The entry which currently outraged him related to a double homicide in Brighton, Ontario, a small, quiet town with a growing retirement population some four hundred kilometres west of Montreal. A motorist driving along County Road 64 had noticed flames and smoke billowing from a large, wooded property outside of town and called 911. Several hours had been required to extinguish the blaze which had seriously damaged the lavish ranch-style home.
Inside, the bodies of sixty-six year old retired business executive, Fred Copley, and sixty-four year old Denise Copley, his wife, had been found. Though the fire had not spared them, it had also not succeeded in completely eradicating the bruises, burns and lacerations which marred their bodies, nor their duct tape bindings. Foul play was blatantly obvious. Broken dishes, glassware and pottery, slashed paintings and smashed furniture made it clear their home had been trashed and authorities suspected a number of people had been involved based on the vast quantity of empty beer, wine and liquor bottles and hundreds of cigarette butts which littered every corner of the once luxurious home. The absence of any cash and jewellery as well as a variety of missing entertainment and computer equipment suggested that theft could be added to the list of committed crimes.
McCall’s mobile phone trilled and his mood brightened some as he glanced at the call display, noting the caller was his long time friend, Chris Barry.
The two men had met seventeen years earlier, shortly after McCall, then a lieutenant, had started heading Montreal‘s Special Homicide Task Force. Chris, who at the time ran the operations of a major computer security firm, had provided invaluable assistance to McCall, resulting in the solving of the high profile Vigilante serial murder case.
Already financially comfortable, Chris had literally made a fortune a few months later when the firm he worked for, of which he owned twenty percent, had been acquired at a premium in a friendly takeover. Though only thirty-five at the time, he had not undertaken any search for subsequent employment, wishing to take a break and spend some time with his wife, Sandy, while he considered his options. His hiatus, however, had been of short duration.
No sooner had Chris ceased working than he had been approached by Jonathan Addley, a former military officer who ran Discreet Activities, a little known division of the Ministry of Defence, involved in covert operations. Particular talents Chris had demonstrated while involved with the Vigilante case had attracted Addley’s attention and he had urged the former computer security executive to embark on a new career path, that of clandestine government operative. Chris had agreed and neither had ever regretted their decisions.
Throughout the years since, Chris had remained active in the business community, sitting on the board of directors of various firms. Three years earlier, during a meeting at a branch of the Imperial National Bank, he had suddenly found himself in the middle of a bank heist turned hostage taking. Thanks to his efforts and with the assistance of others, the robbery attempt had been thwarted and the culprits eliminated.
Amongst those who had helped take the robbers down was bank employee, Leslie Robb, a bright, gorgeous redhead of the lesbian persuasion and well versed in martial arts. Jonathan Addley and another operative had also been involved in bringing the ordeal to an end and once it was all over, Leslie had begged Jon to allow her onto his elite team. Jonathan had agreed and Leslie had since proven to be a valuable asset on numerous occasions.
As their fields of endeavour somewhat overlapped, all had had opportunity to deal with McCall professionally over time. Though the captain, who had prided himself in being a ‘by-the-book’ cop throughout his career, did not always approve of their less conventional methods of dealing with criminals, respect and friendship had ensued nonetheless.
“Good morning, Chris,” Dave answered. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Jon, Josée, Leslie and Dominique are spending the weekend with us for the Fête Nationale festivities,” said Chris, referring to the June 24th holiday in Quebec, “And we’d love it if you and Cathy joined the party.”
“A long weekend at the Barry residence in Knowlton?” Dave replied. “How could I refuse?”
“There’s no way in hell you could,” Chris agreed. “The weather is looking good and Jonathan and Josée will be bringing their new Murphy Moose.”
“Moose?” Dave repeated. “Couldn’t they just get a dog?”
Chris laughed. “It’s their latest flying toy, a five passenger seaplane.”
“Ah, that ‘build it yourself’ kit they bought,” Dave remembered. “Will we have to go for a spin?”
“Jon assured me we had nothing to worry about,” Chris replied. “He had the head mechanic at HeliPro assisting him every step of the way.”
“In that case, I’ll give it a go,” said Dave. “When would you like us to get there?”
“The others are coming over late Friday afternoon. We’ll grill some steaks for dinner and figure out our plans for the weekend.”
“That works fine for me,” said Dave. “I’ll check with Cathy but I’m sure she’ll be game. It’s been a while and it will be great to see you guys. Thanks for brightening my day.”
“You know you can always count on me, buddy.” Chris replied. “See you on Friday.”
* * * *
Butch strolled back into the clearing after having gone to relieve himself and smiled as he noted that someone had already hung his hammock chair from an overhanging limb of a giant maple tree. Next to the chair stood a cooler on top of which a cold open beer awaited him. He dropped into the chair and raised the bottle to his lips, draining half its contents in one swig. Letting out a satisfying belch, he gazed at the disciplined activity around him as his crew set up camp. As he watched them go about their tasks, his thoughts drifted back to when it had all started, six years earlier, when he had left his home town with a handful of devoted followers.
