The Homeless Killer

by Claude Bouchard

  “Wait your turn and shut up,” the bum said calmly, looking him straight in the eye.

  “You fucking piece of shit!” the big man growled, dropping his merchandise to the floor and reaching for the bum’s neck with both hands. Just as his fingers came in contact with Jonathan, the big man’s eyes suddenly became glazed and unfocused as he started to shake uncontrollably. Jonathan, with Chris’ help, half-guided, half-dragged the big man to the door.

  “You keep the gum, Mister!” called out the Asian with a grin as they went through the door with the other customers staring in awe.

  Once outside they quickly brought the man down to a sitting position against the wall as curious passers-by looked on.

  Jonathan brought his face close to the man’s and said, “Next time, you’d better listen to me, understand?”

  The man glared up at Jon but didn’t respond. Suddenly, he was racked with another wave of spastic convulsions.

  Once they ceased after several seconds, Jonathan simply said, “Answer me.”

  The big man nodded weakly once or twice.

  “I don’t want you to go to that store anymore,” Jonathan told him. “Do you understand?”

  Again the man nodded.

  “And I want you to promise to be polite anywhere you shop in the future,” added Jon. “Is that clear?”

  The big man nodded a little more emphatically this time as his strength slowly returned.

  “Good,” said Jonathan, slightly banging the man’s head against the wall before rising. “I’m glad that we reached an agreement. I hope you were serious because I was.”

  “What did you get him with exactly?” Chris asked as they sauntered away.

  Jonathan held up his right hand, the four fingers of which were encased in rigid black plastic. The device somewhat resembled brass knuckles in shape and had two shiny metallic squares on its front.

  “They call it the Knuckle Blaster,” Jon explained with a smile. “Nine hundred fifty thousand volts of stopping power and designed to fit even smaller hands.”

  “You’re really getting to like those stun guns, ain’t ya Bob?” Chris chuckled.

  “Yepper, Dougie, I am,” Jon confirmed.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Allan looked at his watch and decided to call it a night. It was 10:30 and he had been roaming the downtown streets for the last four hours, visiting one homeless gathering haunt to another, searching for Dougie and Bob.

  Contrary to the previous evening, a few of the drifters and street kids he had spoken to had said that they had in fact seen the two guys in the photograph. However, memories were vague and even the distribution of money and cigarettes didn’t culminate in any concrete results. He still wasn’t sure if these deadbeats had actually seen Dougie and Bob or if they were screwing with his head. He was starting to get rather frustrated, having to deal with these useless beings and having to depend on them, of all people, for information.

  He’d be back tomorrow and he would find them soon enough, he reasoned. After all, it wasn’t as if two drunken hobos could outsmart him even if they’d known he was looking for them. That was a pure certainty.

  Chapter 19 – Friday, July 21, 2006

  Further enquiries, not all above board, had revealed little further on the subject of Manon D’Astous. She was listed as the sole proprietor of the townhouse on Victor-Hugo and did not seem to carry a mortgage. The car was owned and paid for as well. Through discreet queries with Revenue Canada contacts, Harris had learned that D’Astous had never filed an income tax return. A credit check had revealed that her VISA and American Express credit card balances were paid in full monthly and charges to the two accounts had slightly exceeded thirty six thousand dollars over the previous year. She had one non-interest bearing checking account with regular deposits just sufficient to cover any payments issued.

  Detectives Irene Bossy and Eric St-Clair from McCall’s team had spent most of the day keeping an eye on D’Astous’ whereabouts, taking photos when possible. She had started her day around nine o’clock with a forty-five minute run in her neighbourhood. Thirty minutes following her return, she was off again, this time by car. It had turned out to be a day of errands during which she had visited her bank and a beauty salon before meeting another woman, identity unknown, for lunch at Mikado, a Japanese restaurant on St-Denis.

  The two women had parted ways after having finished their meal and D’Astous had headed for Ogilvy’s where she had spent a couple of hours shopping and browsing. She’d returned home at around four o’clock where she had since remained.

