Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  * * * *

  Zack awoke, feeling somewhat groggy and confused. He didn’t remember the alarm going off and wondered why the lights were on in the room. As he came more to his senses, he tried to sit up in the bed and realized that his arms were tied above his head.

  “What the fuck,” he swore, trying, unsuccessfully, to move.

  His legs were also tied. Now quite awake, he lifted his head and saw a man sitting on a chair, facing him at the foot of the bed, calmly reading a magazine.

  “Good morning, Zack,” greeted the man, tossing the magazine aside.

  It was 1:43 a.m.

  “I gave you something to help you sleep a little,” the stranger continued. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “What the fuck is this?” Zack retorted. “Who the fuck are you? What the fuck do you want?”

  “Now, now, Zack,” the man cooed as he smiled. “Are we always this cranky when we wake up? Guess you aren’t a morning person now, are you?”

  He continued, not bothering to wait for an answer. “I used silk scarves to tie you up so you don’t have to worry. They won’t leave any nasty burns like rope would.”

  He had been quite happy to see Zack’s big brass bed on his last visit. It made tying someone up so much easier.

  “Listen, take what you want,” Zack offered, his fear mounting. “I got money, lots of it, hidden in this place. I even got a safe!”

  “No, no, Zack,” his uninvited visitor replied, shaking his head. “I didn’t come here to rob you. I don’t want your money. I came here to discuss a proposition with you. Here it goes. You make your living selling crack and smack to little kids, right? They fuck up their lives, some even die, while you get rich. Now, here’s what I propose. I’ll shoot you up with a massive dose of the garbage you put out on the street. You will die, knowing how those poor little boys and girls feel when they die. Net result, our society will have one less piece of shit to worry about. What do you think of my idea, Zack?”

  “You’re crazy, man, fucking crazy!” Zack shrieked. “This is fucking murder! You can’t do this!”

  He wrestled on the bed, trying to break loose, but to no avail. His visitor was obviously extremely knowledgeable in the art of tying people up.

  The man stood up from his chair as he quietly responded to his prisoner’s statement. “No, Zack. You see, you’re wrong. I can do this. Watch me. I will.”

  Decisively, he walked to the door and picked up his canvas bag from the floor. Zack watched in horror and started to scream as the man removed a large syringe, candle and spoon from the bag and set them on a coffee table in the corner.

  Shaking his head in silent disgust, the intruder calmly reached into the bag and pulled out another silk scarf. Moving over to the side of the bed, he skilfully squeezed Zack’s jaw open with one hand and stuffed the scarf into his prisoner’s gaping mouth.

  “Quiet, Zack,” he gently suggested. “You’ll wake the neighbours.”

  Returning to the coffee table, he continued to prepare Zack’s death, oblivious to the latter’s whimpering. Within minutes, he was back at the drug dealer’s side, armed with the full syringe. Zack stared at him, moaning with terror as tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “Don’t cry, Zack,” the man softly encouraged. “I prepared you a special blend. Half heroin, half crack. You’ll get a double rush.”

  Producing a rubber tourniquet from his jacket pocket, he quickly wrapped it around Zack’s arm and pulled it tight. After a moment of waiting, he inserted the needle into a prominent vein and depressed the plunger. Within seconds, Zack started convulsing. Twenty seconds later, he was dead.

  “Too quick,” the man sighed, gazing down at the body and wishing he’d caused his victim more suffering.

  As an afterthought, he pulled out his knife and slit Zack’s throat; his signature. He then picked up his belongings and, pausing only long enough to change his clothes, headed for home.

  * * * *

  Frank Bakes crept up the steps, silently unlocked the front door and slipped inside. A quick glance at the antique grandfather clock in the hallway caused him to frown; 3:15 in the morning. He had to stop coming in so late. Soundlessly, he moved upstairs and entered their bedroom where his wife lay asleep. Undressing quietly, being careful not to wake her, he gently climbed into bed and let his exhausted body and mind drift away.

  Chapter 9 - Thursday, July 4, 1996

  It was 8:45 a.m. and Dave McCall, who sat brooding in his office, had already been up for five gruelling hours.

  At 3:00, an unidentified caller had reported a disturbance on Belmont Avenue in Westmount and a patrol car had been sent to the given address to investigate. Upon their arrival, the officers on call had noticed nothing out of the ordinary, everything was quiet.

  Normally, they might have simply left. However, this was the address of one Zachary Roberts, highly suspected by the police of selling crack cocaine and heroin. This being the case, they had rung the doorbell a couple of times but had not been answered. Upon venturing into the backyard, they had noticed a pane of glass from the basement door laying on the top step and radioed in for backup. They had then entered the home and, following several minutes of cautious search, had found Zack lying on his bed, obviously dead. Due to the gaping wound at his throat, McCall had been called.

  Their unidentified caller had apparently also informed the press because, by 3:30 in the morning, crews from local T.V. and radio stations as well as newspaper reporters, including Henderson, were appearing on the scene. The story had been all over the morning news; Twenty unsolved murders, presumably committed by the same person, the infamous Vigilante, in just over six months.

