Vigilante Season

by Peter Kirby

  VIGILANTE SEASON

  VIGILANTE SEASON

  A LUC VANIER NOVEL

  PETER KIRBY

  .ll.

  Copyright © 2013, Peter Kirby

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design : Debbie Geltner

  Cover photo : Roumi Photos http://www.roumagnac.net

  Book design and typesetting : WildElement.ca

  Author photo : Jocelyn Michel

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kirby, Peter, 1953-, author

  Vigilante season / Peter Kirby.

  (A Luc Vanier novel)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-927535-23-3 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927535-24-0 (epub).--

  ISBN 978-1-927535-25-7 (mobi).--ISBN 978-1-927535-26-4 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8621.I725V54 2013 C813’.6C2013-902016-0

  C2013-902017-9

  Printed and bound in Canada by Marquis Book Printing.

  Legal Deposit, Library and Archives Canada

  et Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec

  Linda Leith Publishing acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts.

  .ll.

  Linda Leith Publishing Inc.

  P.O. Box 322, Station Victoria

  Westmount, Quebec H3Z 2V8 Canada

  www.lindaleith.com

  To Jess

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  One

  Inspector Luc Vanier was standing in a rainstorm at the intersection of Sherbrooke and Pie-IX, surveying the remnants of a car accident. A dark blue body bag was at his feet. The bag’s zipper had been pulled down by the ambulance crew, and the broken face of its occupant stared up into the night. Another man, his face obscured by a breathing mask, was being lifted into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher, while the rain washed away the blood that had pooled on the ground from his head wound. The blue, red, and amber lights of emergency vehicles circled like spotlights, and the people who had gathered outside the perimeter of yellow tape were beginning to drift off, sensing the show was winding down. Vanier looked around him, feeling like the ringmaster in a bleak circus.

  Detective Sergeant Sylvie Saint-Jacques said, “Don’t worry, they’re collecting names and contacts. The pedestrians first, then the cars. Someone must have seen something.” She walked off towards a police cruiser parked at the edge of the intersection.

  The duty coroner, Jean-Louis Nadeau, had been speaking through the window to the ambulance driver. He stepped back, watched the vehicle pull away, and walked over to Vanier, smiling.

  “Inspector Vanier, how good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you too, Doctor. What’s the story?”

  Nadeau nodded towards the body bag on the ground. “He was in the bag when I got here. Male, white, in his mid-forties. He’s been dead for a few hours, but that’s all I can tell for the moment. It’s best to leave him in the bag for the trip. That way we won’t miss anything.”

  Vanier squatted down to get a closer look at the man’s face. It was bruised and crusted with dried blood. The man’s nose was broken, and a piece of his cheekbone stuck out through skin.

  “Jesus,” said Vanier.

  “I doubt it.” Vanier looked up to Nadeau and rolled his eyes. The Doctor shrugged and continued. “But we’ll see. He was beaten, but there’s no obvious cause of death yet. We need to get a good look at him.”

  The morgue van arrived, and a uniform pulled back the yellow tape to let it pass. It stopped next to the body bag, and two men in grey coveralls got out. Dr. Nadeau supervised as they loaded the bag onto the stretcher and into the back of the van. He turned to Vanier,

  “Not often you get into an accident on your way to dump a body. We’ll do the autopsy tomorrow morning and get something to you quickly.”

  “Can we go through his pockets tonight? Get an ID?”

  “Sure. I’ll see what’s in there. I’ll call you. Any ideas?”

  “Nothing. Just questions. Don’t often see people moving bodies around. The psychos do it, but he doesn’t look like your average sex-crime victim. Maybe it’s a gang hit. We’ll have a better idea when we can identify the corpse.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  Saint-Jacques came back over, hunched against the rain. A uniformed cop was following her. She gestured to him. “Constable Adams was first on the scene.”

  Vanier reached out his hand, and the constable shook it. “So what do we know?”

  “I was parked down the street and I heard the crash. No mistaking the impact of two vehicles. I was here in a minute or so. There was a collision between the Buick over there and a pick-up truck.” He pointed to a white Buick with its front end smashed in. “The truck was still in the intersection when I got here, but the driver must have seen my lights. He took off north on Pie-IX. I was ready to pursue, but I saw the old man on the floor bleeding, and I had a choice. I decided to stay with him and call in the truck.”

  “What kind of truck.”

  “Red Toyota Tundra. I’m certain. My brother-in-law has one. This one was maybe four years old. No dents that I could see. Two guys inside.”

  “Did you get a look at them?”

  “No. They were back in the truck, pulling away, by the time I got close.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Collision, like I said. The Buick hit the truck, and the truck spun out and hit the traffic light. The bag seems to have fallen off the flat bed. The guy in the Buick got out to inspect the damage and was wacked pretty bad by one of the guys in the truck. He was unconscious when I got here. I called in the ambulance, and then I called in the truck. I thought for sure somebody would get them, but no. They were lucky.”

  “Losing a body isn’t lucky.”