  It was now 6:27, nearly ninety minutes since Joanne Nelson and Tim Harris had relieved their younger peers of the surveillance for the day.

  “We might be sitting out here for a while,” Joanne commented, knowing that stake-outs had never been her partner’s forte.

  “To be honest with you, I don’t really mind this time,” Tim replied. “This one is up to something and just thinks that she’s too smart for her own good. We’re gonna get her.”

  No sooner had he finished his sentence that D’Astous’ front door opened and she emerged.

  “Whoa, baby!” Harris exclaimed as Nelson let out a low whistle.

  “I just understood why you don’t mind watching her,” murmured Joanne in awe. “God, will you look at that dress!”

  “Not much dress to look at,” replied Harris.

  D’Astous wore a royal blue, backless, silk mini-dress, V-cut down to the navel. High, spike-heeled, silver-lamé sandals and a matching evening purse completed her ensemble.

  She sashayed down the steps and along the paving stone walkway with the confidence and poise of a runway model before sliding into her convertible roadster. The engine started with a rumble, the reverse lights came on and the sports car rolled back into the street. With a little squeal of the tires, she was off and turning onto the short strip of Versailles to Notre-Dame.

  “Let’s go see where the party is,” said Joanne as she started the engine and followed.

  The BMW turned northbound almost immediately at Guy and continued straight through to de Maisonneuve where it headed westward again. Half a dozen blocks further, they were into Westmount and minutes later, the roadster turned right onto Redfern and then into a wide expansive driveway a little over halfway to Sherbrooke.

  Joanne slowed and approached at a leisurely pace. They passed in front of the large, high-value property just in time to see a man in his fifties greet D’Astous with a kiss and hug and close the door behind them.

  “Doesn’t look like a big party,” Nelson said, having noted the absence of cars in the spacious driveway.

  “Dinner with her rich daddy?” Harris suggested with a smile.

  “Not in that dress,” Joanne laughed. “Try an evening with a rich client.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  It was nearing ten o’clock when Allan walked into Cabot Square across Ste-Catherine from the old Forum, now known as the Pepsi Forum. He sauntered around, looking at the homeless who stood, sat or lay in the square, singly or sometimes in twos or threes. There weren’t too many at the moment. He estimated maybe fifteen to twenty in all, scattered around. He strolled around the centre circle, scrutinizing the faces of those about as best he could but saw no one who looked familiar. Searching for those two idiots was becoming an extremely time-consuming, frustrating task.

  He noticed a threesome seated on the lawn under the trees near the Tupper Street side of the square and approached them.

  “Evening, Gentlemen,” he greeted them, forcing a smile.

  “Wha-da fuck you want?” grunted the heavy-set one in the middle.

  “I’m looking for these two guys,” Allan held the smile as he extended the print.

  The big man stared at Allan as he took the print and tore it up without looking at it.

  “Wha-guys?” he asked as he tossed the photo shreds in the air.

  His two buddies laughed and sneered up at Allan in defiant solidarity.

  “Why
did you do that?” Allan quietly asked.

  “Ge-da fuck outta here,” the big one suggested. “We doan need rich fucks like you hasslin us.”

  “I was just asking you a fucking question,” Allan snarled. “Why’d you rip up my fucking photograph?”

  “Why’d you rip up my fuckin pho-ta-graph?” the big guy mimicked as he lumbered to his feet. “Cuz I felt like it, asshole.”

  He took a couple of steps until he was face to face with Allan.

  “Whatcha gonna do cuz I ripped up your pho-ta-graph, asshole?” he growled at Allan’s face.

  “How about this,” said Allan.

  He moved back quickly a couple of steps as he pulled a small .22 pistol from a pocket of his vest and pulled the trigger, twice at the fat man and once at each of the other two.

  Though the gunshots weren’t excessively loud due to the small calibre, it did attract the attention of others in the square.

  “Wha’s goin on?” a voice called as several of the square’s inhabitants approached.