Named Ronald at birth, Butch had demonstrated zealous interest at an early age in the butchering activities which followed his father’s occasional hunting trips. His insistence on helping skin and cut up whatever game his father brought home had soon earned him the nickname Butcher. With time, this had been shortened to Butch and stuck while the name Ronald had become little more than a vague memory.
Home had been a run-down farmhouse near Exeter, Ontario, rented from a farming family who still exploited the land but had no use for the tiny dwelling once the grandparents had passed. Life there had been rocky with his father, a violent, two bit, low-life criminal and his mother, a drunk and a whore. Beatings had been frequent when his father was around though the old man’s uncanny ability to get arrested and imprisoned had provided regular breaks from the violence. Money, food and other necessities had consistently been scarce so shoplifting, B&Es and other means of producing illegal gains had quickly become common survival activities for Butch.
By the age of fifteen, Butch had determined he shared two traits with his father; a defiance of authority and a propensity for violence or, more specifically, inflicting pain. However, in Butch’s mind, that was where the similarities had ended. Where his father had spent more than half of his thirty-six years on the planet in various jail cells due to his stupidity, Butch had never had any run-ins with the law, always carefully thinking out and planning any crime he committed.
His attendance already sporadic at school, he had ceased going altogether at the age of sixteen when he and his mother had moved from Exeter to Dresden shortly after his father had died, the victim of multiple stab wounds while in town one night. With no clues or witnesses and in consideration of the victim’s past dealings with the authorities, the case had quickly gone cold. More so than ever, Butch had been particularly careful in the preparation of his father’s murder.
If possible, their new home in Dresden, another dilapidated abandoned farmhouse, had been even smaller and more decrepit than the one they had left in Exeter. While his mother entertained various men from the rural area in the ramshackle hovel for booze and cash, Butch had spent
his time roaming the town, fields and woods, continuously honing his survival techniques.
It was then he had discovered his instinctual talent to provide for himself, regardless of his surroundings. He had soon put together an adequate shelter in a seldom frequented wooded area where he had spent as much time if not more than at his mother’s shack. Anything he’d needed, he found in homes, barns and garages in the area or in stores in town. Local farms had provided a variety of food, even in colder months, thanks to an abundance of greenhouses. As for meat, which he enjoyed, he had quickly become adept at catching small local fauna to satisfy his carnivorous needs. Dealing with his prey had been his first ventures in making other creatures suffer although his first true urges would only surface a few years later.
Though somewhat of a loner, he had met and become friends with a few other boys in town as the months went by, whom he eventually allowed to visit his quasi-permanent home in the woods, once they had gained his trust. Impressed by the particular lifestyle Butch had created for himself, his friends had started looking up to him as their unspoken leader and had soon begun to bring him gifts, generally stolen goods, as a show of support and admiration. Not one to overlook an opportunity when he saw one, Butch had quickly taken to suggesting desired items as needs arose to further improve his living conditions.
More time had passed and, under Butch’s guidance and directives, his crew, as he called them by then, had begun to generate a steady flow of income through the theft and resale of a variety of new and used merchandise as well as drug distribution. By the time Butch had turned eighteen, he had enough cash amassed, and then some, to buy himself his first means of transport, a Harley Davidson Sportster. The purchase had been made by and the motorcycle registered to Ratcliff ‘Rat’ McKeown, his most trusted friend, as Butch had no driver’s license and no intention of getting one.
That evening, amidst drinks and joints to celebrate his new acquisition, Butch had informed his crew of five that he would be leaving town to make his fortune with no plans to return. When they had expressed dismay, he had told them they were welcome to join him, as long as they abided by his rules and followed his orders. He intended to build an empire and to do so successfully would require firm leadership on his part and strict adherence to his plans by all members of the crew. Three days later, they had left Dresden, Butch on his Harley followed by his five subordinates piled into Rat’s old, rusty Westfalia, on a quest to explore the world and find their destiny under the guiding hand and iron fist of Butch Kincaid.
They had spent the next several months roaming about, much like nomads, through Ontario, Quebec and into the Maritimes, setting up camp wherever and whenever Butch decided, sometimes in campgrounds, other times off in a field or woods somewhere. At night, Butch would send a few of the others off to find money and provisions in whatever homes or stores which could be found in the area. Regardless of where they stayed, Butch insisted they keep a low profile so as to not attract attention to themselves.
On one occasion, following an evening of heavy drinking, two of the crew members, Olly and Tops, had challenged their leader when he had ordered them to tone things down. Olly had suggested Butch should “loosen up and get that stick out of your ass” and Tops had stated, “You’re not our fucking mother, dude.” The two had then resumed their boisterous behaviour, shouting into the night, laughing loudly and generally being nuisances.
Looking bored and indifferent, Butch had remained still and silent for several moments before rising and strolling off into the woods, likely to go urinate. He had returned shortly after, a stout limb in hand and, wielding it like a baseball bat, had bashed it into the back of Olly’s head, knocking him out cold. He had then proceeded to beat Tops with it as the latter attempted unsuccessfully to scramble away in drunken fear. Following a half dozen blows, one which likely had cracked some ribs, Butch had tossed the limb onto the fire then returned to the unconscious Olly, kicking him a few times before finally settling back into his camping chair.