  “I suppose. But maybe I should have chased them.”

  “You did the right thing. You didn’t get a plate?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Send me your report when it’s ready.”

  Vanier handed the officer his card, and turned to watch the morgue truck take off. A tow truck was hooking up the Buick to take it to the Police Lab. The accident scene officers were winding down; one was packing away the video camera into the trunk of a cruiser, another was cranking a fifty-metre measure back onto its roll. Inside the cruiser, another officer was writing on a clipboard, sheltering from the rain in the passenger seat. Vanier let himself into the driver’s side and nodded a greeting.

  “Inspector Vanier, Serious Crime.”

  “Looks like you’ve got one here, Inspector.” His name badge said Jacques Allard.

  “What do you think?”

  “The missing truck ran the red. We know that from the Mazda.”

 
“Mazda?”

  “Yeah. He was behind the Buick. Traffic on Sherbrooke was cruising along green, so no reason to slow down. The guy in the Mazda says they were all doing fifty. More like sixty-five if you ask me. Anyway, the Buick enters the intersection on a green, and the truck comes barrelling through on a red and gets hit. It keeps going, but the rear fishtailed and hit the light post on the north-east corner.” He nodded his head in the direction of the downed traffic light post.

  “The impact must have popped the lock on the flatbed, and the bag dropped down. The Mazda said two guys jumped out of the truck and went straight for the bag. They were lifting it up when the Buick came over.”

  “The Buick?”

  “Yeah.” He looked at his clipboard. “Mr. Clement, the driver of the Buick. Sixty-three years old. Seems he was pissed mad, screaming and waving his arms. The two guys were struggling with the body bag, and Clement put his hand on the shoulder of one of them.”

  “There was an argument?”

  “No argument. One of the two guys drops his end of the bag, wheels around, and punches Clement in the face. The old man drops to the floor and bangs his head. That’s when the truck guys see the lights from the cruiser and take off.”

  “Leaving the body behind.”

  “No choice. The cruiser got here as they were leaving. They didn’t have time.”

  “When will you finish the report?”

  “It’s not complicated. Tomorrow afternoon if I’m lucky.”

  Vanier handed him his card. “Can you send me a copy as soon as it’s done?”

  “Sure. Not a problem.”

  Vanier got out of the cruiser and shivered. The rain had seeped through his coat, and he was feeling the cold. A city truck had arrived, and workers were putting metal ARRÊT signs at every corner. Two others were sizing up the traffic light pole that was leaning over into the traffic lane. The intersection of Sherbrooke and Pie-IX was going to be a star attraction for the morning commute.

  The Maisonneuve Tavern on Ontario Street was full and loud, the sound system was competing with the hockey commentary from the television, and shouted conversations filled whatever space was left. It was the day when direct deposits of welfare payments hit empty bank accounts, and everyone has money to spend for a day or two. Hugo Desportes was reading God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and getting buzzed. A month ago he had found a copy of Slaughterhouse Five in a charity shop and was amazed to find a writer who understood how life works. He decided to read all the Vonnegut books, one after the other.

  It was a few seconds before he noticed the stocky man beside him. A small guy, but built like a stone wall.

  The man said, “I can sit down?”

  Desportes was feeling charitable. “Sure. Sit down.” He closed the book and picked up his glass.

  The man sat down and reached out his hand. “Hi. My name is Alfredo Cortina. People say that maybe you can help me.”

  Desportes said nothing.

  “I want to get a job with the city. For many years, I have tried. But they ignore me. It’s because I’m not from here, I think.”

  “Everyone needs help to get a job with the city.”

  “So I’m asking for help. I can pay.”

  “You want a beer?”

  Cortina nodded and Desportes waved for two quart bottles. The waiter was there in an instant. Desportes paid.

  “So if you need a job with the city, why don’t you go see your Councillor, Madame Farand. That’s part of her job, to get local people into city jobs.”

  “I did this. It does not work. She said I am over qualified.”

  Desportes spent most of his time pushing people away. He couldn’t take every on every cause that came his way. But he let Cortina talk. Listening didn’t cost anything. Cortina was an engineer from Guatemala. It had taken four years for his refugee claim to be accepted, and then he brought his wife and two kids to Montreal. His French wasn’t good enough to qualify as an engineer in Quebec, so he worked at any job he could get. And any job meant crap jobs, with more hours than he could manage and less money than he needed to live. He had given up hope for himself. Being an engineer in Guatemala meant nothing here, but his kids were still young and they had a chance. A job with the city would mean he didn’t have to work two jobs. He could spend time at home. He could help his kids with their schoolwork.

  Cortina’s story was the same as that of thousands of other immigrants in Montreal. Helping him would be arbitrary, but everything is arbitrary – and he was the only one talking to Desportes. Plus, Desportes knew he could do it. He was sitting on information that gave him leverage with City Hall, and most information has a shelf life, use it or it goes stale. Right now, he didn’t have anything better to use it on.