  Allan backed several steps quickly as he pocketed the hand gun then turned and started to jog, then run. Within seconds he had disappeared into the Metro entrance at the northwest corner of the square.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The clock on the dashboard read 10:56 by the time Dave McCall pulled up on Atwater by Cabot Square. The flashing of red, blue and white from the light bars of patrol cars and ambulances turned the darkness into a freakish, macabre disco show and did its share of crowd attraction.

  Activating his own LED grille lights and with a ‘whoop’ of his siren, McCall encouraged the crowd to part the way then pulled his Xterra up onto the sidewalk. As he climbed out of the SUV, he saw Frank Bakes approaching within a cordoned off area of the square.

  “What’s the damage?” Dave asked as he passed under the yellow tape.

  “Three shot, two didn’t make it,” Bakes replied. “They’re just about to take the third one to the hospital. Bullet went through his bicep and hit a rib but he’ll be fine. Lucky it was a .22.”

  “We know the weapon?” McCall queried in surprise.

  “We know it’s a .22 semi-automatic,” Frank informed him. “We found the shells.”

  “Is there any indication that this was our guy?” the captain enquired.

  “If it was, he didn’t leave a note,” Bakes explained. “But I’m not sure that this was planned. Based on what I got from our survivor, the guy who shot them was looking for a couple of other guys. He had a photo and one of the three victims ripped it up. Our shooter got mad, pulled the gun and shot them.”

  “Where’s this photo? Do we have it?” Dave asked.

  “Maybe not all but some of it,” Frank replied. “We were lucky that it wasn’t windy. One of the techs is putting the puzzle back together in the van.”

  At that moment, the crime scene technician in question poked his head out of the rear of the van parked on Tupper, looked around and spotted them.

  “Frank, Captain, come over here,” he called.

  They trotted over and the tech handed Dave the reconstructed photograph, now encased in a plastic sleeve. A handful of pieces were missing but none of importance. The photo or rather, its subjects, were recognizable.

  “It’s looking more promising that this was our guy,” said Bakes as he looked at the photo of ‘Dougie’ and ‘Bob’.

  “Yes it is,” Dave murmured. “Did you get a description of our shooter?”

  “A few, in fact,” Bakes grimaced slightly as he pulled out his notepad. “And they tend to vary to a certain degree. The only person who really saw the shooter close up is our survivor but even he wasn’t paying much attention to him. Overall, we’d be looking for a guy of average height and size. He was a regular guy, not a bum, as I was told. All agree that he was wearing shades, a dark baseball cap and that his hair seemed light, either blond or grey. White guy with no beard. Dark pants, maybe jeans, a shirt or pullover but not a t-shirt, something with a collar. A few people said he was wearing a coat like a windbreaker but our survivor said he had on a vest, no sleeves, with pockets. Said he remembered that because the guy pulled the gun out of a pocket on the vest.”

  “Pretty damned generic,” McCall muttered in disgust. “Do you think any of them could help with an Identi-Kit?”

  “Not really,” Frank shook his head. “Based on how these descriptions were given to me, I think we’d just end up with as many different faces as we’d have witnesses. Also keep in mind that several of the witnesses are drunk or tripping on something.”

  “Well, at least we have this,” Dave said, holding up the photograph, “Which could indicate that the bait idea worked. I’d better get a word out to Chris and Jon.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Chris and Jonathan sat beneath the statue of Edward VII in Phillips Square sharing a half litre wine bottle in a paper bag.

  “It’s nearly eleven-thirty,” Chris murmured. “I think we should pack it in for the night.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Jon replied, “Especially considering that our lovely spouses await us at the condo.”

  They slowly struggled to their feet and staggered towards Cathcart. As they neared the sidewalk, an old man with long matted grey hair and beard rose unsteadily from a nearby bench and came towards them.

  “I know you!” he slurred cheerily as he pointed to them.

  They stopped and watched him approach, both internally on alert. They hadn’t a clue what the killer they were trying to bait even looked like.

  “Get outta here!” Chris slurred back as he teetered somewhat while Jonathan stumbled a step or so backwards. “You doan know me.”

