Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  “We’re now in very dangerous waters,” Bertrand admitted, “and I’ll be frank with you: There are corrupt officers cooperating with bikers and the mafia. We’ve already discovered one, but he managed to escape. I am pretty sure there are others. Leaks of information, failures to ambush large drug deliveries, and other illegal activities are vivid demonstrations of that. Somebody tips off the criminals and helps them escape our major actions, sometimes after months of work.”

  “It’s appalling,” Robert said in a loud, cracking voice. “I would never have suspected that the Quebec police could be so corrupt.” His eyes flashed in the righteous indignation of a superior judge.

  “It seems that you want to single out the Quebec police—,” Bertrand seemed to be losing his patience. “What police force is better?”

  “You don’t have to go too far,” Monica cut in. “The Ontario police are impeccable. Why don’t you consult them?”

  She looked around in search of admiring supporters. Whatever one might think, her arguments could not be beaten, she thought.

  Bertrand did not respond right away. He stood in silence and smiled, observing the audience.

  “Ontario . . . ,” he said at last, as if talking to himself. And then, appealing to Robert, he asked, “Do you know, sir, that Toronto ranks third in North America in the number of narcotics sales?”

  “I don’t,” Robert said. “So what? What about it?”

  “How come there are no corrupt officers there? Can you explain it? Maybe you can, Monica? Such a big volume of narcotics sales, but no significant cases against the illegal drug trade, and no corrupt officers. . . . What are the police doing in Toronto? Please explain, don’t be shy—Even your weakest arguments should be accepted seriously.”

  Nobody spoke. Bertrand looked around and continued to present more evidence.

  “As a matter of fact, there have been a few police officers in Ontario charged for their connections with bikers. These cases simply didn’t gain much publicity. When it’s quiet, politicians, and I will admit, the police, tend to do little to tackle a problem. Wait until the bikers attain such financial power that we won’t be able to do anything with them.”

  “I suggest adopting a more positive tone for our discussions.” Robert was tapping his laptop. “Let’s put our heads together and come up with something constructive.”

  “I’d rather listen, first, to the law enforcement people and how they intend to finish the biker problem once and for all,” Monica said, staring at Bertrand.

  “If you’re asking me for a solution, I don’t have an answer for you. We can only try to stop the biker wars. We can only try to diminish their power. I don’t see anything beyond that.”

  Feeble sounds of surprise flew from different corners of the table.

  “Does that mean,” Monica went on, “that the police force is helpless against bikers? Then, what do you need additional funds for? I guess it’s easy to spend the government’s money for nothing.”

  In the silence that followed, Bertrand examined everyone around the table. With a feeling of contentment, Monica noticed anger in his eyes.

  “Let me, for a moment, get back to what I’ve already said,” Bertrand began. “The drug market in Quebec is about a billion dollars a year, maybe more. We don’t have exact statistics, as neither vendors nor consumers are willing to participate in our survey.”

  This remark inspired a few relaxing chuckles.

  “Do you think this market will just vanish? Do you think it will ever disappear from the radar screen of criminals? It attracts the most sophisticated and powerful criminal minds. Suppose we put all known drug dealers in our province in jail. Bingo! Do you think that the illegal drug trade would cease to exist? It would be wishful thinking to assume that it would disappear for any reason; the supply side would just be left unattended. Groups of other criminals, or non-criminals, would flood in, staging a chaotic and brutal war to take over.

  “The very idea of punishing everyone in the criminal network is nothing more than a utopian idea, either. Mind you, we don’t have a penitentiary system large enough to accommodate them all. And, the system itself is not much of a deterrent, as it was in the Middle Ages. For the most dangerous criminals, our prisons are more of an inconvenience than a punishment. They control the narcotics trade in the jails. They have women in there as often as they want. Some of them even have their own chefs to prepare delicious dishes. The list goes on and on.

  “We need more money, that’s right, but I agree with my opponents that money is not a final solution. The more liberal our policies become toward our criminals, the more money the police forces need.” He threw a look at Monica. She understood its meaning and hardened her face.

  “Now, suppose we did magic and gathered good evidence against all the bikers and their associates,” he continued. “Do you know how many people we would have to prosecute? Many thousands. We don’t have enough courts, judges, juries, or lawyers to process them quickly. It would take years. I think that if this happened, we would create more problems than we solved.”

  “What do you expect from the politicians, then?” Monica asked. Bertrand was about to answer, but Robert spoke next.

  “I agree with Bertrand that the heart of the matter is not the bikers or any other organized crime group. The problem lies with human nature in general and our society in particular. Can we do something about prostitution in our society? You could legalize it or prohibit it, or whatever your imagination suggests. But you couldn’t wipe it out.”

  “Do you suggest legalizing it?” Monica asked Robert.

  “I will come to that,” Robert replied. “Take, for instance, tobacco. We don’t have criminals dealing in tobacco. Politicians can regulate that industry anyway they want. Why don’t we do the same by legalizing other activities, such as prostitution? Can you imagine how many lives we could save, how many abuses and violent crimes against women we could prevent?”

  “This is too much,” Monica interrupted. “Let’s stick to our mandate.”

