Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  “That’s right, ma’am,” confirmed Serge.

  “Please, sit down,” she offered, pointing at a chair by her dinner table. “What can I do for you?”

  Serge accepted the offer to sit down.

  “On that day, the day of the murder, I believe someone helped you with your shopping bags. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that is right.”

  “Do you remember his face?”

  “Not clearly. I didn’t have my glasses on.”

  Serge pulled out the photographs and arranged them on her table.

  “Do any of the men in these pictures look like him?” Serge asked. The woman put her glasses on and bent over, moving a finger of her right hand from one face to another.

  “Looked like this one, actually,” she said, touching a photograph in the middle of the row. Serge felt the familiar excitement of a hunter closing in on his prey—she had pointed at Claude.

  “Good,” Serge said without showing emotion. “Could you identify him in person?”

  The woman shrunk. With terrible fear in her eyes, she cried, “No, no! Please, I don’t want to be a witness. I don’t remember his face that well. You see, I have very poor vision. Please, sir—” She removed her glasses and placed them on the table.

  “What makes you so worried?” Serge asked.

  “They may kill me!” she exclaimed. The woman obviously was scared out of her senses. All further attempts to engage her in conversation failed miserably. When she complained about a pain in her chest, Serge stood up to go.

  “Sorry, again, for the intrusion, ma’am,” he said. “I do appreciate your help. Nobody will disturb you anymore. Have a nice day.”

  On the way back to his office, Serge thought about Rose’s fear. He understood well why elderly people took such great efforts to keep themselves out of the smallest of troubles—any stress, big or small, could prove too much for their frail bodies. The puzzle, though, was why were so many of them afraid of the threat of death at their age? Was it the habit of living that made them terrified of the state of mind and body called death? Or was it because, in their older years, they had more time to think about their inevitable ends and to understand what a great value every new day has—for them to enjoy the world as it is, regardless of the successes and failures that made them so busy in the earlier stages of their lives? Even the most daring criminals, notorious for neglect or indifference to their own lives and deaths in their heydays, became cautious with the passing of years, often avoiding an even trivial risk. Why would people see a greater value in life when they had no more purpose, no goals left to achieve, and fewer things to enjoy? He shuddered at the thought that, eventually, he would have the opportunity to find answers to these questions himself.

  Back in the office, Serge entered into his computer all the important points of his findings, updated a few associated files, and started to pick up the phone to call his wife to tell her he was done for the day. He was already late for the dinner his mother-in-law had arranged for them. No sooner had he touched the phone than the door opened. The boss of the special forces squad, Bertrand Tremblay, came in with firm steps, as if he owned the world. Tremblay was a tall, athletic-looking man in his fifties, with the posture and air of a noble man; thick and dark, though graying, hair; disapproving, questioning eyes; and a large nose.

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said, taking the only chair on the other side of the table.

  “My wife will either kill me or leave me,” Serge growled.

  Bertrand dismissed the complaint. “You know, Serge, that I’ve been appointed a police representative to the task force the government has assembled to tackle the biker problem. Our mission is to propose measures to ‘finish,’ as our smart politicians put it, with organized crime, once and for all.”

  They both laughed.

  “I’ve gathered some statistics—there’s plenty of data available in our information bank—to support my presentation,” Bertrand resumed. “It would be helpful to have your input into our wish list of measures the government will have to adopt.”

  “From my perspective, Bertrand, we have to fight with our self-imposed restrictions and procedures as hard as we do with the bikers. Case in point is this murder of the car dealer’s wife. Now, I know bikers did it, but I don’t have plausible proof of it, yet. If my guess is correct, her husband works with car thieves. I know that the bikers control a few gangs whose activities revolve around the car business, in all forms and shapes. But it’s an uphill battle to get permission to access the husband’s financial information or to get any other information, for that matter, that is not internal to the police force. The flow of information throughout the government must be simplified.”

  Bertrand nodded in agreement.

  “Another example was when some clever people in our government abolished police control over our major marine ports. I know they quickly restored it, but what was the result of that short break? About 30 tons of hash and five of coke were smuggled in. And that’s just what we know. We can’t even guess at what we don’t know. These are mind-boggling numbers. Considering that the price of good quality stuff is $40 per gram, the street value of the coke alone is approximately $200 million! And this was only one delivery—can you guess what is going on day-to-day?” Serge paused for air.

  Bertrand sighed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the bikers control our ports one way or the other. A mole alerted them to the upcoming raid. All our policing proved to be as ineffective as it was costly.”

  “Hah,” Serge laughed with an angry burst. “That’s our problem, not the government’s. Our mistakes should not be the reason to cut funding or increase restrictions. I need to be able to put under surveillance any person of my choosing, without having to follow lengthy procedures. We need to tap the telephones of bikers, their relatives, their associates, and anyone we need to, even if we can’t support our requests with valid arguments at the time.”

  “Those liberal-minded assholes would scream about breach of the constitution, violation of civil rights, and whatnot,” Bertrand grumbled.