The incident had lasted little more than a minute from the first blow to the last during which time the three other crew members had remained silent and motionless, watching in awe, and fear. Not a word of the beatings was brought up subsequently by the victims or the others and, going forward, when Butch spoke, the members of the crew listened and obeyed.
As summer had ended and autumn rolled in, Butch had decided they would head to Toronto where they could settle for the winter and concentrate on making some substantial money in more stable surroundings. Since none of them had any steady, legal means of income or marketable skills, Butch had kept his crew members busy with daily robbery runs for the first several weeks in the Toronto area in order to accumulate a bankroll sufficient to rent lodgings.
An old, used Econoline had been purchased in Rat’s name to facilitate movement of larger stolen goods, particularly television monitors, computers and related equipment and Butch had established a number of contacts to turn the merchandise into cash. Selling drugs had been an excellent income generator back home and soon became a staple business line for the crew once again.
Within six weeks, they had moved out of the cheap motel in which they had been living and into an apartment leased by Rat, large enough to accommodate all six comfortably. Under Butch’s leadership and planning, their theft and drug business had continued to flourish. During the day, he and Rat would drive around, scouting the multitude of neighborhoods in the Greater Toronto Area, selecting potential burglary targets for the others to subsequently hit.
It soon had dawned on Butch that a city the size of Toronto offered more potential than his five men could handle and he had started carefully recruiting additional crew members amongst the countless teens and young adults he saw living on the street every day. What he had to offer was a roof over their heads and a share of the proceeds they generated. In return, he demanded their utmost respect and compliance to his directives. By the time summer had come around again, his burglary team had increased by two, a drug savvy seventeen year old had come on board and a second apartment had been rented by Sean ‘Dibs’ Dibsdale, one of the original crew members.
Pleased with his crew’s performance after their first year, Butch had called for a road trip in July to allow them to repeat their nomadic roaming of the previous summer. Throughout the year, his men had complied with his demands without any argument, regardless of the risk, and Butch felt they deserved some time to unwind from their daily lives of crime. For this reason, the only thieving Butch expected of them during their vacation was to cover the crew’s needs. However, he had limited the summer break to four weeks to avoid adversely affecting his growing and profitable business too seriously.
The next few years had come and gone, each an improvement over the previous one with the Greater Toronto Area continuing to supply them with an increasing flow of goods for resale as well as an expanding customer base. In addition to sustained residential break-in activities, a growing number of retail and warehousing establishments had been added to the robbery target mix as had truck hijackings. Though not major players in the drug world by any means, their marijuana, cocaine and meth distribution business generated sufficient funds to be deemed worthwhile.
By the fourth year, Butch’s crew had grown to an even dozen, a number he had decided to subsequently remain at since, as he semi-jokingly suggested, it paralleled the number of the Lord’s apostles. The reference was not completely false as Butch had succeeded in gathering twelve young men who openly admired him and never questioned his demands, performing whatever duty was assigned to them. This had been made blatantly clear the previous year toward the end of their fifth summer trek on the way back to Toronto from Manitoba.
They had been camping near Espanola, Ontario, and, as he often did, Butch had gone off for a while, scouting the area for potential sources of food, alcohol and money. Upon his return, the crew members had fully expected him to direct a couple of teams to a few locations that night to gather
whatever worthy goods they could find in their usual stealthy manner. However, much to their surprise, Butch had informed them they would all be going to party at a lovely, secluded home he had found.
Later that evening, the crew had piled into the E-Series wagon and the Suburban they had recently acquired and followed Butch as he led the way on his motorcycle. After ten minutes or so, he had turned off the deserted country road onto a dirt path leading into the woods, driving on until they reached a clearing where they left the vehicles.
They had hiked for five minutes along a narrow trail before the woods had thinned then given way to an expansive, well-manicured, rolling lot in the midst of which sat a large, well-kept Victorian home. Butch had sent two of his men for a closer inspection while he and the rest of the crew waited in silence under the cover of the darkness and foliage. The scouts had returned after a few moments to report that three people, a man and two women in the mid-forty to mid-fifty age range, sat watching television in a den around the back.
They had stormed the house, quickly ascertaining that nobody else was there before launching into a five hour adrenaline fuelled orgy of violence and destruction. Under Butch’s direction, they had beaten and tortured the occupants, punching, slapping and kicking them, burning them with cigarettes, cutting them with knives and broken glass. The women had been repeatedly raped, while their male counterpart had been forced to watch his wife and sister go through hell.
As per Butch’s wishes, while some had tended to the captives, others had gone on a destructive rampage of the home, slashing couches, cushions and mattresses, smashing tables, chairs, glassware and dishes, punching holes into the walls and doors. In the kitchen, contents of the refrigerator and pantries were strewn across the floor, jars and bottles thrown against the walls. In the bathrooms, sinks and toilets were shattered, pipes broken, spewing water.
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