  “This is just a thought,” Robert said with a smile. “But my point is, we’re a society that desperately needs dreams. This is a paradox: Being the wealthiest society in the world, we still need things to take us away from reality and into the realm of dreams. These could be drugs, alcohol—anything else. I believe that we can fight the bikers and the other gangs. But we have no chance to win the war against them. Not a damn chance.”

  “That’s not a very positive note,” commented Brian. “Let’s be realistic and use some common sense in our discussions.”

  “True,” Bertrand agreed. “Let’s be realistic. So what if I offered to discuss ways to change the evil habits of our society? To convince people not to use drugs, prostitutes, and, well, even . . . alcohol. What would you say about me? You’d say that the guy is crazy. However, some of you probably think that ending drug distribution is a realistic idea. I think it’s not. As far as additional funds are concerned, let me say this: The illegal drug trade makes its lords more powerful than ever. The money they have, the number of soldiers they command, is always increasing. How on Earth do you expect the police to fight this ever-expanding army with a constant-size police force? We have to increase in numbers, too! Moreover, with our lenient judges and a host of restrictions and stupid regulations, criminals easily get away with serious offenses every day. Do you want to be realistic? Let’s fight first with our own restrictions. Let’s adopt and enforce some laws that will make our jobs more productive.”

  “What are your concrete suggestions?” Monica asked. Bertrand was about to answer, but Robert again demanded attention.

  “I suggest we take a break,” he announced. Everyone agreed. Monica stood up, and Bertrand saw her looking at him as if she wanted to talk with him privately. He accepted the silent invitation and walked over to her; she took him by the sleeve to the doorway.

  “I gather you’re not receptive to the idea of passing a law against bikers,” he said.
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  “Right you are. Forgive me for making such a tactless remark, but your agency tends to abuse the power it’s given by the government. That’s why it has to be so strictly regulated and controlled.”

  “Could you give me an example?” asked Bertrand.

  “Sure. The latest case that comes to mind is when you planted evidence against the Devil’s Knights. Such a scandal! Not only did the judge have to dismiss the charges, which in itself was a huge setback for you, but you also lost the public trust. Now you ask for a law that would permit you to act with no control?”

  “But it’s against biker clubs.”

  “So what?” Monica shot back, heading toward the cafeteria that was located at the corner of the floor. “There are many motorcycle clubs. Which ones would you target? Would it be up to you to decide which one is a criminal organization? Come on! What if you don’t like some other minority group? Don’t you understand that such a law would be unconstitutional?”

  “I’m a police officer, not a politician,” Bertrand pointed out proudly. “Politicians create fertile ground for criminals. The more humanely we treat them—which is a credit to you politicians, of course—the more criminals we create. You only have to wait until they come to your home. Then, I suspect you’d change your mind. I’d like to see how you’d react in your moment of need when you heard that the police couldn’t do much for you because of restrictions, procedures, constitutional interpretation—whatever. I hope it doesn’t happen, of course—don’t get me wrong.”

  “Safeguarding civil rights is our fundamental principle,” Monica said. “Criminal or not, each member of our society has to be duly protected.”

  They reached the door leading into the cafeteria where Bertrand stopped, letting Monica enter with a gallant gesture.

  “Would you like to join me at my table?” Monica asked.

  “Sure. I’d love to!”

  She chose a table by the window, with a lot of light pouring in from outside.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” she said.

  “Ask as many questions as you like. I’m here to offer my expertise to the task force.”

  “I understand that it’s a turf war between the gangs,” she started. “But all gangs are similar in structure and mentality, as I understand it. Why, then, couldn’t the Iron Ghosts convert themselves into Devil’s Knights?” Monica was proud of her smart question.

  “Good question,” Bertrand said. “Only a few of the Iron Ghosts would qualify as outlaw bikers. I won’t go too deep into that. Just take my word for it. It means, however, that most of them would be thrown out of business as soon as the whole turf belonged to Devil’s Knights. But business is exactly the reason for going to war with the Devil’s Knights, even if it means risking their lives. Those few who choose to betray the Iron Ghosts and qualify to convert as bikers may not necessarily remain too long in the Devil’s Knights ranks. Most likely, they would be killed. The war has gone too far.”

  “So, Iron Ghosts aren’t really bikers? I gather they are more like gangsters of different sorts,” Monica remarked.

  “Right you are, Monica,” Bertrand agreed with false enthusiasm. “But they took a lot from the bikers’ subculture, if their way of life could be called a subculture.”

  “Let me ask you something else.” When Bertrand nodded, Monica went on. “Why can’t you plant more informants inside the gangs? I realize that it’s not easy, but it’s not impossible, I would guess.”

  Bertrand looked weary. He greeted her remark with a deprecating smile, disapproving lines running down the corners of his mouth.

  “It’s impossible. You see, they have a strict selection process that any organization would envy. Years of heavy involvement must pass before the gang decides to give a biker any status. To gain status in the biker’s club means a lot: One has to participate in all the gang activities, even the criminal ones, which would be a no-no for an undercover law officer. But even that would not be enough. He would have to be an initiator and organizer of crimes, eventually controlling and directing the activities of other criminals, street gangs, or other biker gangs. And, I assure you—even taking part in all these activities doesn’t make a biker immune from suspicion. We couldn’t let anyone go into such an assignment and risk getting killed.”

