Vigilante Season

by Peter Kirby

  “Did he call you?”

  “Colonel Alfonse Montpetit? No, he didn’t call me. He doesn’t have to call me. He calls politicians, and they call me. Luc, you have to understand who you’re dealing with.”

  “A lunatic who likes to play soldiers and thinks he runs the neighbourhood?”

  “A lunatic maybe, but a lunatic who is responsible for any number of charitable programs and can rely on all kinds of political support. The guy’s dug in deep in Hochelaga. And if you cause problems for him and can’t make it stick, you’ve got big problems. Is he a suspect?”

  “I don’t know. No he’s not a suspect. But there’s lots he knows that can help us, and he’s not helping.”

  “And why isn’t this just a regular drug death?”

  “Someone cared enough to package Legault up for disposal. He wasn’t just killed, he was tortured to death over a couple of hours. Angry junkies don’t do that. Maybe it was his supplier, but why go to the trouble? They took his stash, his money, his weapons, but they also took him. Why didn’t they just kill him there? It’s not an ordinary drug killing. I don’t know what the hell it is.”

  “You don’t have to swear, Luc. So what do you think? Who would go to so much trouble to get rid of a lowlife, bottom-of-the-ladder pusher?”

  “Someone who just wanted him to disappear without a trace.”

  “Like the Patriotes? You’ve got to be kidding, right?

  “Maybe. Well, maybe not. I don’t know.”

  “You seriously think the Patriotes might have had a hand in it?”

  “I said I don’t know, sir. But they seem to be out there cleaning up the neighbourhood.”

  Bedard took out the handkerchief and wiped his neck, trying to dry the sweat accumulating around his collar where the fat had formed an impenetrable barrier.

  “Because if the Patriotes are involved, we have a problem. These guys are a serious community organization.”

  “So I heard. But hours after they take control of Legault’s apartment, Legault is lifted, and then the apartment’s being cleaned up for a new tenant.”

  “Okay. It’s not a typical drug-related death. You think you may be able to figure out who did it?”

  “I think we have a shot. But you know the statistics on solving drug deaths.”

  “And you’re following leads?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. So keep at it for a day or two and we’ll talk then. So I have enough to work with for now.”

  “To work with?”

  “Luc, we all have to answer to someone. When it’s my turn, I have some answers.” Bedard turned his attention to papers on his desk.

  “That’s it?”

  Bedard looked up. “That’s it.”

  Desportes was walking in an alley through mottled patches of dark shadows and weak light from bulbs above back doors. Rusting dumpsters leaked stinking liquids that collected with the rainwater in the middle. He was doing his best to avoid the stagnant puddles. The rain had been enough to hasten the rot of the food that spilled from the dumpsters, but not enough to wash it away. Halfway up the alley he stopped next to the sleeping figure and bent down to place another take-out container next to the bundle.

  The bundle stirred. “Mister.” A girl’s voice. “Kyle’s sick. He needs help.”

  He couldn’t make out her face in the dark.

  “Who’s Kyle?”

  The girl pulled the blanket down to reveal a blond spiked-hair head.

  “My brother. He’s sick.”

  Desportes got down on his knees and reached his hand out to feel the boy’s forehead. The boy opened his eyes but didn’t move. Desportes felt a fever heat.

  “How long has he been like this?”

  “He was feeling sick yesterday, but it got worse this morning. I don’t know what to do.”

  “He needs to get off the street.” Desportes looked around, as though searching for someone to help. “I suppose you better come with me. Help me get him up.”

  She jumped to her feet, rolling the thin blanket that had covered them both and stuffing it into a hold-all. With the blanket gone, the boy shivered, and they both reached for him, helping him to his feet while he looked vacantly about him. The girl was supporting him and trying to grab the bag at the same time.

  “You take the bag and the food. I’ll carry him.” Desportes grabbed the boy’s arm and placed it around his shoulder. Then he slipped his left arm behind the boy’s knees and stood up. The boy lay in his arms without struggling, much lighter than Desportes had guessed. The girl waited for directions with the bag and take-out container in her hands.

  “Follow me,” said Desportes.

  They started walking, and it started raining again, heavy drops at first, and then sheets of water. At each intersection, Desportes waited in the alley until the street was clear of traffic and then hurried across with his load. The girl followed silently. After five blocks of garbage-strewn alleys, Desportes turned to the girl and almost whispered, “We’re here.”

  They were walking in the middle of another alley, all brick walls except for a solitary, unlit door on one side. Desportes turned a key in the lock and pushed. Then he stepped over the threshold and looked back at the girl.

  “Come in.”

  The girl followed Desportes down a long hallway into the kind of kitchen she had only seen in magazines, with gleaming black counters and stainless steel gadgets. She followed him through the kitchen into a living area where he let the boy down lightly on a couch. He opened a low cupboard and pulled out a thick blanket that he spread over the boy. He turned to the girl,

  “I’m going to call a doctor, and then we’ll get him into a cool bath.”

  “No,” she said. It was more of a plea than an order.

  “Don’t worry, just medicine. No social work.”

  He pulled out a cell phone and punched in numbers. The girl listened to one side of the conversation.

