Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  “So you’re thinking ... Hey, Ted where’d you go?”

  As he finished uttering his question, a vicious blow to the back of his head sent him plummeting into darkness.

  After tossing the club-like branch into the beach fire, the man lifted O’Shea’s unconscious form over his shoulder and started up the steps to the terrace. They would be much more comfortable inside, he thought.

  When Greg O’Shea started to regain consciousness, the first thing he noticed was how uncomfortable he felt, though he could not yet quite grasp why. The back of his head hurt like hell and he could not remember where he was.

  Cottage, ribs, beach fire ... Wait, a man? He really was very uncomfortable. Although his feet were touching the ground, he felt as if he was suspended upright and his hands and arms were numb. Why were his arms up in the air like that and why couldn’t he get them down?

  He shook his head and immediately regretted doing so. The pain was tremendous and left him feeling dizzy. He tried to concentrate, attempting to remember what had happened. A man, Ted something, wanted to buy land… beer, boathouse, beach-chairs ... He opened his eyes, but only for a second; the light was too bright. How come it was light? Where was he?

  “Welcome back, Greg,” he faintly heard a voice call out.

  Struggling to clear his thoughts, he tried to open his eyes again, the harsh light only allowing limited success. Squinting through barely raised lids, he could make out a man standing behind the counter, familiar looking, a baseball cap.

  “Wake up, Gregory,” The man ordered.

  “Where-where am I?” O’Shea asked weakly, still very confused.

  “Why, you’re in your lovely cottage, Greg,” the man responded soothingly.

  O’Shea’s mind was starting to clear.

  “Ted?” he asked, still annoyed by the bright light.

  “Well, no. I’m sorry,” apologized the man. “I lied about my name.”

  Fear was now rapidly reviving O’Shea as he realized where he was; his shooting range. Looking up above his head, he saw that his wrists were bound tightly together with filament tape, above the wire cable which ran the length of the tunnel. He was trussed up as a live target.

  “Who Are You!?” he shrieked, his eyes wide with terror.

  “The Vigilante, at your service,” the man cordially introduced himself.

  “W-why are you doing this to me?” O’Shea stammered, trembling. “W-what are you gonna do to me?”

  “Two very fine questions, my friend,” said the Vigilante, “Both of which merit an answer. First, why am I doing this? Because you are a horrible person. For personal gain, you have stolen valuable and dangerous arms and have sold them. The people you sold these weapons to used them to kill other people. Sometimes innocent people.”

  He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before pursuing.

  “Now, if you had not sold these arms, I believe that those innocent people would still be alive. Maybe some of them would be enjoying the comfort of their fine country homes right now. All things considered, I have no choice but to hold you responsible for their deaths.”

  “You don’t know that,” O’Shea desperately argued. “I-I didn’t know what anybody wanted those guns for. M-maybe they were just used for target practice.”

  “Wrong,” retorted the Vigilante, shaking his head. “On at least one occasion, one of your weapons took the precious life of a young, healthy, expectant mother, as well as that of her unborn twins. The father remains hospitalized as we speak. It’s not known when, if ever, he’ll pull out of his depressive state.”

  He stared coldly at O’Shea for a moment before resuming. “Now, as for your second question, sir, what will I do?”

  He paused for a few more seconds, gazing at the quivering man suspended fifteen feet away.

  “I will kill you, Greg,” he calmly stated. “I will try the wonderful weapons you have here and will slowly, but surely, kill you.”

  He glared at Gregory O’Shea, not at all impressed as the latter burst into tears. The man was crying, not from remorse for what he had done but rather, because he feared for his life. To the end, Gregory O’Shea was a greedy man, thinking only of himself which disgusted the Vigilante.

  Closing the heavy door behind him to eliminate any bothersome noise, he systematically started trying O’Shea’s wonderful weapons, one by one, until his prospect was dead.

