Castonguay walked by me to my left and as he moved forward, I did as well, half a step behind him. I kicked at his right leg with my left foot, below the calf, just enough to extend his step a foot or so then spun to my right, dropping my butt and full weight onto his right knee while swinging my right elbow into his jaw.
A gut-wrenching crack and snap was heard as his knee took the impact and he shrieked. Instinctively, his left fist smashed into the back of my head – it hurt – but I delivered another solid elbow into his right temple and rolled off as he tumbled to his left, dazed and moaning. I went back at him, pummelling his face, his stomach, his ribs. His arms came up defensively for a few seconds then fell limp to his sides. He had passed out. Excellent, he was subdued… but I would need to refine my techniques.
When Castonguay regained consciousness, not too long later, he was saddled up on his stationary bike, so to speak. I had laid the bike sideways and positioned him appropriately then duct-taped his feet and ankles to the bottom, horizontal base. I had then solidly taped both his forearms to the handlebars before raising the bike back to a vertical position. Once I’d had him in balance, it had been no major feat to secure his trunk to the seat and support post beneath it. It should be noted that this field of endeavour can require a lot of duct tape on occasion.
As he came to, he was a bit wobbly but the forward leaning position encouraged by his forearms taped to the handlebars helped him stay up.
“Tabarnaque,” Castonguay cursed, shaking his head and wincing for his efforts.
“Don’t hurt yourself, my friend,” I replied in French. “We have some things to discuss.”
“Té qui toé?” he demanded.
I shrugged. “You wouldn’t know me even if I told you.”
“You broke my leg, you bastard,” he said. “It hurts like hell.”
“Actually, I kind of destroyed your knee,” I corrected, “But I doubt any bones are broken. It’s more a question of torn ligaments. Sorry but you’re bigger than me so I had to immobilize you as quickly as possible.”
“Huh,” he grunted, unimpressed. “What’s this shit with taping me onto this bike? Are you some weird faggot or what?”
“I don’t see how you come up with faggot,” I replied, “But let me reassure you I have no intention of taking advantage of you sexually. You just aren’t my type.”
“So what’s this all about?” he insisted. “What the hell are you up to, breaking in here, busting my leg, knocking me out and taping me up to a goddamned bike?”
“Gaston Verville is dead,” I replied in explanation. “He committed suicide a few days ago.”
“Who the hell are you talking about?” he asked, actually demonstrating annoyance. “Some shithead I don’t know kills himself and you come in here and attack me?”
“The name doesn’t mean anything to you?” I asked, staring at him, incredulous.
“No clue what you’re talking about,” he stared back in defiance, “But you’re going to regret having done this shit. You won’t have to kill yourself like your buddy cuz I’ll do it for you.”
“Gaston is the man you attacked in the park six months ago,” I said, remaining calm in appearance.
“Oh, shit man, that’s too bad,” he mocked but his eyes finally showed some unease. “Anyhow, nobody proved I had anything to do with that crap. That’s why I’m here, a free man, well, at least until you got here.”
“You’re a heartless son of a bitch, Henri,” I replied, “And that’s why I’m here. I know you did it because Maxime told me before I killed him.”
“You killed Max?” he asked, suddenly flustered.
“Yes, that was me,” I confirmed as I picked up a roll of duct tape, “But not before he sold you and your buddy, Nicky, out. He told me everything. I think he was hoping I’d let him go.”
“And now, you’re going to kill me?” he stammered.
“I knew you were a smart one,” I replied as I pulled a six inch length of tape off the roll.
“What’s that for?” he demanded in panic, the full realization of what was taking place finally catching up to him.
I responded by slapping the strip of tape across his mouth but he shook his head from side to side, hindering my efforts. I punched him in the kidney then wrapped another length of tape over the first one and completely around the back of his head.
“You see, Henri, going forward, you might be inclined to scream,” I explained, “And I certainly don’t want to bother your neighbours.”