  “Doctor,” he said.

  ….

  “Yes. It’s me.”

  ...

  “No, not that kind of problem. No bleeding. I have a kid that needs help. He has a bad fever.”

  …

  “Great.” He clicked the phone off and put it in his pocket. Turned to the girl. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  The girl nodded and knelt down beside the couch, reaching out to brush her brother’s hair back off his forehead. Desportes disappeared up the stairs. He returned a few minutes later with a thermometer and placed it in the boy’s mouth. She was still kneeling beside the couch, resting on her heels while she watched.

  “We need to get him undressed and into a cool bath. It’s running upstairs.”

  The thermometer beeped and he read aloud, “38.7.”

  “Is that bad?” she asked.

  “It’s not good. But we’ll let the doctor decide. You said his name was Kyle?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yours?”

  “Star.”

  “Well, Star, we need to get his clothes off.”

  Star leaned over and started unbuttoning Kyle’s shirt.

  “What’s yours?”

  “I’m Hugo.”

  She was unbuttoning Kyle’s pants but hardly needed to. He was so thin she could have just pulled them off. Lying on the couch in his shorts he looked anorexic, as though he hadn’t eaten in a month. Desportes replaced the blanket, picked him up, and carried him up the stairs to the bathroom. He used his foot to close the lid on the toilet and sat the boy down while he checked the water and turned off the taps. Then he pulled Kyle’s shorts down and gently placed him in the bath. The girl was watching him, and taking in the bathroom. She’d never seen one so big. Desportes handed her a washcloth and a bar of soap.

  “Here. You might as well clean him up while
we’re at it,” he said, and left her to it.

  When he got back, Kyle was standing unsteadily on the thick carpet while Star dried him. When she finished, she wrapped the towel around his waist, draped another one over his shoulders.

  “Let’s get him into bed.” Desportes said, walking over to Kyle and taking him up in his arms. “You best get the doors, Star.”

  She held the bathroom door and then scooted in front of them. Desportes showed her which room, and she opened the door to a bedroom.

  “I suppose both of you can sleep here?” He nodded at the double bed.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  They put Kyle in the bed and pulled blankets over him. He was shivering again. A buzzer sounded, and the television on the wall lit up, showing the image of a man standing in the alley, looking up into the camera. Desportes pushed a button on a console next to the television.

  “It’s open, Doctor. We’re on the second floor.”

  A few minutes later, a bearded man in an Adidas tracksuit stood in the doorway, clutching a gym bag. He nodded at Desportes and pointed at the boy.

  “This is the patient?”

  It was one o’clock in the morning, and Vanier was sitting on the couch, knowing he should go to bed, but putting it off. He had been trying to reach Alex for hours without success. All his calls went directly to voice mail. He had stopped drinking an hour ago and was fighting the urge to have a nightcap. It wouldn’t make a difference, because he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, he could think of too many ways that Alex could get into serious trouble. So he sat and waited, and hoped.

  At one-thirty, the silence was broken by the sound of the elevator opening and closing, then heavy, uneven footsteps down the hallway and the thud of a body bumping against the wall. The footsteps stopped, and he heard the scratching of a key trying to find its place, a noise only drunks make, when opening a door becomes skilled labour. Eventually, the door swung open and Alex stood in the entrance, looking relieved to have arrived at a destination.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi, Alex. You had supper yet?”

  “Gotta go.”

  Alex turned and lumbered down the hallway to the bathroom. Vanier listened to the retching, hoping it was in the bowl and not the sink, or the floor. Then he heard Alex’s bedroom door opening, and then closing with a thud.

  At least there wouldn’t be nightmares tonight, thought Vanier, as he reached for a nightcap.

  Six

  It didn’t take long to identify the tire slasher. First thing in the morning, Saint-Jacques had sent prints from the Patriotes video to Constable Wallach in Station 23. She figured if he was doing his job as the community relations officer, he would know the local troublemakers. He called her about fifteen minutes after she sent the email.

  “Sergeant Saint-Jacques.”

  “Please, call me Sylvie.”

  “Sylvie, the kid is none other than Serge Barbeau, local idiot and troublemaker.”

  Saint-Jacques was writing the name down.

  “He’s one of those kids that you know is going to jail one day. It’s his destiny. A total loser. And when I said he was an idiot, I meant that. He’s dumb as an ashtray.”

  “So, do you think he could have just randomly chosen Inspector Vanier’s car?”

  “That, I’m not sure about.”

  “Think it’s worth talking to him?”

  “Can’t hurt. But don’t expect him to care.”

  He gave her Barbeau’s address. “Say hello for me.”

  “Thanks, Richard.”

  “Any time.”

  In ten minutes, she had collected Vanier and was sitting in the passenger seat beside him on their way to Barbeau’s home.

  “$600. That’s what it’s going to cost to replace the tires,” said Vanier.

  Saint-Jacques knew that he wasn’t looking for a response, just an audience.

  “And if I claim on the insurance, they’ll just jack up the premiums till they get their money back, and then some. I can’t wait to see Barbeau.”