  Chapter 29 - Saturday, July 27, 1996

  9:23 a.m. The sky was cloudless, the sun bright and the temperature was already up to 87 degrees in the shade.

  Seated on the terrace by the pool, the Barrys shared the morning paper while enjoying a leisurely third cup of coffee, their breakfast dishes still piled on the patio table, pushed to one side. It was, after all, the weekend, a time to take it easy, a time to relax. There was no rush on weekends.

  The phone rang, breaking the morning calm, and Chris answered as he continued to scan the paper.

  “Hello? Hi, Dave. What’s up?”

  “We’ve got another one,” muttered McCall, his tone grim.

  “Where? What happened?” Chris asked with concern.

  “Some guy up at his cottage on Lake Sawin, a couple of hours north. Got shot, a lot. If you can believe it, the gentleman had an underground shooting gallery leading from his basement. Our man used his victim as a target.”

  “Are you sure it was the Vigilante?” Chris enquired, attracting a curious glance from his wife.

  “Yep,” Dave replied. “No doubt about that. In his usual helpful style, he sent us a message. That’s how we found out. Informed us that the victim, Gregory O’Shea, was a greedy bastard who sold stolen guns. According to our friend, some of those guns were used to kill innocent people and therefore, O’Shea had to die. We got in touch with the provincial police in St-Michel-des-Saints, they went to the scene and gave us a preliminary report. Harris is on his way there now.”

  “You said he shot the guy?” Chris queried.

  “That’s right,” McCall confirmed. “About fifty times, using O’Shea’s own gun collection. Our Vigilante strung him up from the ceiling by the wrists and took shots at him, apparently with several weapons. At least a dozen guns were out of their cases and had been fired. I guess he’s really come to believe that ‘He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword’.”

  “Didn’t anybody hear anything?” Chris persisted, somewhat incredulous. “Neighbours? I mean, fifty shots.”

  “Nope,” was McCall’s response. “This shooting gallery, it opens up on the basement and extends over a hundred feet underground. Door to get in is soundproof. Walls, floor, ceiling, all concrete. I guess O’Shea didn’t want to bother anyone when he practiced. Also, we’re not talking about a residential district here either. It’s all woods, with some cottages over a mile apart. Nice and secluded.”

  “I see,” said Chris, impressed. “Anything you want me to do?”

  “Well naturally, for what it’s worth, I’d like you to try to trace the message,” Dave replied. “Actually, it’s the messages. He sent one to Henderson at the Gazette as well. I was also wondering if you’d be interested in going down there with me. I could use the company for the drive down and maybe you’ll notice something which we don’t.”

  “Sure,” agreed Chris. “What time are you leaving?”

  “As soon as I can. As soon as you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready,” said Chris. “Head on over. In the meantime, I’ll get in touch with Henderson and call Carl to have him look into the tracings.”

  “Great,” McCall replied. “How exactly do I get to your place?”

  “Where are you coming from?” asked Chris.

  “Dorval. I’m at home.”

  “Take the 40 to exit 100, the second one for Repentigny. There’ll be an Esso to your right at Industrial. I’ll meet you there to make things easier.”

  “Excellent,” agreed McCall. “I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”

  “No problem,” answ
ered Chris. “See you then.”

  As he cut the connection and laid the phone down, he noticed his wife’s amused eyes watching him over her paper.

  “What?” he retorted indignantly, pretending not to understand.

  “I thought we didn’t work on weekends?” she stated, feigning a reprimand.

  “This isn’t work, my dear,” he replied defensively, grinning. “This is my civic duty.”

  “Bullshit,” she grinned back. “Be careful out there, okay?”

  “All the time,” he replied with a wink.

  * * * *

  Carl was not even frustrated when he located and subsequently erased the transmission records from the Eazy-Com data bank. He still wondered why they kept reappearing as they did. Knowing the system as well as anyone, he had gone over it more times than he could remember, looking for something which he had missed, some subtle clue, but had found nothing.

