The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel

by Claude Bouchard

  I sat where I was quietly for a while, watching Gary as he dozed off, drunk in his personal hell, perhaps oblivious of the life he had taken or maybe, just maybe, battling his demons for the pain he had caused and the sorrow he would have to deal with for the rest of his life. After some fifteen minutes or so, I got up, pulled out my knife and ended the sorrow which ravaged us both.

  #6 - Pierre Brault - Friday, March 1, 1996

  Well, I was starting to build a reputation for myself and, even if he remained relatively tight-lipped about it, Lieutenant Dave McCall was starting to let on that he and his team were dealing with a serial killer. I didn’t particularly enjoy or feel proud of categorizing myself as such but things were as they were and one must call things what they are. Regardless, I was doing what I was for a reason and nobody could argue that my targets deserved any less than what they got. If I ended up making a mistake and paying for my actions, I’d accept the consequences and do so with pride because what I was doing was what needed to be done, however theoretically. Anyhow, enough about me or why I was doing this because that really isn’t the point.

  My next subject, and his story, are practically laughable, if we exclude the fact that an innocent man died in the whole sordid affair. I’ll try to make this as succinct as possible.

  Pierre Brault had worked for Andre Beaudet in the agricultural field a few years earlier and two things had happened during that time. For one, Beaudet had been working on the development of some farming apparatus about which Brault, coming from a farming family, had made some minor but worthy suggestions. Secondly, Brault had begun having an affair with the very consenting Jocelyne Beaudet, Andre’s spouse.

  Though Brault had ceased his employment with Beaudet a little over a year earlier, his relationship with Jocelyne had continued to flourish to the point that the illicit couple eventually decided that life would be much better if Andre was no longer in the picture. By then, Andre had obtained a patent on his invention and several manufacturers had expressed sufficient interest to allow one to determine that some serious money would likely result.

  With the help of Brault’s sister, Carolyne, who happened to be a highly attractive stripper with few morals, they recruited the services of Gabriel Labrie, a naive, happy-go-lucky twenty-seven year old who had worked as a farmhand for Brault’s family in the last couple of years. It should be noted that Labrie had a penchant for brawling and had run into a few scuffles with the law in relation to bar fights and the like.

  The plan was relatively simple. Labrie frequented a strip bar in the small rural town where he lived on Montreal’s south shore. Carolyne Brault, who danced there, easily seduced Labrie and, after a few days of seeing each other, she suggested he might have an opportunity to make some serious money if he was interested. Her brother, she explained, had invented something which was potentially worth millions but his ex-partner had taken the credit for all the work which had been done and was now looking to sell their invention for his own profit. Would he be willing to help her brother convince this shyster by helping with a bit of a scare?

  Labrie was initially reticent but, a couple of drinks, a joint or two and some rather extraordinary sex later, he was starting to warm to the idea. All they would basically do was pay Andre Beaudet a visit, visually intimidate him, for Labrie was a rather solidly built man, and Beaudet would give in and agree to give Pierre Brault his rightfully deserved share. For his mere presence, Labrie would be paid fifty thousand dollars in cash – yes, the deal was potentially that big.

  Labrie had agreed and, less than a week later, early one Friday evening, he and Brault had gone to Beaudet’s home in Hemmingford. They had been greeted at the door by Jocelyne Beaudet and shown to the dining room where Andre was just finishing dinner. Pierre Brault, without uttering a word, had pulled out a revolver and shot Andre Beaudet in the forehead. Shocked, Gabriel Labrie had started to ask what was going on but his question had been interrupted by a solid blow to the back of the head which had knocked him unconscious.

  When he had come to, several hours later, he had been in the hospital with two police officers keeping an eye on him even though he had been securely handcuffed to the bed rails. He had soon learned that he was under arrest for the murder of Andre Beaudet and, despite protests to the police, his lawyer and the court, he had come to realize the case against him was solid. His arguments, that Pierre Brault had actually committed the murder, had been laughed out of court, particularly since Brault was a key eye-witness for the prosecution, his testimony having been fully and perfectly corroborated by Jocelyne Beaudet, the victim’s distraught widow.