  Monica was very impressed with what Bertrand was saying.

  “But . . . couldn’t you recruit from those bikers who are already under investigation?” she suggested cautiously. Noticing a trace of a sarcastic smile, she rushed to explain her stance.

  “It’s not that I’m advising you in the area of your expertise,” she said. “It’s for my understanding only.”

  “Sure, sure,” Bertrand nodded. “But that is a topic for a separate discussion.”

  “Yes, yes,” Monica consented. “Let’s get back to it sometime later. Our talk has been very informative. Thanks a lot. But now, I think it’s time to go to the next session, Bertrand.”

  III

  The sound of a door being unlocked brought Camilla from the depths of a relaxing nap to a serene, but pleasant reality. With a deft, quick motion, she slipped into a fuzzy, soft nightgown and hurried to the living room. Stanley already stood there, closing the door behind him. She threw herself upon him with the impatience of a lover who has been waiting too long.

  “You didn’t come by yesterday,” she reproached, but did not let him speak under the enveloping pressure of her lips. Then she stepped back and hopped onto the sofa, sitting on her crossed legs. Her eyes shone with happiness. How nice to see him again!

  “Sit down,” she invited. “Tea, coffee?”

  “Nothing. How’d yah like it here?”

  “It’s lovely.”

  Stanley had rented this one-bedroom apartment for her just a month ago. He’d furnished it with one idea only: to please her. In the course of the shopping spree to furnish the larger space, she’d urged Stanley to consider his purchases and spend money wisely. In response, he’d produced an impressive roll of cash and asked her to mind her own business.

  “Did I wake you up?” he asked, turning on the television with its remote control.

  “Sort of. I have a night shift at the hospital. You can’t last the whole night without an earlier nap. But never mind, I’ve had enough.”

  The black television screen flashed with the sight of a passionate French kiss, and, after a few nervous blinks and jumping horizontal stripes, it stabilized into the image of a good-looking female broadcaster.

  “Our guest,” she was saying, looking straight ahead with unblinking eyes, “is a well-known politician and member of a special task force that has been assigned to deal with biker gangs—Monica Godette. What are your comments on the latest development in the biker’s war, Monica?”

  A small square at the right top corner of the screen popped up and then grew rapidly to full size, showing a woman in no-nonsense business dress, with an air of aggressive strength that a woman was not supposed to possess.

  “The latest rampage between the rival biker gangs has caused great concern in the government,” Monica responded. “The bikers think that they have the world at their feet. They make shooting galleries out of our bars and restaurants. Their Hollywood-style murders terrify the public. In spite of all the police warnings to stop the war, they have intensified it, rather than terminated it. This only shows how deep this problem in our society is, how insatiable our appetites are for their illegal products and services. But punishment will come eventually, and it will be harsh. The shooting yesterday enraged both the public and the government. I can assure you . . .”

  Stanley chuckled and turned the set off.

  “Do you know anything about that shooting?” Camilla asked.

  “Sure. I was there.”

  “Are you serious? You scare me.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared about. This is my life. I can’t live a different one.”

  “What happened there? Could you tell me?”

&nbs
p; “Of course. You know the Black Penguin bar, don’t you? That’s my territory. The bar was almost full. Everyone there was ordinary nine-to-five folks, dropping by for a glass of beer or a blow of coke. I was sitting with Ogre—do you remember him? Of course, you do. He’s the one with guts made of steel. He looks ugly to the girls, but he’s good company. He weighs over 220 pounds—all muscle, you know. Ogre’s always alert, and so am I. There was nothing to worry about. All of a sudden, Ogre says, ‘I have fifty grams of coke in my car.’”

  “‘Not bad,’ I said. I looked around, but nothing seemed suspicious. ‘Who’d you bring it for?’ I asked.”

  “‘A guy from the West End is going to come and pick it up,’ he says. ‘I’ve been dealing with him a lot. So far, so good.’”

  “‘How’d yah call him?’ I asked.”

  “‘Shifter,’ he said. ‘Do you know him?’”

  “‘His name rings a bell,’ I said. I asked Ogre to tell me what the guy looked like. Sure ’nuf, he was the one I saw once in the joint. The guy was spinning some tale about the Devil’s Knights. I asked Ogre, ‘Does he know that I’m supposed to be here?’ And Ogre says, ‘Yah. As a matter of fact, he wanted to talk to you. Why not?’”

  Stanley paused, reached for a cigarette, and lit it in a seemingly calm manner. He drew in a huge puff and exhaled with force. Camilla, though impatient, did not dare to interrupt.

  “‘Be ready,’ I said to Ogre. ‘Something’s cooking here. Do you have a gun?’”

  “‘Of course I do,’ he said.”

  “‘Then give it to me,’ I said. ‘I don’t have one on me.’”

  “But this stupid ass didn’t want to part with his beloved toy. He said, ‘I’m your bodyguard. I’m supposed to take care of you. Why’d you want to take this gun from me?’”