  So, in the end, he had never figured out this elusive message enigma and who, if anyone, was responsible, although he had stopped trying because it really didn’t matter anymore. He was on the verge of ceasing his activities for good and would be gone by the end of the week.

  * * * *

  With yet an hour to go before reaching Lake Sawin, Chris and Dave rode in silence.

  They had chatted for a while, about the Vigilante, then sports and current events, then the Vigilante again. Eventually however, both had grown quiet, each consumed by his own thoughts about this vicious killer on the loose.

  “Can I tell you something, Chris?” McCall suddenly asked, seeming hesitant. “I haven’t spoken to anybody about this yet.”

  “Sure. What?” Chris replied, curious.

  “It-it’s about Frank.”

  There, he had got it out.

  “Frank? Bakes?” questioned Chris, puzzled.

  “Yeah, Frank Bakes,” McCall morosely replied.

  He had started; he might as well go on.

  “I’m suspicious of Frank, Chris.”

  “Suspicious of what?” Chris was still confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I think that Frank may be the Vigilante,” McCall bluntly stated.

  “What? Why?” Chris exclaimed in surprise.

  This was not something he had been expecting.

  “You’re actually the one who got me looking into this,” McCall started to explain. “When you talked about how those messages had gotten into our computer, you said maybe a cop had done it. I was sceptical, but, to quote you, ‘I couldn’t leave a stone unturned’.”

  He glanced over and noting that he had Chris’ complete attention, continued.

  “So I started looking into my people’s activities since the Vigilante’s arrival. Everybody had alibis at the times when some of the murders had taken place. Either they had been at the office or off investigating something with another cop. If I was looking for one guilty party, none of them fit the bill. None except Frank. He’d been off duty or off somewhere alone every time the Vigilante had struck. Since I realized this, I’ve been trying to track him more closely. I started following him when I could but haven’t come up with anything for or against him yet.”

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Dave,” Chris offered doubtfully. “But what you’ve told me so far is pretty flimsy.”

  “I’m not done yet,” McCall retorted. “The night Morretto got hit, I called Frank to let him know that Eileen would talk to us the next day. He wasn’t home. His wife told me he’d be back late. A few days later I learn that some unidentified cop was in Zack Robert’s neighbourhood the night he got whacked. Frank happens to live in that neighbourhood. Then Myers, the slumlord. Frank was off duty. Next, Perry, Giovanni Morretto’s assistant; I’m sure that was the Vigilante. The bomb was the same as the one used with Johnny B. Now, who knew about the threats to Eileen? Not too many people, Chris, but Frank did, and he was off that night as well.”

  “All of this could just be coincidence, Dave,” Chris suggested with less certainty. “You mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “I haven’t arrested him yet,” McCall argued. “Like I said, you’re the first person I speak to about this.”

  “Is there anything else?” Chris enquired, intrigued.

  “Yup. Last night, I follow Frank again,” Dave went on. “He goes home, I wait a couple of hours and he comes out, around 7:30. He drives off and I go after him but I lose him at a traffic light. Now, we were still in town, but the half hour I was tailing him, he was heading north-east. This morning, I find out about this O’Shea. By the way, I don’t think I mentioned it but Frank drives a burgundy Chevy Astro.”

  “Interesting,” commented Chris thoughtfully. “What else?”

  “That’s all I have for now,” replied McCall. “Not enough to clear Frank or nail him. This is really screwing me up bad, Chris.”

  “I guess. Is this what you had mentioned you were working on?”

  “Yup. This is it,” Dave confirmed.

  Chris fell silent as he mused over this new development. Although far from being concrete evidence, it did hold together so he could understand his friend’s concern.

  “It could still be all coincidence,” he offered encouragingly. “Don’t forget that Eileen met Frank and she certainly doesn’t seem to think it’s him. Plus, the sketch doesn’t look like Frank at all.”

  “Two points which have kept me hopeful,” McCall admitted. “Although Eileen didn’t see Frank with a hat and shades and, wigs do exist.”

