The Homeless Killer

by Claude Bouchard

  “Don’t these people sleep in the morning?” Dave snorted. “Is that it?”

  “One more,” Bakes allowed himself a small grin. “Denis Lupin, the parking garage guard saw Bédard as he was leaving at 6:34. I got the exact time from another security tape which we were also supplied a copy of.”

  “Are you taking pleasure in all of this, Frankie?” Dave asked, slightly smiling as well.

  “Nah,” replied Frank sincerely. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s those ‘goddamned fucking politicians’ that are the problem.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Twenty-four year old Jackson from Brooklyn, New York was quite happy to be in Montreal. He had gotten into some trouble back home, both with the police and some brothers from the Brooklyn Boyz, and had decided that disappearing was probably the best thing for his health and wellbeing.

  He had managed through a combination of much walking and hitch-hiking (and hiking through the woods across the border) to get to Montreal, faraway from his NYC woes.

  He supported himself as best he could, busking all over downtown with his harmonica and his Washburn Rover. Busking revenues are generally proportional to the quality of the performance. As Jackson was no expert on the mouth organ or guitar, his daily earnings usually averaged around ten dollars with which he fed himself. Interior lodgings were obviously out of the question but the summer weather since he’d arrived three weeks prior had made sleeping outside feasible to date.

  The evening’s take on Ste-Catherine by Place Montreal Trust had been dismal and he’d given up by nine o’clock, packed up his guitar and gone, wondering what he could eat for $4.82. He headed west, thinking of that little ‘hole in the wall’ pizza joint on Peel where he could get a slice for 99 cents. That’s what he’d had for the last four nights but at least it was food.

  “Excuse me,” called a voice from behind before he felt a tap on the arm.

  “Wassup?” Jackson asked, turning towards the man as he kept his stride.

  “Hang on a second,” the man insisted, holding something up in his hand. “I wanted to give you this.”

  Jackson eyed the twenty dollar bill suspiciously but stopped. “Whassat for?”

  “For your playing over there,” the man explained. “I didn’t have any cash on me so I went to the ATM but you were leaving when I came back.”

  “Y’all wanna gimme twenny bucks fo my playin?” Jackson was astounded. “I’ll take it if ya want, my man, but I ain’t that good.”

  “No, you’re not,” the man agreed. “But you’re definitely trying. That’s a lot better than these bums around here just begging for money. I also think that you could be playing better pretty quickly with a few lessons.”

  “Yo, you crazy, man?” Jackson laughed. “Where is you thinking I gonna take guitar lessons? I ain’t got money fo that shit. Brother’s gotta eat ’fore takin any damn music lessons.”

  “I could show you a couple tricks right now,” the man said confidently, “That would have you sounding better tomorrow.”

  “I ain’t sure I wanna know bout any of them ‘tricks’ of yours, Mister,” Jackson retorted, still suspicious. “You hittin on me or something? I don’t do ‘tricks’ with white boys or black boys nuther.”

  “You’ve got me all wrong,” the man shrugged. “I was just trying to help you out. You’ve got good rhythm and I’m sure that there’s a couple of riffing and hammer techniques you could pick up in an hour. Anyway, I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  He stuffed the twenty in Jackson’s shirt pocket and headed off.

  “Hey, yo,” Jackson called, going after the man. “Wait up.”

  The man stopped and turned, looking annoyed. “What?”

  “Like Mister, I didn’t mean to piss y’all off or nuthin,” Jackson apologized. “I just ain’t used to fancy white dudes tryin tuh offer me free music lessons is all.”

  “It’s alright,” the man smiled. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “Where y’all thinkin of showin me this stuff?” Jackson asked, curious about these tricks that could improve his playing overnight. Better buskers got better bucks.

  “I have a guitar in my car parked behind the Peel Pub,” the man replied. “We could go sit in Dorchester Square and jam a bit.”

  “Well, I ain’t got a problem with nuthin like that,” agreed Jackson. “I just gotta get me some food first. I’ll grab me some pizza just round the corner on Peel on the way.”