  Labrie’s prints on the murder weapon as well as gun powder residue on his skin had certainly not helped prove his innocence or support the suggestion he had been framed. In addition, a perfectly logical explanation had been supplied as to why he had been found unconscious when the police had arrived. Upon seeing Labrie shoot her husband as she returned to the dining room from the kitchen, Jocelyne Beaudet had grabbed a heavy glass vase on a corner table and smashed it on the back of his head.

  The trial had not been a lengthy one and had ended as most expected it would – with a guilty verdict for Labrie for the murder of Andre Beaudet.

  Though he had not testified or initially expressed any doubts, Roger Beaudet, the victim’s brother, had subsequently gone public with a statement regarding his scepticism of any business dealings between the victim and Pierre Brault. In fact, he was convinced that the animosity which existed between the two men in recent years made any such dealings ludicrously impossible. The fact that Brault now spend much of his free time consoling the widow and assisting her in the management of her deceased husband’s affairs was another indication that something was amiss.

  However, this, as well as protests from Labrie’s family, remained insufficient for the system to reopen the case and Labrie would remain behind bars for a twenty-five year sentence with no possibility of parole for at least ten years. In the meantime, Jocelyne had sold her husband’s invention for a hefty sum with a lucrative subsequent royalty payment agreement and now spent much of her time at a property she had acquired in Turks and Caicos, usually with Brault at her side to comfort her.

  Yes, as you may have guessed by now, Pierre Brault was in my crosshairs, so to speak. Perhaps Jocelyne should have been as well but I just believed she would pay somehow, in due time, that bad karma thing one hears about.

  The whole ordeal had taken place a few months earlier and since, Brault had basically taken over the day to day management of Beaudet Industries, having been hired as President and COO by owner and CEO, Jocelyne Beaudet. Business and anything to do with farming having never been her forte, she was happy to let Brault handle things, though all major financial-impact decisions required her approval. The arrangement suited Brault who now ran a decently-sized business at his leisure for a handsome wage with additional perks as Jocelyne’s top man.

  While Jocelyne did spend some time at the Hemmingford home during the milder seasons, she despised the cold and, as a result, she could usually be found at the Turks and Caicos property during the winter months. That said, when business called for executive presence in the Montreal area during that time of the year, Pierre generally represented the company solo. He was, after all, the chief operating officer and well trusted by his superior.

  He had been required to attend a few meetings back home so Pierre had flown to Montreal on the Wednesday, dealt with what needed his attention on Thursday and Friday and planned to return to Jocelyne on the beach on the Saturday. As per his usual routine on such trips, his plans for the evening would consist of a quiet dinner at home, generally something from the gas grill in the four-season outdoor kitchen on the covered terrace and some fine wine, followed by a couple of snifters of cognac and some action flick on pay TV.

  I watched him from the shadows as he came out onto the terrace and fired up the grill. He had changed into a sweat suit and wore running shoes but the radiant heating sy
stem under the stone floor made any winter clothing unnecessary. I wondered if he might actually choose to dine outside and hoped not, preferring the intimacy of closed doors, but figured the closest neighbour was far enough for any cries for help to serve much purpose.

  He moved back inside and I watched him opening a bottle of wine, a Georges Duboeuf Brouilly, based on the shape of the bottle. He poured a bit into a glass, swirled it, inhaled the bouquet then tasted it. Apparently satisfied, he filled the glass, took another sip then set the glass down on the kitchen island and moved out of my view. He returned shortly with a head of lettuce, tomato, cucumber and a sweet yellow pepper and got busy preparing a salad, sipping his wine occasionally as he worked.

