The Homeless Killer

by Claude Bouchard

  Once Sandy had completed her fine arts degree in 1998, they had decided that country life would suit their fancy and had eventually settled on several acres of lakeside property in Knowlton where they had had their dream house built. Sandy had opened a small, prestigious art gallery, Taylor’s, which had since become quite successful, attracting promising and established artists as well as clientele to buy their works.

  Knowlton however, ninety minutes from Montreal on a good day was not always practical commute-wise so six months after moving there, they had acquired the highly comfortable condo which offered magnificent views on all sides.

  As Chris stored the groceries he had brought with him, his thoughts turned to Dave McCall, his favourite golf partner and friend for ten years.

  A highly intelligent man and devoted cop, Dave, now forty-one, could have been Director of the Montreal force by now, had he wanted to. He had made lieutenant by the age of thirty-one when he had been offered command of the Special Homicide Task Force. Barely a year later he had been bumped up to captain as detectives across the island vied for a position on his team. Since, he had been approached, prodded and urged regarding higher posts in the force’s administration but he had refused on each occasion. A paper pusher or bureaucrat, he was not. As head of the task force for over ten years, it was still commonplace to find Captain Dave McCall pounding the pavement as he investigated a murder.

  ‘A great guy, honest, hard working cop who never beats me at golf and remembers our anniversary.’ thought Chris as he picked up the phone to call Dave. ‘You just gotta love him.’

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “So tell me,” Dave enquired with a smile as he refilled their wine glasses. “Are you just getting old or did you throw the game to make me happy?”

  Chris pondered a moment then replied, “I didn’t get you flowers, it’s our tenth anniversary, ten years during which you never won any of the hundreds of rounds of golf we played… I had to give you something.”

  “Eat your tuna tartar, Mister Barry,” Dave grinned. “I beat you fair and square and you know it.”

  “By one lousy stroke, sir,” Chris shrugged, then chuckled. “It’s about goddamned time.”

  They had had a great afternoon at Le Challenger Golf Club in Ville St-Laurent with sunshine, temperatures in the low eighties and just enough of a breeze to make things comfortable. Chris had been ahead by one stroke at 39 on the front nine but when it was all over, Dave had finished with an even 80 to Chris’ 81.

  Following a couple of rounds at the 19th hole, they had made their way over to the Rib’N Reef Steakhouse on Decarie where they now were enjoying their appetizers.

  “God, this is good,” stated Dave following another bite of the tuna tartar which had been prepared at their table just minutes before. “So, what do you have planned while here in the big city?”

  “Meeting with my broker tomorrow morning,” answered Chris. “Shouldn’t be too long, just a portfolio review. Board meeting at two at VideoScope. Then I’m taking Sandy’s mom and stepfather out for dinner tomorrow night. Tuesday morning, I’ve got nothing planned but in the afternoon, I’ll be going to the McClure Gallery in Westmount. The exhibit on right now is by Elisabeth Galante. Sandy’s seen some of her work in photos on the internet and asked me to go have a look at the real stuff. She does some pretty amazing watercolours and has contacted Sandy for a possible show at Taylor’s. Sandy had an artist from New York booked for two weeks as of July 29th but the guy just cancelled on her, said he won’t be ready. Hopefully, this will work out because an empty gallery is just not good for business.”

  “Yeah, earning a living must be tough for you guys,” Dave kidded.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Chris rebutted. “I haven’t done it in a while.”

  “Any consulting jobs lately?” enquired Dave, referring to ‘Discreet Activities’. He had learned of Chris’ involvement with Addley’s covert group nine years ago while working on a case. In fact, it was thanks to Chris and Jonathan that Dave had been around to enjoy those nine years. He had never questioned Chris in detail about anything the latter might have done but did occasionally bring it up superficially as now.

  “One little job while we were in the Caribbean; that was a small part of why we went down there, but nothing since.” Chris answered frankly as always when Dave brought the subject up. “However, I never know when something might come up. How about you? Business good these days?”