  Desportes asked Cortina if he had a photograph of his wife and kids. The engineer reached into his wallet and pulled out small colour photos of all three, his face changing from hard to soft at the same time. Then he bent down to open a brown, hard-plastic briefcase, the kind that had gone out of fashion thirty years ago. He took a fistful of worn photographs from a zippered pocket.

  Desportes looked through them. “Nice kids.”

  “Very good kids. They’re going to make it here.”

  He reached into the briefcase again and pulled out an envelope. He passed it across the table. “This is my cv. How much will it cost?”

  Desportes took the envelope. “No cash. An exchange. I help you, and maybe one day you help me. If you ever hear of something you think might interest me, you tell me. If I need something, I’ll call you, and you’ll deliver. Simple.”

  “I understand. But what kind of help would you need?”

  “Let’s get you a job first. Then we’ll see.”

  It was 2 a.m. when Vanier got back to his apartment. He was wet and cold. Alex’s boots and sneakers were outside the door, so Alex was home. His son had moved in when he came back from Afghanistan, said it was temporary, but he wasn’t finding it easy to get back into civilian life.

  Inside the apartment, Vanier looked up the hallway to Alex’s bedroom door. It was closed, and there was no light through the gap at the bottom. He went up the hall and eased the door open quietly. The room had that thick, fetid smell that only a night of drinking can produce. Alex was in a deep sleep.

  He went back to the living room, poured himself a Jameson and checked his phone. Dr. Nadeau had sent him a text: No wallet, Medicare Card in back pocket says Émile Legault, 28 April, 1968. He flipped the text to Saint-Jacques and asked her to get someone to put Legault’s name through the databases in the morning. He had a feeling Legault would have a record. If he did, things would be easier.

  He stood in the living room in boxers and T-shirt and looked around, trying to reconstruct what Alex had been doing all day. The pile of brochures and forms from Veterans Affairs and the Department of National Defence was untouched. Next to it was a plate with congealed egg yolk and crumbs from toast, easy food, but at least he’d eaten. The armchair had been pulled close in front of the television set. Beside it, a videogame hand-set lay on the floor, its long cord leading to a jumble of consoles and cassettes.

  Vanier poured another drink and sat on the couch. He downed it quickly, lifted his legs onto the couch, and stretched out.

  He was awake at 4 a.m., the dead part of the night when the terrors that have been held in check all day start groping around in the dark. There was the slow ebb of street noises from outside and the familiar grunts of struggling from Alex’s room. Sometimes Alex would settle again into a restless sleep. Sometimes he wouldn’t. Vanier didn’t yet understand the patterns, so he sat up and waited.

  Then the first shout came, more a scream than a shout, and Vanier was on his feet, stopping in the bathroom to grab a washcloth and soak it in warm water. He pushed on the door. Alex was still asleep, but thrashing around like he was running, making grunt
ing noises without words. Vanier sat on the bed and cradled his son’s head on his knees, wiping his forehead with the washcloth. Alex struggled some more and then relaxed. Vanier knew he was awake when the tears came, silently, with a racking of the body. He had no idea what to do, except what he had done when Alex had nightmares as a kid, just be there, speak soothing words, reassure him, and hold him close. Vanier couldn’t imagine what beasts were tormenting the boy, all he could do was mumble, “It’s okay, Alex. It’s going to be fine. I’m here. Everything’s going to be fine,” over and over until the beasts left, and the boy fell asleep. It took an hour, and then Vanier lay down on top of the bed and dozed off himself.

  An hour later he was standing under a scalding shower trying to shake off the fatigue.

  Two

  The database search for Émile Legault had turned up an address about ten blocks from where his body had tumbled from the back of the truck. The apartment was a semi-basement in a triplex. The two front windows were half underground and covered on the inside with what looked like blankets.

  Saint-Jacques fist-pounded the door, listening for any sign of a response, then nodded back at Vanier and waited. A woman shouted from behind the door, “Émile’s not here. Go somewhere else.”

  “It’s the police, Madame. Can we come in?”

  The door opened with a chain on it, and a woman with a shrunken-eyed face and junkie’s pallor stared out at them, the face of someone who had spent too much time in dingy apartments and crack houses. She said,

  “Like I said, Émile’s not here. You need to come back later.”

  “We’re here to talk to you about Émile. Open the door so we can come in.”

  The door closed, and they could hear the chain being detached. Then it opened wide, and she stood there looking confused.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Can we come in?”

  “I suppose,” she said, turning to walk back into the apartment.

  They followed her into the usual cheap, one bedroom set-up, a front room with a small kitchen area; the bedroom and toilet would be in back. The front room was all sofas, one against each wall and a fourth in front of the kitchen area. The room was lit by a single, weak floor lamp, and it stank of stale beer, cigarettes, and something rotting in an overflowing garbage can. Saint-Jacques went through to the back to make sure there was no one else in the apartment. The girl sank down onto one of the couches, and it barely registered her weight. She put her head back, as though she was going to fall asleep.