  His salad ready, he quickly threw together a dressing with a few herbs and spices, some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. He disappeared from my sight once again but returned shortly with a placemat and utensils which he set on the island where stood a couple of swivel stools. Excellent, he would be dining inside after all. The dining room would have been more fitting, given the circumstances, but I couldn’t be too picky.

  He vanished once more but quickly reappeared and came out onto the terrace, a plastic food container in hand, and headed to the grill. Selecting tongs which hung on a side-rack, he deftly extracted the piece of marinating meat, likely beef, based on his wine selection, and laid it on the hot grill. The dripping marinade sizzled and sent up a tantalizing puff of steam. The man knew how to treat himself, culinary-wise. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it forever.

  He returned inside to turn on an outside spot strategically positioned to illuminate the grill, one does wish to see what one is cooking, and to fetch his wine glass, which he refilled, before returning outside to supervise his grilling activities. He sipped his wine, checking his watch and the temperature on the grill’s thermometer and, after several minutes, raised the grill’s lid, only long enough to turn his steak, nodding in satisfaction at the sear marks left on the underside.

  A few minutes more and I had to suppress the urge to warn Pierre not to overcook his steak but it was not my place to do so. Anyhow, he removed it from the grill shortly after, avoiding to commit a grave cooking faux-pas. Depositing the meat on a heated plate, which I guessed from the oven mitt he used to carry it, he turned off the grill then returned inside to enjoy his meal, closing and locking the door to the terrace as I watched from the outside.

  I wasn’t concerned about getting inside to deal with the man – I had arrived well ahead of him and had an unlocked door waiting for me. He pour himself yet another glass of wine and settled down to enjoy his dinner. I love to cook so I had no problem understanding where he was coming from after a hard day’s work.

  I considered the situation – he, a fit man in his late thirties with a wine bottle, a fork and a steak knife at his immediate disposal – and decided there was no real advantage to offing him while he dined as he had done to Beaudet. After all, if I was looking to re-enact the crime in my execution, I should be simply blowing his brains out. I was in no rush, I’d had a good lunch and had no problem with eating later in the evening. Anyhow, I’d come prepared with a couple of scenarios to deal with him.

  He eventually finished his dinner, he was a slow eater, and the bottle of wine then opened a bottle of cognac, poured himself a glass and moved into the den. Game time…

  I retraced my steps to a side door which led into a combination laundry/mud room and let myself in. As I made my way down the hallway, I could hear the television on. I moved closer slowly, cautiously, past the dining room and kitchen, making sure both were empty as I passed. I reached the entrance to the den, which also opened onto the kitchen, and there sat Pierre Brault, his back to me, puffing on a cigar, his cognac snifter and bottle on the table to his side. Waterworld with Kevin Costner was Pierre’s choice of entertainment for the evening. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get to see the ending, or much more of the movie from then on, for that matter.

  I moved in behind him, thankful that the television’s volume was up, though the thick pile carpet under my feet certainly helped make my approach quiet. With a heavy vase I had selected in the home prior to Pierre’s arrival, I tapped him on the side of the head, just enough to put him to sleep.

  When Brault awoke about thirty minutes later, he was laying spread-eagled on the stylish brass bed in the master bedroom, his ankles and wrists securely cuffed to the bed frame to hold him in a position.

  “Wake up, buddy,” I said in French, patting him on the cheek to help revive him. “I don’t have all night.”

  “Wha’s going on?” he mumbled in his native tongue then started struggling against his restraints. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Hi, Pierre,” I replied in greeting. “Didn’t that knock on the head ring any bells?”

  He shook his head and winced then did his best to glare at me. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Bah, that’s not important,” I answered, “But, if you must know, I’m the guy who’s been killing deadbeats like you lately. Heartless bastards who think they can further themselves through violence and manage to sneak through the system.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brault shrieked though his understanding showed in his eyes.

  “Do I really need to refresh your memory?” I asked, my tone sincere but my question mocking. “Let’s start with Andre Beaudet who you shot in the head. Next we can move onto Gabriel Labrie who you and Jocelyne framed to take the fall. Did you know that he also woke up handcuffed to a bed after you knocked him out? Unfortunately for him, the cuffs belonged to the cops and he was under arrest for first degree murder.”

