope that it helps,” McCall said. “It’s a long-shot.”
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br />   “We’ll see with time,” Chris replied. “You’re doing what you can and this is part of it. We’ll do what we can to help.”

  Jonathan returned to join them, looking like his bearded self again. He and Chris had each spent a couple of hours cleaning off once they had returned although they both knew that it wouldn’t be the last time.

  As he walked into the den, Chris looked at him and laughed.

  “You should have been here this morning when I first saw Jon fixed up for your burger-burn. I was amazed at the change.”

  Jonathan picked up the conversation. “Actually, when I first saw Chris, I found it incredible. I couldn’t recognize him though I knew it was him.”

  “I have to admit,” said McCall, “That I didn’t spot you at all. Even when you started talking, as planned, I wasn’t sure it was you.”

  “When we left here this morning,” said Jonathan, “I realized that it was a damned good thing that Chris has that private elevator to the garage.”

  “It’s also a damned good thing the windows are tinted on the Z,” replied Chris. “I just hoped we wouldn’t get pulled over by the cops.”

  “Not to worry,” Jon laughed. “I’ve still got connections.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “I wanna say tha ain’t no muth-fuckin nobody… NOBODY… gonna kill Dougie… NOBODY! Me n Bob er gonna kill th’ fucker ‘fore ee kills uth… Goddat, muthefucker?”

  Allan clicked the pause icon, freezing the image on the screen. He had recorded the local news expecting something on the homeless lunch and sure enough, the report was there. It had actually been the lead story. He hadn’t been certain that the drunk’s little speech would be aired due to the swearing but it had. The anchorman had issued the usual warning about the report containing foul language and that viewer discretion was advised.