  They rode quietly for another moment before Chris spoke again.

  “Have you decided to go public with the sketch?”

  “Nah. I’m still juggling with that one,” McCall answered. “I’m still worried that the Vigilante might disappear or go back to Eileen if I do. She’s been through enough.”

  “Yeah,” Chris thought aloud. “But didn’t one of Morretto’s goons see him too?”

  “Yep, but he wasn’t much help,” responded Dave. “When we showed him the sketch, he told us that, with a floppy hat, it could be the guy.”

  “So, have your artist change the hat,” suggested Chris. “Worse thing that can happen is that our friend goes after the bodyguard. Just to play it safe, we can keep an eye on Eileen.”

  “Not a bad idea,” replied McCall, grinning. “It might be worth a try. Maybe somebody will recognize him, and anyhow, nothing else has worked so far. I could even give Henderson a call and let him print it. Get him to work for my side for once.”

  He shot a glance at Chris and added, “By the way, speaking of Morretto’s bodyguards, they’ve disappeared. Maybe our friend’s already gotten rid of them.”

  “You think so?”

  “Could be, Chris. Don’t underestimate this guy.”

  Another short pause ensued, broken this time by Dave.

  “About the sketch. Every time I look at it, it seems vaguely familiar but I can’t figure out why.”

  “It’s funny that you should say that,” Chris slowly replied. “When I saw it, I got the same feeling but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  But Chris had put his finger on it. He just wasn’t ready to speak to McCall about it yet, needing to work on the computer activity reports generated from Carl’s PC before talking. The sketch bore a striking resemblance to Carl.

  * * * *

  To describe the scene of Gregory O’Shea’s murder as a mess would have qualified as a serious understatement.

  The man had died slowly and, without a doubt, very painfully. His arms and legs were riddled with bullet holes and, judging from the vast quantity of blood on the tunnel’s floor, it was obvious that many of the wounds had been inflicted prior to death.

  The forensics team was on site and had already dusted the weapons for prints but only O’Shea’s had appeared. There were no footprints anywhere in the house; the killer had been careful and stayed away from the blood.

  Outside, nothing out of the ordinary nor any signs of a struggle had been found. T
here were embers on the beach, still slightly warm, a beach-chair, an empty beer can, a cooler; nothing particular. Prints taken there also had only served to confirm O’Shea’s presence. The woods around the house had also been combed, revealing nothing of interest.

  After an hour on the premises, they had seen enough and not found anything which might serve as a clue. Dave granted a ten minute interview to Ron Henderson, who had patiently waited on the sidelines, after which he and Chris headed for home. The Vigilante had eluded them again.

  Chapter 30 - Monday, July 29, 1996

  9:34 a.m. “McCall, Homicide,” Dave said into the phone, his voice somewhat muffled by a mouthful of doughnut.

  “Hey there. What’s new on this fine morning?” Chris cheerfully enquired.

  “Same old, same old. What’s up?”

  “I was thinking about our conversation on Saturday, Dave. I was wondering if you wanted a couple of people to do some tailing for you?”

  Now that McCall had opened up to his friend about Frank, he did not dislike the idea. Shadowing Bakes himself was growing old at a rapid pace.

  “You have people you really trust, Chris?” he asked, lowering his tone. “I want to keep this real quiet until we’re sure.”

  “Absolutely,” Chris guaranteed. “You have nothing to worry about. My people don’t talk to anyone about their cases, before, during or after. Them’s the rules.”

  “No chance of my man noticing anyone following?” McCall questioned.

  “None. You will get nothing but the best,” Chris confidently replied. “Hell, Dave, you’re gonna want to hire my people once they’re done, they’re so good.”

  McCall smiled. “Thanks, Chris. I don’t know how I’d get through this one without you. When can we start?”

  “Right now. Fax me a photo, a plate number and a vehicle description. The rest is my problem.”