  “Actually, it’s not too bad,” admitted Dave, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “We don’t have any recent cases, which is good and we’ve actually been pulling out the occasional cold one in recent months. In fact, Joanne’s solved two in the last three months and Frank wrapped one up from three years ago just last week.”

  Joanne Nelson and Frank Bakes were two of McCall’s senior detectives who had been part of his team since the inception of the task force. Chris had met them both during the Vigilante investigation and occasionally since.

  As their waiter came by to top off their wine glasses and remove the spotless tuna tartar plates, Dave muttered, “Damn,” and reached for the vibrating cell phone clipped to his belt.

  He glanced at the screen, then up at Chris apologetically as he flipped open his phone. “Sorry, hate to take this now but it’s Harris.”

  Tim Harris was another of Dave’s long-time detectives.

  “Dave here, what’s up Tim? He said in a low voice, conscious of the other diners enjoying their meals in the quiet, relaxed atmosphere of the Reef. As he listened, his jaw tightened, his expression grew grim.

  “OK. You see any need for me to come down?” he asked into the phone. “That’s good cuz I’m right in the middle of dinner here. OK, I will. Thanks for calling. Phone’s on if you need to reach me. See you in the morning.”

  He snapped the phone shut and looked at Chris. “Tim says hi. He called at home and Cathy told him I was out with you.”

  “Hi back, Tim,” Chris replied. “Anything wrong?”

  “Homeless dude shot, up on Mount-Royal,” answered Dave. “The guy had a little shelter set up in the woods; seems like he was living there. Some hiker was trekking off the trails this afternoon and found him. I’ll know more in the morning. Tim’s on it.”

  “Are you sure that you don’t want to go?” Chris asked. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m not worried about you at all,” replied Dave with a grin. “Deal this afternoon was that the loser bought dinner. I’m having that steak and dessert.”

  Chapter 3 - Monday, July 3, 2006

  “So, I haven’t seen anything in the papers this morning,” said Dave McCall as he hung his jacket behind his office door. “What have we got?”

  “This hasn’t got to the media,” replied Tim Harris. “Nothing on the radio either and we haven’t received any calls. We are talking a homeless guy found dead in the woods on the mountain by a lone hiker; pretty much a media non-event.”

  “Well, let’s be thankful for that,” said Dave, not the biggest media fan when it came to police matters. “Let’s hear the details.”

  “Here it goes,” started Tim, reading off his notes. “White male, unidentified, apparently homeless unless you want to call that tarp and cardboard thing where he was found a home. Shot once in the forehead from close; scene tech’s guess is as close as a couple of feet from the powder burns. Estimated age in the fifties but it’s hard to say; the guy looked like life hadn’t been easy. Five-eight, hundred forty-six pounds. No sign of a struggle but there was a good sized tree branch, like a big bat laying right by him covered with his prints, possible defence weapon.”

  “No witnesses, nothing strange reported?” queried the captain.

  “No witnesses but a couple of reports,” continued Tim. “Half a dozen students from McGill were walking along Olmstead Path heading back to the ghetto. They’d been up at Beaver Lake having a couple of beers and jamming. They heard what sounded like a gunshot and one of them called 911 on her cell. A couple of cops o
n bike patrol from Station 20 were up on the mountain and heard the shot as well, called it in and did some looking around but didn’t find anything. Another call came in from an orderly at the Royal Vic who was heading to his car in the back lot when he heard what sounded like a gunshot. All three calls came in around 11:00.”

  “But nobody saw anything?” Dave said rather than asked.

  “Nada,” confirmed Harris. “Station 20 actually put four extra bikers out on Sunday morning and the park was roughly combed. They didn’t find anything. Then at about 3:15 yesterday afternoon, Sylvain Marois, coincidently another orderly from the Vic, found the body. Marois, he’s a hiker, finished his shift at 3:00, changed into his hiking clothes and started his climb up the hill. Says that he does this four or five times a week, weather permitting; thinks it’s great cuz he can just leave the car in the hospital parking since the hill’s right there. He also had a cell and called 911 after running the hell up through the trees to Olmstead. Waited a couple of minutes until the bike cops showed up and led them to the scene.”