  Saint-Jacques couldn’t stop herself, “I’ve told you before. You should use a pool car. Most people do.”

  “A pool car? That’s like using a Rent-a-Wreck. Look at this,” he said, pointing to the dashboard. “Only 100,000 kilometres, and it’s ready to die underneath us.”

  “I don’t see why we’re not just calling it in, get someone to deliver a summons to him.”

  “The shit slashed my tires. It’s personal.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And I want to know why he did it. I mean, who goes around slashing tires?”

  “Wallach said he wasn’t that smart.”

  “The golden rule in slashing tires is that you should know who owns the car. You don’t want to slash the tires of someone who’s going to beat the shit out of you. It’s not usually random.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not kidding. Think about it. Unless you know you’re not getting caught, you want to be sure whose car it is.”

  “Like I said, Wallach said he wasn’t that smart.”

  “Maybe someone put him up to it. The Colonel didn’t seem too surprised.”

  Barbeau’s apartment was in a worn-out building on Bossuet Street, about as close to the port as you can get without living in a container on the dock. Vanier dropped Saint-Jacques at the alleyway that ran behind the row of buildings.

  “It’s the second house in. Twenty bucks says he’ll walk out the back.”

  There was an outside staircase to the second floor and then two doors, one for the second floor apartment, the other for the third. He pushed the buzzer marked “Barbeau,” and heard a door open, and then footsteps coming down the staircase from the third floor. A woman pulled the door open and looked at him. She was wearing a tight skirt and an even tighter yellow T-shirt with a glitter flower, like she was going out to a party, or maybe just coming home from one.

  “Inspector Vanier, Montreal Police. Is Serge Barbeau here?”

  She hesitated a second too long. “He’s out. Give me a card and he’ll call you.”

  “Why don’t you just let me in to see him, Madame Barbeau. It’ll be easier.”

  She shrugged, and turned to walk back up the stairs. Vanier followed. Then she called up the stairs, “Serge. You up there? It’s the police, for you.”

  Vanier pushed passed her up the staircase and got into the apartment just in time to see Barbeau heading out the back door. Vanier ran after him. Barbeau didn’t notice Saint-Jacques until he was facing her at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Yeah. Shit.”

  He turned to let her put the cuffs on. Then he looked up to the third floor where his mother was leaning over.

  “Don’t worry, Serge. I’ll call legal aid. Maybe they’ll send someone up.”

  Then she yelled at Vanier who was standing in the alley. “Where are you taking him?”

  “Station 23. Have the legal aid lawyer ask for me. Here’s my card.” He pulled out a card and made a show of sticking it in a crack of the staircase railing.

  “No, Mom!” Barbeau called up. “Don’t call legal aid. Call the Colonel. He’ll know what to do.”

  Neighbours had appeared on back staircases, watching while they led Barbeau off down the alley. Barbeau was strutting, enjoying the attention.

  Paul Brasso put his phone away and looked up at the Colonel from the armchair. “That was Barbeau’s mother. Your buddy Vanier and his partner have just arrested the kid and taken him to Station 23. They even handcuffed him.”

  “Handcuffs? He’s just a kid. They should have come to us. When are they going to learn that they have to start treating us with respect?”

  “The real problem is that we don’t want him talking to the police. We put him
up to it.”

  “He doesn’t have to say anything to the police. He can just keep quiet.”

  “Yeah, but they can keep questioning him. That’s the drill. Keep reminding him he has the right to remain silent, and keep asking him questions for hours.”

  “Send the lawyer, what’s his name? Dufrene, that’s it. Send him up there. Right now. Tell him to get the kid to keep his mouth shut and just wait it out.”

  Brasso pulled his phone out and began scrolling for Dufrene’s phone number.

  “And we’re going to show these bastards what it means to ignore us. This is an opportunity. When you’ve finished with Dufrene, we need to get people mobilized. Let’s give them something serious to think about. You call Dufrene, I’ll call the Mayor to protest. Then we organize trouble for these bastards. Big fucking trouble.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “A demonstration. This is just the kind of opportunity we’ve been looking for. We’ll show them that the Patriotes are a force in Hochelaga. We won’t be ignored.”

  The Colonel fished out his phone and used his address book to connect.

  “Hello, Mr. Mayor. We have a problem.”

  There were no windows in the interview room, just a two-way mirror from the observation room at the side. A camera high up in the corner captured everything that happened. Vanier and Saint-Jacques sat at one side of the table, Serge Barbeau at the other, his dirty white parka dumped at his feet. He had two gold chains around his neck and was still wearing the white baseball cap askew. Vanier had pocketed the knife he had found in Barbeau’s back pocket.

  “I said it wasn’t me.”

  “Of course it was you, Serge. Look at the photos.”

  He was picking his nose. A cocky fifteen-year-old, going on twenty, with no fear of the police. He reached out and grabbed one of the coloured prints.

  “Pretty shitty quality, I’d say.”

  “It’s you. You didn’t even have the sense to change your clothes.

  “If it was me, do you think I’d be stupid enough not to change clothes?

  “Seems you were,” said Saint-Jacques.

  He looked at her without saying anything.