  However, the reports and articles had a surprisingly different tone to them this time. To date, Henderson had been the only clear supporter of the Vigilante from the press. But now, considering that the latest victim was a hard drug dealer with his prey consisting mostly of young teenagers, everybody seemed to view the Vigilante with a more sympathetic eye. One anchorperson had even suggested that the police might want to think about teaming up with this crime fighting phantom. At least, he got the job done.

  Joanne Nelson called from her desk, breaking into McCall’s thoughtful misery. “Dave, Chris Barry on 219. You taking it?”

  He nodded and picked up the phone. “Howya doing, Chris?”

  “Fine, thanks,” Chris sympathetically replied. “Seems like you’ve got another one on your hands. It’s all over the press this morning.”

  “Yup,” McCall morosely responded. “And they’re all calling him the good guy this time. Maybe we should offer him the Director’s job.”

  Chris chuckled politely and asked, “Does it seem like the same guy?”

  “I think so,” Dave hesitantly answered. “I just got a preliminary report from the M.E. It looks like the actual cause of death was a drug overdose. The throat was slashed after the fact. But, I think it’s our man. He killed with drugs to prove a point to his victim. He cut his throat to leave his mark.”

  “Anything I can do?” Chris helpfully offered.

  “Not really, not right now,” McCall replied. “I’ll let you know if something comes up.”

  “Okay, don’t hesitate,” urged Chris. “Anyhow, the reason I was calling is I’ve got tickets for the ball game on Saturday afternoon and my wife is going to a bridal shower. I was wondering if you might be interested in going? It would give us a chance to get to know each other better which is something that’s always proved helpful in my past business dealings.”

  “Saturday? Sure,” McCall accepted, his spirit brightening. “Cathy, my wife, is going to her mother’s, a Tupperware party or something. Ball game sounds great.”

  “Excellent,” Chris responded. “The game’s at 1:35. Why don’t you meet me at the office around 1:00. We can park there and walk over.”

  “Sounds good,” agreed McCall. “If you’re free afterwards, I’ll buy dinner.”

  “Deal. See you Saturday.”

/>   Chapter 10 - Friday, July 5, 1996

  12:17 p.m. Eileen Baker hastened out of the air-conditioning of Les Cours Mont-Royal on Peel Street, home of Griffiths & Donaldson, and into the sizzling heat and humidity of July. It was a beautiful sunny day and the streets of downtown Montreal were alive with a colourful mix of street vendors, tourists and the usual noon-time crowd of office workers scampering about to get a bite to eat and complete as many errands as possible within an hour.

  She hurried south along Peel towards Rene-Levesque Boulevard, on her way to a 12:30 lunch date with a possible new client. She reached the corner of St-Catherine and impatiently waited for a break in the heavy midday traffic.

  “Hello, Eileen. How are you?” asked a male voice to her right.

  She turned her head towards the familiar voice and greeted its owner with an icy smile. “Lieutenant McCall. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable.

  “I came by to see you on Wednesday,” McCall informed her with an innocent grin. “Unfortunately, you were busy so we didn’t get to see each other.”

  “Yes, I have a very hectic schedule,” Eileen testily replied. “In fact, I’m on my way to a lunch appointment right now. It was nice to see you, Lieutenant.”

  She started across the street and away from him but McCall followed, not ready to give up that easily.

  “Do you mind if I walk with you?” he asked. “I’m heading your way anyway.”

  She allowed another cool smile as she responded, “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

  “That’s alright. I’m just taking a random lunch hour walk,” McCall explained. “Your direction is my direction.”

  Shrugging, she replied, “If it will make you happy, Lieutenant. I’m only walking to the next block and I do have an appointment.”

  “Sure, no problem,” agreed McCall. “Listen, I was wondering if you remembered anything else about the guy who helped you the other week. We would really like to speak to the gentleman, you understand, and to date, you’re probably the only person who has ever seen him.”

  Her face tightened and she stared straight ahead, hesitating several seconds before responding. “I told you and your friend what I had to say when you visited me last Friday. I don’t have anything else to add to that. Should something come to mind, I will not hesitate to give you a call.”

  She darted across the street diagonally, heading towards Le Windsor, a landmark hotel which had been converted into luxurious office space several years before.

  “I just want to make sure that you realize the importance of telling us anything you know,” McCall stated quietly, still on her heels.

  She stopped in front of Le Piment Rouge, located on the ground floor of Le Windsor, turned and, for the first time, looked McCall in the eye.

  “I wish I could help you but I can’t,” she spoke slowly, putting emphasis on each word. “I have told you everything that I could. Please leave me alone!”

  With that, she turned on her heel and hurried into the building.

  McCall watched her go until she disappeared, then stuck his hands into his pockets and strolled back to the office as he contemplated. He would have to find some way to get her to talk because she knew more than she was telling. He was certain of that now. He had seen it in her eyes.

  Chapter 11 - Saturday, July 6, 1996

  Chris and Dave had had a great time at the game, especially given the fact that the Expos had won 5 to 4, coming from behind and scoring four runs in the bottom of the ninth.