  “Well, tell them that a huge amount of explosives has been stolen over the past few days from two construction sites. We don’t know which gang is stockpiling them, but I suspect we won’t have to wait long to witness an upswing in bombings and explosions all over the city. If I were you, I would explain to those politicians that the biker’s war is coming to their homes.”

  Bertrand leaned back and stretched his legs, fixing himself in what Serge noted was a too-comfortable pose. Serge frowned; he wanted to go home to enjoy this nice summer evening with his family, not to discuss the biker war.

  “How are your investigations going?” Bertrand asked.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure that I know one of the Devil’s Knights hit men. And, I have gathered some good information on one of the prime figures in the Iron Ghosts. His name is Stanley Mathews. I suspect him of being a driving force behind many of the recent assassinations and explosions. It would be nice to put him under surveillance, but I have no evidence to support my request for that.”

  His telephone rang.

  “This is my wife,” Serge growled.

  “Thanks, Serge.” Bertrand stood up. “Have a nice evening. Oh, it’s already 7 o’clock—I have to rush home, too.”

  II

  The public was in fear and awe of the rampaging bikers. Gangsters killed each other in bars and restaurants—in broad daylight, blew up buildings where rivals had established their businesses, crushed bars with baseball bats to scare owners and patrons, and ousted rival drug dealers, all to expand their turf.

  The police seemed helpless in their efforts to curb the violence. In a desperate attempt to save face and calm their constituents, the government had selected the best of the province’s politicians, reputable police and RCMP, and respectable lawyers for a task force whose mandate was to suggest effective measures for eliminating the biker gangs. Election day was fast approaching, pushing the
ruling party to its limits in an effort to regain the public’s trust.

  The initial meeting of the 11-member task force was to take place in a spacious 24th-floor conference room. Plenty of daylight flooded in through large windows that provided a spectacular view of the city. Nine men and two women would soon settle into comfortable armchairs around a long wooden table, its surface polished, glossy and shiny. A smaller table sat by the entrance. On it were coffeepots, a pile of napkins, sparkling teaspoons, a sugar bowl, and a few white ceramic cups.

  First to arrive was Monica Godette. As a Member of Parliament she had been appointed from the government to take part in discussions. Customarily dressed in formal business clothes, today’s skirt was the only touch of femininity in her outward appearance. Monica caught everyone’s attention. Her long, somewhat masculine face with its small, sharp eyes made anyone looking at her feel like an accused child standing in front of an unforgiving judge who knows all secrets and is about to announce the frightening verdict. During the last election, she had supported noisy minorities such as gay rights activists, feminists, and the peace movement, but in a moderate way, never overstepping the bounds of common sense. Her latest appearances on television, interviews, and articles in newspapers had attracted enough attention to have her elevated to this panel of experts.

  The chairman arrived soon after Monica. A well-known lawyer, Robert Corby took his seat at the far end of the table, from where he could observe the meeting. As soon as he was situated, he began tapping his laptop computer with the butt of his expensive Mont Blanc pen. The rest of the task force members arrived and got comfortable as quickly as possibly, perhaps moving in time with the tapping pen.

  Raising the eyebrows on his very friendly face—a deceptive impression of which he was a master, as far as Monica knew—Robert asked everyone to introduce himself or herself. Monica opened up her writing pad and made notes on everyone except Robert, whom she knew too well.

  “Although we are well familiar with the subject,” Robert began after all the formalities had been dispensed with, “I think an overview of the current state of affairs from the police perspective would be a good starting point. I am privileged to introduce the expert on biker gangs, Detective-Captain Bertrand Tremblay.” With a light nod at Bertrand, he added, “The stage is yours, sir.”

  Holding his head high, Bertrand opened a binder that lay in front of him but did not look in it. Instead, he exchanged glances with Monica, who held a pencil in her right hand, poised just inches above her writing pad. With vertical wrinkles on her forehead, she was ready to listen, ready to jot down all the facts and figures and matters of interest that Bertrand told them for future reference and consideration.

  “Bikers now are the greatest criminal force in modern society. Forget the image they had in the sixties and seventies, or even the eighties. They are not hoodlums and brawlers, as they were in the past, disturbing the peace and committing petty crimes. No, now they are in the criminal business, and big business at that. And as all other businesses have, they have gone international. They have formed international drug cartels, international prostitution rings, and international money-laundering networks. I can’t explain how or why a simple association of hoodlums changed over forty years to become one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world. We’ll have to leave that to historians.”

  Bertrand paused, as if he expected comments or questions or some kind of response. None came, and with a nod to his own thoughts, he continued.

  “Biker gangs are not a new phenomenon in the criminal landscape. In Quebec, there are approximately 500 outlaw motorcycle gang club members and about 7,000 other bikers and associates, all of them considered criminals. Don’t underestimate their wits and experience: Crime is their way of life. Many take part in direct criminal activities; others have legitimate businesses that they conduct in a criminal manner. Combined, they rival any large, legal business enterprise.