  “Sure, I’m in no hurry,” the man replied as they started walking. “I’m Allan, by the way.”

  “Yo, Allan. Jackson’s the name.”

  They headed west on Ste-Catherine past Metcalfe to Peel then turned south. After stopping the minute required for Jackson to buy himself three slices of pizza they crossed to the west side of Peel.

  “My car’s back this way,” Allan announced, turning into an alley which led to a parking lot.

  As they moved into the parking lot, Allan pulled his keys from a pocket and pressed a remote. The trunk of a nearby car popped open.

  “Nice wheels,” commented Jackson as Allan reached into the trunk.

  “Thank you,” Allan replied as he turned to Jackson and rammed a six inch blade between his ribs and into his heart.

  Chapter 13 – Friday, July 14, 2006

  The Special Homicide Task Force was headquartered in an old, remodelled office building on Cypress between Peel and Stanley in downtown Montreal.

  Once Captain Dave McCall had arrived at work and parked, he had to walk no more than two minutes to reach the scene of the city’s most recent homeless murder. Another three were required to get through the gathering crowd.

  “I wonder if this was just coincidence or if the bastard planned to leave a body on our doorstep,” he commented to Frank who was already inside the yellow-taped area.

  “He knew enough to send you his letter to the right address,” Bakes replied. “Maybe he wanted to save us some travel time.”

  “Wonderful, a thoughtful killer,” Dave sighed as he watched the crime scene techs as well as Tony Morrow at work by the body. “So, what’ve we got?”

  “The cook from the pub noticed the body when he arrived at six but thought it was a drunk sleeping it off. A couple of waiters coming in just before seven thought the same thing. It’s the manager who arrived half an hour later who didn’t think somebody would be sleeping with a guitar case strapped to his back. He looked a bit closer and called it in.”

  “I guess that’s why he’s the manager,” McCall suggested with a slight smile.

  “I guess,” Frank agreed, shaking his head. “Victim had a New York driver’s permit by the name of Jackson Howard, age twenty-four. Joanne’s looking him up so we’ll know more when we go back.”

  “Greetings, Captain,” called Tony as he walked over to join them. “This guy’s not letting up, is he?”

  “No, he doesn’t seem to be,” McCall grimly agreed. “You have anything for me so far?”

  “We’ll autopsy, of course,” replied Tony, “But I’d bet you a beer that this one died almost immediately from one stab wound to the heart. There’s barely any blood so he went fast.” Turning to Frank he asked, “Did you tell him about the note?”

  “What note?” Dave asked as Bakes rolled his eyes in disgust at Tony.

  “Atta boy, Morrow,” Frank snorted. “You ruined the surprise.”

  “Can I know what this is about?” the captain asked impatiently.

  Frank grinned as he pulled a few sheets of folded paper from his jacket pocket. “Crime scene boys kept the original but they have a photocopier in their vans now.”

  He handed one of the copies to Dave.

  Dear Captain McCall,

  I simply wanted to ensure that you were aware that this was me up to my old tricks again.

  Have a wonderful day,

  THE Homeless Killer

  “Mother-fucker,” McCall muttered under his breath.

  “At least we know it’s him,” said Bakes.
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  “Yeah, I know,” Dave admitted. “I just wish we’d catch the bastard instead of him getting away with it and taunting us.”

  “We’ll just have to find a way to taunt him back,” Frank encouraged.

  “Oh, we will,” Dave promised. “It’s coming.”

  One of the crime scene techs whistled and swung his hand in a circular motion over his head, indicating that they were ready to wrap things up.

  “Are we good to go, Dave?” Tony Morrow asked.