  Although the two men had not known each other for very long, each had become quite comfortable with the other. McCall, for his part, listened in fascination as Chris recounted one anecdote after another about mammoth business deals and the incompetence of many of the business leaders in the world today. Chris showed equal interest when Dave spoke of the captivating world of murder investigations, from the tracking a killer and the satisfaction of seeing one go behind bars to the frustration of having one go free.

  They were two different men from two very different worlds but had quickly developed a strong bond. In the short time they had known each other, they had become like old friends.

  They were seated at a table at Le Joli Moulin, digesting their feast of steak and lobster while discussing the case of the elusive Vigilante.

  “Just remember, if there’s anything I can do, don’t be shy,” Chris reminded. “We have some excellent investigators whom we pay well, whether they’re working on something or not. I’m sure I can spare a couple if you need anybody to do some legwork.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” shrugged McCall. “The thing is, policy doesn’t allow us to sub-contract any investigative work. Plus, we’d get the union in an uproar if we did and, if the media ever got a hold of something like that, they’d rip us apart. Regardless, even if I wanted to throw a few things quietly your way, the point is, we don’t have anything to go on right now.”

  As he spoke, an idea suddenly came to mind. Though certainly farfetched, he didn’t have much to lose.

  “Maybe there is one thing you could do for me, Chris,” he began quietly. “Those two guys last week, the insurance salesmen. As you know, there was a witness, the girl they intended to rape. Her name is Eileen Baker and she’s an account executive with Griffiths & Donaldson, the ad agency. She got a look at our man. We questioned her about it but she couldn’t really help us. I’ve had a feeling that she could tell us more than she did. I think that she’s protecting him. After all, he did help her out in a big way. I’ve tried to get more out of her since we first met but she’s not talking. I spoke to her yesterday afternoon and I could see it in her eyes. I’m sure she could help. Maybe you could think about this, see if you can find an angle to get her to open up. Maybe there’s someway you can meet with her, get her to talk. I’m sure you’re good at that kind of thing. Think about it.”

  “I’m in,” Chris keenly accepted. “I’m sure that I can arrange to meet with her easily enough. Griffiths and Donaldson has been trying to get a foot into our place for a few years. But, to get her to talk about what happened, I’ll have to mention my involvement in this somehow.”

  “Guess you’ll have to,” McCall acknowledged. “Tell her you’re my friend and that CSS is doing some computer work for the police department. That’s the truth.”

  “Best way to go,” Chris agreed. “Let me see what I can do. Do you have any documentation you can ‘unofficially’ supply me with that might help convince her how nasty this guy is?”

  “Yeah, I can put something together for you.”

  “Okay,” said Chris. “Fax me whatever you think I need at the office. Here, the number’s on my card. Only person who’ll see it is Sonia and she’s very discreet. Carl Denver and I will be visiting some customers out on the West Coast early next week but I’ll get on this as soon as I get back.”

  “Hey,” McCall grinned. “I’ve a couple of people heading for Vancouver next week also. They’re going to a seminar presented by the RCMP and the FBI. Maybe you can buy them a meal or two to help me control my expenses.”

  “Are you kidding?” snorted Chris. “With the taxes I pay, I’ve already paid for their trip.”

  Chapter 12 - Monday, July 8, 1996

  Eddy had never regretted his decision to move to Vancouver. It was such a beautiful city. There weren’t too many places in the world where, in the right season, you could play a round of golf in the morning, ski in the afternoon and be back for the club action at night.

  The move to the West Coast had not only represented a change in geography but also one of lifestyle, for Eddy had ceased his criminal activities.

  Upon their arrival in Toronto, following the fouled up Taylor hold-up incident, he and Mike had tried their hand again at armed robbery with more success than the first time. They had started small scale with liquor and convenience stores and soon had tried their hand at a couple of banks.

  Mike liked to spend an
d usually blew his share of the take quickly. Eddy, on the other hand, put most of his money aside and had eventually saved enough to score a few good drug deals, which had allowed him to rapidly increase his bankroll. He’d also done a little pimping, which hadn’t done any harm to his financial situation.

  Although he had parted ways with Mike after a while and not subsequently seen him for several years, he had been shaken to learn of his friend’s death. That was when he had decided to quit the life of crime. By then, at the age of twenty-seven, he had accumulated enough cash to invest into his own business and had always dreamed of owning a club and playing the boss. The time was right, he had decided, to pursue that dream.

  To start fresh, he had gone to Vancouver where he’d bought a share of ‘Aces’, a little singles place downtown. He knew his partners were into the occasional shady deal but they did that on the side. The club itself was clean. Although he would never become filthy rich, his share of the profits allowed him to lead a very comfortable lifestyle with little required effort. At the age of thirty-one, he was looking for nothing more.

  Whenever the weather permitted, Eddy liked to get up early and go jogging in Stanley Park. After an hour of running, he would sit to watch and listen to the city come to life across the harbour. On some mornings, when he was early enough, he got to see the sun rise over the mountains in the distance, always a wondrous spectacle.

  Monday was one of those mornings. By the time he reached the point which extended into Vancouver Harbour, only the barest glimpses of daylight were apparent. He sat on the dew-covered grass, stretching his legs as he pulled a bottle of orange juice from the small backpack he always wore.