  “The volume of drug sales in our province is about $1 billion a year. Because it is that large, it has become saturated with a swarm of new players who want a piece of the action. The only sure way and the quickest way to beat out the competition in the underworld is to eliminate it. The ‘turf wars’ that result between gangs have always been a fact of life. In most cases in the past, their outcome was the elimination of one gang by another or the absorption of one gang into another.

  “The largest gang in our province so far has been the Devil’s Knights. International by nature, with chapters in most developed countries, they have the largest supply and distribution networks for drugs in the world. They have also accumulated the best experience and the most expertise among organized crime organizations for assassination, intimidation, money laundering, and harassment. Recently, an unknown gang has entered the Devil’s Knights turf. Though the gang is presumably small, it is evidently seen as a serious threat by some Devil’s Knights who have tried to approach them.

  “What has surprised the police, and has became a cause for public concern now, is the intensity of resistance this new gang, which is known as the Iron Ghosts, has shown to the Devil’s Knights. In just two years, about seventy gang members on both sides have been killed, and we have averted about eighty more attempted murders. More than ten bystanders have been killed or severely injured in their crossfire or as a result of their explosions. A lot of dynamite is still not accounted for and for sure will be used soon in a larger scale as their war intensifies.”

  “I’d like to interrupt you, if I may,” Monica cut in.

  “Sure,” Bertrand agreed with a welcoming glance in her direction.

  “How many of those murder cases have you solved?”

  “Three.”

  “Three out of seventy?” Monica was exasperated. “What kind of police force do we have!”

  “That’s exactly the point,” Bertrand responded quickly. “We need more police officers. We need more funds for surveillance, logistics. And we need a tough law that would let us—for lack of better words—bypass the existing restrictions that tie our hands in fighting organized crime.”

  “Hold on, hold on with the law—.” Monica stretched out her hand in an attempt to stop him from speaking. “One thing at a time. You want more funds from the government. Everyone wants that. Can’t you just improve the quality of the police force first? Your achievements are not very impressive.”

  “We are trying to. Mind you, dealing with bikers is a tiresome task that requires special people. They have to have stamina, good intellectual capacity, proper training, and thorough education. How can we get such people?”

  “Does our province lack people with good intellectual capacity?” The sarcastic remark came from a distant corner of the table. A brief smile stretched over Bertrand’s lips.

  “There are plenty. But how many of the best dream about becoming a police officer? Most, if not all of them, go where the money is. They want to become doctors, dentists, lawyers, businesspeople, corporate managers. Why? Because those occupations pay. Being a brilliant detective doesn’t pay much. With the wages we have in the police force, with the workload we have, only a few elect this troublesome profession. You want to employ the best minds on a lean budget? Good luck.”

  After the short pause that followed, Bertrand added, “There are some among us who are proud of the jobs we do. But, we need more foot soldiers for surveillance and policing.”

  Monica could not wait for him finish.

  “I’ve seen many gang members on the streets wearing biker outfits that distinctly identify them. This makes your task of surveillance easier, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all. Most of them don’t commit crimes. They give orders to their armies of subordinates who would do anything so they can grow in rank and status, climbing the ladder to the level of their bosses. Very often, the bosses convey their commands, not personally, but via a third person. The best we could normally expect to achieve is to capture the small fish.”

  Robert Corby r
aised his pen.

  “In a nutshell, Bertrand, what do you propose?”

  “We need more funds. We need simplified procedures for obtaining search warrants, tapping phone conversations, and accessing financial and personal information collected by other institutions and organizations. And last, but not least, we need a tough law against the bikers.”

  “. . . ‘A tough law’ . . . ,” Robert repeated, pursing his lips in a small, mocking smile. “What does that mean?” With false compassion and patience, he rested his chin on his left hand, elbow leaning on the table, ready to ridicule any stupid or weakly worded response.

  Bernard did not blink.

  “A law that would permit us to detain anyone who belongs to a criminal organization, such as the Devil’s Knights or the Iron Ghosts, the prime troublemakers in the province. A law that imposes harsh sentences against organized crime bosses. A law . . .”

  The rest of his answer was drowned out by several agitated arguments from all around the table. Some talked to him, some to each other. Simultaneous talk made further business-like discussion impossible until Robert tapped the table with his pen in a much more pronounced manner.

  “Please, ladies and gentlemen.” His voice, irritated, piercing, and demanding, had a calming effect. When the last arguments died under his disapproving glare, he said, “Let’s express our views in an orderly manner. You want to say something, Mr. RCMP?” He smiled to a fat, balding man sitting at his left. “Please, Brian.”

  “I can understand the request for increased funds,” the man said. “But to single out ‘biker clubs’ as criminal organizations is not constitutional. There are many motorcycle clubs. You have to prove which ones are the criminal organizations. Besides, even a group name, like ‘Devil’s Knights,’ cannot be the foundation for declaring an organization criminal.”

  “I agree,” Monica interfered. “There are many other biker clubs. Which ones are criminal organizations? And, I’m against increasing funds, as well. Better to clean up your house. The recent case of the police officer who was bribed by bikers is very disturbing. I don’t believe that all depends on money. Morality—that is what should be watched in the security forces.”