  “I’ve seen what I needed,” replied the captain. “Come on, Frankie. Let’s go see what Jo’s found for us.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Jackson Howard, African-American, age twenty-four,” Joanne Nelson recited from her notes. “Residence listed is his mother’s address in Brooklyn although she’s told the New York police several times that he doesn’t live there anymore. Cops back home were looking for Jackson in relation to a couple of things; he failed to show in court following an arrest for possession of cocaine with intent to sell; they were also looking for him as a potential witness in a drug deal gone bad resulting in a homicide. Word out on the street over there is that a gang called the Brooklyn Boyz was also looking for Jackson in relation to the same drug deal/homicide. It seems that the Boyz didn’t fancy Jackson being around as a witness.”

  “So he came over here to be safe.” said Harris. “Bad move in hindsight.”

  “When did he come into Canada?” asked McCall.

  “As per Immigration, he didn’t,” Nelson replied.

  “Hopped the fence,” Dave nodded and shrugged. “Not that it changes anything. He’s dead and we know it’s our guy who did it.”

  “This case is really frustrating me,” Frank commented. “Besides the homeless aspect, there are no common threads. Victims are male and female, younger or older, shot, strangled, beaten or stabbed. We don’t even have a handle on his territory. On the mountain, Old Montreal, out north on Perry Island then two smack downtown. For all we know, his next one could be in Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue or Laval or on the south shore.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Tim said doubtfully. “We all agree about the homeless aspect, right?”

  The other three indicated their agreement.

  “Ok, so where do the majority of homeless people tend to gravitate to?” Harris continued. “Downtown. That’s where they find a lot of people around to beg from. That’s where the big buildings with huge vents kicking out heat are. It’s where you can find a bunch of nooks and crannies and underground spaces to go for shelter. I’m not saying that areas other than downtown don’t have some drifters roaming about. However, per capita, downtown wins.”

  “And your point is?” McCall enquired.

  “My point is,” Harris went on, “If I were looking for homeless people as prey, I sure as hell wouldn’t go to Kirkland or Dorval or Rivière-des-Prairies. I would go downtown. I’d be almost guaranteed to find a victim any time I wanted.”

  “How do you explain the two on Perry Island?” Bakes countered.

  “They could be the exception to the rule,” said Tim, “Or they could have originated from down here. Maybe our guy baited them somehow. I don’t know. I just think that downtown is his hunting ground.”

  “Based on the fact that four of the six happened down here, I tend to agree with you, Tim,” said Dave, feeling that the discussion was going nowhere. “However…”

  “Wait a second,” Joanne interrupted, looking through a file for something. “Here we go, Perry Island victims’ item inventory, two AMT tickets, zone 7. Let me check something.”

  She left the conference room, leaving the others wondering what she was up to but returned after a moment or two with her laptop.

  “The victims on Perry Island had zone 7 train tickets purchased at 3:17 p.m. the day before they were found.” Joanne explained. “A zone 7 ticket means Montreal to St-Jérôme or vice-versa. It’s the only possibility. Now, there are no afternoon departures from St-Jérôme. The last train from there leaves at 7:25 in the morning. Therefore, somebody using those tickets at the time they were bought had to be leaving from Montreal. Tickets are only valid for two hours from the time of purchase.”

  “So, our six victims all came from downtown.” McCall said more than asked.

  “It seems that way,” agreed Frank. “But what were they doing on Perry Island?”

  “Remember the train tracks when we were there, Frankie?” McCall reminded him. “Betcha that train goes by there. What’s the closest station, Jo?”

  “Bois-de-Boulogne,” she replied after consulting her computer. “Hang on a second.”

  A few mouse clicks and a little keying later, she added, “Here we go.”

  The others gathered around to view her screen on which they saw a map of the central northern region of the island of Montreal.

  “Here’s the Bois-de-Boulogne train station and here’s Perry Island. It’s not more than a couple of miles, maybe less.”

  “So we know how they most likely got there,” said Frank, flipping through the case file, “But we don’t know why they went there. Here we go, Skye Evans’ BYID card was issued June 8th this year. Adam Chisholm’s driver’s license was issued in B.C. on April 28th. It seems like they hadn’t been here long enough to know their way around that much. Christ, I’d never heard of Perry Island and I’ve been here all my life.”