  “No reason to consider him for anything?” asked McCall.

  “Wouldn’t think so,” Tim replied. “He went to Station 20 to give his statement and was asked if he had heard anything the night before but he works the daytime 7:00 to 3:00 shift. He was down at the Old Port with his wife and two other couples for the show and fireworks the night before.”

  “Nothing on the gun?” the captain enquired.

  “Tech figured mid-calibre, maybe a thirty-eight. No shell was found but we’ll know after the autopsy.”

  “Well, it certainly sounds like something we’ll wrap up by the end of the day,” Dave stated with a dry smile. “Do what you can. Keep me posted.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Tim saluted sharply, cracked a smile and left the office.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “And where are these people supposed to go?” demanded William A. Enright, glaring at the members of the borough council seated up on the dais. “They are people, you know.”

  “We know they are people, Mr. Enright,” shot back Bernard Laforge, mayor of the Ville-Marie borough. “That is not the question here.”

  “Then what is the question?” challenged Enright. “These poor souls haven’t had a difficult enough life as it is? Living on the street, not knowing where their next meal will come from, where they will sleep any given night? Right now, some of them at least know where to sleep nights; in the squares, the public squares. Your proposed by-law will put an end to that. They are people as you have so generously acknowledged. Do not people make up the public? Therefore, do not the squares belong to them?”

  The setting was a public forum at City Hall; the subject du jour, the Ville-Marie borough’s proposed by-law, slated to take effect September 1st, making it an offence to be present or sleep in any of the borough’s fifteen public squares between midnight and 6:00 a.m.

  William A. Enright was a staunch advocate for the rights of the homeless, following in the footsteps of his father, the late Patrick Enright III.

  In 1886, Patrick William Enright had crossed the Atlantic from Ireland, promising himself fame and riches in the New World. Making his way to Montreal, he was lucky enough to quickly obtain employment with MacDonald Brothers and Company, Tobacco Merchants. Two years later, dissatisfied with his slow pace to wealth and having established a number of valuable contacts in the market, Patrick took the leap and founded the P.W. Enright Tobacco Company. This turned out to be a wise move on his part as the company flourished and quickly became successful. Shortly after founding his company, Patrick met Catherine Binsmore and the two married late in 1889. Ten months later Patrick II, their only child, was born.

  The P.W. Enright Tobacco Company continued its growth and was a well respected enterprise and sought after employer in 1914 when Patrick Sr. passed and Patrick II assumed the helm at the tender age of twenty-four.

  Surviving the depression era, as people smoked when worried and depressed, P.W. Enright grew by leaps and bound over the years that followed, demonstrating clearly that Patrick Jr. had learned his father’s lessons well. At the time of Patrick II’s death in 1952, thirty-two year old Patrick the 3rd inherited a well managed corporation with annual profits in the millions.

  Over the years, Patrick III had become more and more distraught and concerned about the plight of the homeless in his hometown of Montreal as well as elsewhere in the country. In his mind it was unfair that some, as he, literally had sufficient wealth to live lavishly for thousands of lifetimes while others hadn’t a clue about the provenance of their next meal. Patrick became progressively involved in helping the homeless; opening shelters, generously supporting homelessness related programmes and organizations and speaking for their rights to various private and public groups.

  Having lost his wife, Marie, in a car accident two years prior, Patrick, aged fifty, sold the P.W. Enright Tobacco Company in 1970 to an American industry giant for an astronomical sum in order to dedicate his time to his two remaining loves; his only child, sixteen year old William and, of course, the homeless.

  Exposed to his father’s dedication towards the homeless from the time he was a toddler, William’s interest and belief in helping the cause became second nature early on. Throughout grade school, high school, college and university, William spearheaded countless food drives, benefits, campaigns and various programmes aimed at the recognition of the rights of the homeless and the betterment of their lives.