  “Sure do!” the old man boasted proudly. “Yur in my pitture.”

  “Wha pitture you mean?” mumbled Jon, swaying a bit closer to one side of the man.

  “Juss a minute,” the grey beard said with determination holding up a forefinger. “I’ll show ya.”

  He fumbled into a front pocket of the lumberjack shirt he wore, pulled out a small stack of carelessly folded papers and proceeded to sort through them.

  “Ha! Got it,” he slurred with pride.

  He stuffed the other papers back into the pocket and then unfolded the one he had selected.

  “Look. This is the pitture I tole ya,” he grinned as he held it out towards them.

  Chris took an unsteady step closer and took the photo. It was already dog-eared on the corners and white lines from the folds crisscrossed the images but it was definitely a photograph of himself and Jon.

  “Lookit, Bob,” Chris said, handing the print to Jonathan. “It’s us in the pitture!”

  “I tole ya,” the old drunk beamed as he crossed his arms across his chest. “But it’s my pitture. You cain’t keep it.”

  “Tha’s awright,” Jonathan chuckled as he handed the photo back. “We doan need it cuz we know wha we look like.”

  “Yeah, we know wha we look like,” Chris laughed. “But where’d ya git a pitture of us? Tha’s wha I doan unnerstan.”

  “The cigarette man gave it ta me,” the grey beard replied. “He was lookin for ya and he gimme the pitture.”

  “Wha’s he look like?” Jonathan enquired.

  “I dunno. Juss a reglar guy, I guess, with a cap n sunglasses.” The old man thought for a moment then added, “Doan look like a bum like us though. Dressed nice and is clean.”

  “When’d he give ya the pitture n where?” asked Jonathan.

  “Right here juss th’other day,” said the drunk. “I seen im t’day too so mebbe he’s still lookin for ya but he din talk ta me. I cain tell im I seen ya when I see im agin.”

  “Tha’s ok,” Chris agreed. “We wanna meet im too if he’s got pittures of us. And if ya see im and we’re here, ya can tell us n mebbe we can s’prise im!”

  “Awright!” the old man laughed. “We gonna s’prise im!”

  Chapter 20 – Saturday, July 22, 2006

  “Hey Dave,” Chris answered the phone. “The bait’s working.
”

  “How do you know that?” McCall questioned, puzzled.

  “Cuz the guy is going around with a photo of Jon and me and asking if anybody’s seen us,” Chris replied.

  “And how do you know that?” Dave asked. “Did you speak to Frank?”

  “No. Was I supposed to?” Chris said, now also confused.

  “I’m just trying to understand how come you’re aware that this guy is going around with photos,” McCall explained. “I was calling you to let you know exactly that.”

  “I’m starting to sense the source of your confusion, Captain,” Chris laughed and then proceeded to recount their encounter with the old drunk the previous night.

  “So that’s how we know about the photos,” Chris concluded. “How did you find out?”

  “Our friend showed the picture to some people in Cabot Square last night,” related Dave. “One of them took the print and ripped it up. This apparently annoyed our buddy so he pulled a gun and shot three people. Two are dead. The third was lucky and ended up with a hole in his arm and a cracked rib.”

  “Whoa,” Chris exclaimed. “Do you think he’s starting to crack?”

  “It’s possible,” admitted McCall. “I’m concerned now that all these homeless people are more and more at risk if our guy’s losing it.”

  “On the other hand,” Chris offered, “He’s more likely to slip up if he goes out of control.”

  “True,” Dave agreed. “If he’s out hunting for you guys and asking around, each person he talks to is one more person who can identify him. Thanks to the photos he’s left behind, we’re now aware that he’s on the prowl and last night, he left four empty shells at the scene.”

  “I think he’s starting to break,” Chris ventured. “Dougie and Bob are just going to have to push a little bit harder.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “There she goes,” murmured Detective Irene Bossy as she gazed through the dark tinted rear glass of the Dodge Caravan parked on Place Victor-Hugo. “Seems like another party night.”