  “It’s a safe guess that somebody bought those tickets for them,” suggested McCall. “Broke and homeless kids will spend what little they have on food, booze or dope, not public transport. It might also be safe to assume that the same person brought them there or suggested the location and followed them.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Jacques Bédard,” the Acting Deputy-Mayor answered the phone.

  “Well, congratulations, Mr. Deputy-Mayor,” Yvette purred from the other end of the line. “I saw the announcement on the internet.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” Jacques chuckled, “But it is ‘Acting Deputy-Mayor’.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” his wife agreed. “We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. However, I do think that this calls for a celebration.”

  “I do enjoy celebrating,” agreed Bédard. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”

  “Well, let me see…” Yvette said coyly. “I could call Michèle.”

  Bédard laughed then replied. “She called to congratulate me a few moments ago. She’ll be by at seven.”

  Chapter 14 – Saturday, July 15, 2006

  Jean-Guy Cyr trudged along Ste-Catherine eastbound dragging his two wheel shopping cart behind him. He stopped at Poupart and looked nostalgically at the second building up and across the street. There were lace curtains in the front window of the closer second storey apartment, he noted as he had done many times before. He had never found out for sure, not that it mattered, but figured it must be a woman who lived there now. Guys wouldn’t put lace curtains like that in a window. He had used an old bed sheet held up with thumbtacks when he had lived in that apartment. That would have been twelve years ago, he thought. Back when he had a job. Back before his drinking had made him lose that job.

  He took a swig from the bottle of Mateus in its brown paper bag and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The wine was warm now and had lost most of its fizz but he didn’t mind. The important thing was that the bottle was still half full.

  Looking up at his old apartment one last time, he sighed and resumed his trek. Iberville, Frontenac, du Hâvre, Bercy, four blocks to go then that short stretch passed and around the warehouse and he’d be in his little woods. He liked it there because there was never anyone around at night. He’d even gotten used to the trains that went by so they didn’t bother him anymore. In fact he kind of liked hearing them thundering by and feeling the earth rumble beneath him.

  In the day there was more activity around there since it was an industrial area but he spent his days more downtown panhandling anyhow. This was how things would be until the fall when he would
have to move back into the downtown core for better shelter and, especially, more heat.

  He reached Bercy, rounded the corner of the warehouse a moment later and could see the woods. All that was left was the short walk across the parking lot and he would be home.

  “Sometimes, you guys just make it easy for me.” A voice said from behind him.

  “Quoi?” Jean-Guy said in surprise as he turned. A man stood there some ten feet away, silhouetted by the headlight beams of a car stopped out of view behind the building.

  “J’ai dit, des fois, vous me rendez les choses faciles,” the man translated. He then raised the revolver he held in is hand and shot Jean-Guy in the chest.

  Jean-Guy fell backwards and heard his bottle crash onto the pavement. Things got fuzzy for a moment then he heard a car door slam shut followed by the car’s engine as it drove away. After that, he heard nothing at all.

  Chapter 15 – Sunday, July 16, 2006

  Dave McCall sat in his office reviewing what remained to be done for the ‘Homeless Awareness Lunch” to take place in Phillips Square the following day.

  He was frankly amazed at how quickly things had gotten together considering that he had initially proposed the idea just the previous Wednesday. He had received approval for the use of the square on Thursday, not only verbally from the borough mayor but formally from city hall. The police brotherhood has made a cash donation to cover part of the costs and the city had done its part with some financing as well as with the erection of a small stage and podium for the speakers and the required sound equipment to go with it. In addition, a number of picnic tables would be carted in for the event as well as additional trash bins and even some portable toilets.

  William Enright had come through in a big way when he had announced that all costs not covered from other sources would be covered by the Foundation. Flyers and posters announcing the lunch as well as those already foreseen initially were printed by day’s end on Friday. A team of volunteers and temps had been busy on Saturday plastering posters and distributing flyers all over the downtown core.