  “Did that little bastard send you here?” Brault demanded. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Explain something to me, shithead,” I retorted, a little annoyed. “How does your framing him for a murder you committed make him a little bastard?”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied, contrite, changing tactics as he tried to hide his fear and find a way out of this predicament. “You’re right. Both Jocelyne and I feel bad about Gabriel but it’s just how things happened. If her husband hadn’t been such an asshole, nobody would have got hurt.”

  “But you killed him,” I stated, showing my exasperation. “You can’t deny that. How can you act like everything okay with Gabriel in prison while you’re eating filet mignon and spending most of your days on the beach in the Caribbean?”

  “Listen,” Brault pleaded. “I’m sorry about Gabriel taking the fall for this but I can make it up to him. If he behaves inside, he can be out in less than ten years now. He’ll still be young. I know I can convince Jocelyne to put some money in an account for him, enough that he’ll never have to work for the rest of his life once he gets out. What do you say? I really am sorry about how this all turned out.”

  “What do I say,” I rhetorically repeated his question. “I say you just openly confessed to killing Andre Beaudet. You confirmed everything which I suspected but didn’t know for a fact. I say you just put yourself in a very uncomfortable position, my friend.”

  He blanched upon hearing my words. “Who are you? Are you a cop? A lawyer? Did you record what I was saying? I’ll just deny everything and say I was being threatened, under duress. You attacked me and have me handcuffed to my bed, goddamn it. You’re crazy and that little shit, Labrie, is crazy if you think this is going to work. I’ll have you locked up when I’m done with you.”

  I gazed at him and shook my head, my sadness sincere. “I can’t believe how utterly stupid some truly intelligent people can be at times. You are amongst the dumbest smart people I’ve ever met, Pierre. I wish I could say it was nice to know you but I can’t.”

  As he watched me, not knowing how to respond, I pulled out my knife.

  #7 - Henri Castonguay - Monday, March 4, 1996

  Just ten days earlier, I had spent part of my Friday evening dealing with Maxime Leclerc, one of the three muggers who had viciously attacked Gaston Verville in La Fon
taine Park six months earlier. Over the weekend, I had learned that Verville had committed suicide the previous Thursday, unable to overcome the depression which had resulted from the physical and other consequences which had plagued him following his attack.

  During our chat, Leclerc had readily confirmed what the police, and I, had suspected, that Gaston Verville’s two other attackers were Henri Castonguay, unofficial leader of this crew of misfits and Nicholas Bertrand, one of his closer lackeys. I had already pencilled Castonguay into my schedule but, with Gaston’s recent suicide weighing on me, I was driven to deal with him with extra zeal.

  A bully since childhood, Castonguay had earned himself a number of run-ins with the law as early as the age of ten and, unfortunately, attaining adulthood had not changed his views of the world. He was a big man who likely had been solidly built even at a younger age and he worked hard to keep himself in a high muscle/low flab composition. He liked to train at home, which I had learned during a recent visit to his dingy, one bedroom basement apartment, where the small living room had been furnished with a workout bench, hundreds of pounds of free weights and bars and a stationary bike.

  Though Castonguay was a mugger and small time pot/hash peddler, he wasn’t very big-time at either profession so he worked part time as a stock boy in a local grocery store. I knew he stocked shelves until nine or so Monday nights then generally went home for a late dinner, likely consisting of pilfered goods, so I was waiting for him in his apartment when he arrived.

  As I mentioned, he was a big, strong guy so I knew I’d have to subdue him quickly once he came in or the situation might turn ugly for the wrong party. When he entered through the front door, I was waiting off to one side in the living room. In my martial arts training over the years, I had learned a thing or two about joints, how they bend normally and how they can bend otherwise though not specifically as designed to do.