  When Patrick Enright the 3rd passed away in 1989, he left his son a trust fund sufficient to keep William, then thirty-five, living in comfort for the rest of his days. As per his wishes, the remainder of his vast fortune was bequeathed to the Patrick William Enright Foundation for the Homeless which William would institute and subsequently chair.

  True to his father’s hopes and wishes, William had continued the war against homelessness during the seventeen years since Patrick’s death and continued still with unrelenting vim and dedication. His most recent project, The P.W. Enright Overdale Shelter, a converted manufacturing plant, was nearing completion and would offer lodging, food and bathing facilities for up to two hundred homeless people as well as counselling, education and training services.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Enright,” argued Borough Deputy-Mayor Pierre Lévesque, “The squares do not belong to these people anymore than they belong to you or me. Once this by-law takes effect, neither one of us will have any more right to sleep there than any of the homeless.”

  “Mister Lévesque,” scoffed William. “I find your comment to be redundant, ridiculous and pure political goddamned gibberish. Why the hell would either of us wish to sleep in a square when we each have warm, safe and comfortable homes? What effort is this council making to provide these people with a place to stay? None as far as I know. We, the Foundation, are doing our part. We have nearly completed our newest shelter on Overdale Avenue. But what do you people do? You utter political garbage and run these poor souls out. Total fucking idiocy.”

  “Now listen here you,” yelled Lévesque, rising from his seat before Mayor Laforge waved him back down.

  “Mr. Enright,” said the mayor in a controlled tone. “We will get nowhere in these proceedings with vulgar language and name calling. I ask you to act courteously and professionally or you will be asked to leave. Is that clear?”

  “What is clear, mister Mayor,” Enright responded, “Is that you, Mister Lévesque and your councillors are heartless chicken-shits.”

  “Mr. Enright, that is enough,” shouted Laforge as he jumped to his feet.

  “You will let me finish, SIR,” bellowed William from the podium with fire in his eyes. “Then I will leave.”

  Laforge glared back at him for a moment as the room grew deathly silent then sat back down.

  “As I was saying,” Enright resumed in a calm tone, “This is a council of chicken-shits. Rather than even attempt to help these people, your plan is to shoo them away, sweep them under the carpet. Othe
rwise, what will our regular citizens think? What will the tourists think? No, let’s hide the problem. Let’s simply chase the problem away. Let’s waste the taxpayers’ money by paying policemen to issue fines to broken, homeless people who don’t have a penny in their name anyway… Chicken-shits… Have a nice day, Ladies and Gentlemen but trust me when I tell you; you have not heard the last of me.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The evening was comfortable under a starry sky, but it was getting late so few people were out in the Old Port of Montreal.

  She pushed her shopping cart, overflowing with all her possessions, along de la Commune Street eastward, past Bonsecour Market and then turned right towards the St-Lawrence River. She hoped the guard in the booth to the Old Clock Tower Quay parking lot wasn’t that cranky one with the grey frizzy hair. He was always muttering at her in French or that broken English of his and giving her a hard time. She much preferred Julien, the young blond boy or Yannick, the chubby one with the glasses. They never hassled her, never gave her any trouble; they knew how much she enjoyed the view from the point where the Old Clock Tower was and seemed to get a kick out of making her smile.

  As she lined up with the booth along the sidewalk, she chanced a sideways glance up and saw Julien in there smiling at her. She smiled back and waved as he slid open the window.

  “Comment ça va, Sally?” he called out to her, grinning.

  “Oh, you stop that with your fancy French,” she laughed. “You know I can’t talk that way. And, I’m fine, thank you very much.”

  “You don’t stay out there too late, ok?” added the guard. “I don’t want you getting into any trouble.”

  “Not to worry, young man,” Sally reassured. “Anyhow, how much trouble can an old bag lady like me get into?”

  “Well, have yourself a good night, Sally,” said Julien before sliding the window shut and returning to his book.