I retrieved the baseball bat I had brought with me and returned to him.
“Remember when you batted Gaston Verville off his bike last September?” I asked, rhetorically, of course. “Let’s re-enact the scene, shall we?”
#8 - Etienne Jean - Wednesday, May 1, 1996
The Gazette’s top crime reporter, Ron Henderson, had earned himself an above the fold front page by-line following Henri Tousignant’s demise, creating a palpable buzz that a vigilante was taking care of justice in Montreal and that told me it was time to take a break. I wasn’t done yet, I had others already on my list but, if I intended to deal with them according to my rules, I needed to step back and plan my actions carefully or I could easily end up rubbing elbows with some similar sorry beings behind bars.
That said, I went into passive mode, still actively pursuing my research on potential prospects, planning how to go about settling their accounts and tentatively scheduling settlement appointments but all as part of a future business plan. This went on for almost two months, at which time, I knew I had to get back to business.
I abhor crime and believe that people who depend on it for their livelihood are lazy, gutless slugs who deserve every punishment they are awarded when the system catches up to them. I however despise violent crime with a passion and feel that those who partake in such action never get what they rightly merit, even when punished to the full extent of the law foreseen in the society we live in.
It’s fairly simple to state that murder and rape can be considered amongst the most heinous of violent crimes. However, it becomes more complex to qualify or grade the multitude of other violent crimes we are faced with daily in our supposedly civilized society. In my opinion, one of the worst is home invasion.
Imagine being in the safety and comfort of your home, be it the small apartment you rent as a roof over your head, the cottage you’ve obtained a mortgage for to call your abode or the mansion you’ve acquired with your hard earned capital. All is fine in your haven, the place where you rest after your day of toiling and occupy your time with your leisure activities when suddenly, your space is violated by evil.
This is not something you have brought on to yourself. This is not punishment you deserve for horrendous actions you have committed elsewhere. This is you being the victim of despicable souls who have selected you as their prey to satisfy their malicious desires. This is wanton abuse of your life, your dignity… of you.
Forty-two year old Leo Gingras and his wife, Isabelle, had been such victims. One warm Friday evening in July of the previous summer, someone had rang the doorbell at their comfortable riverside home in the Ahuntsic sector of Montreal. When Leo had opened the door to see who was calling on them, he had been met with a solid punch in the face followed by a kick in the groin from a well-muscled Haitian in his twenties.
Collapsing from the unexpected blows as his wife watched in horror, Leo had been kicked back into the home by his aggressor while an accomplice, another young man of Haitian origin, had closed and locked the door behind them before going after Isabelle. What had followed had been almost two complete days of hell on earth during which time the couple had been repeatedly beaten, tortured and sexually molested.
Following a particularly vicious pummelling in the late afternoon on Sunday, Leo had lost consciousness and his assailants had grown worried when their efforts to revive him failed. The two men had hurriedly ransacked the house for cash and items of value then left the premises aboard Leo’s 1994
Mustang. The couple had been discovered just over two hours later when Isabelle’s brother and wife had shown up, concerned because calls made over the weekend had gone unanswered. The victims had been rushed to the hospital where Leo had succumbed to his injuries.
The Mustang had been found abandoned less than twenty-four hours later and police had found the prints of Etienne and Emile Jean, two brothers who both happened to have criminal records. However, what should have been a slam-dunk case for the prosecution had turned into garbage when a traumatized and terrified Isabelle Gingras had refused to lay charges or testify against the two men after recounting the whole ordeal and identifying the attackers in photos and line-ups.
Enraged, the police and prosecution had tried to pressure Gingras but had given up when her brother, a successful attorney, had threatened legal action for harassment. The Jean brothers had been charged with breaking into a vehicle and released upon payment of minimal bail pending a future court hearing. The trial date had yet to be set but it soon wouldn’t really make any difference whatsoever.
I would have loved to give Etienne, the next on my list, a taste of his own medicine and attack him as he answered my knock on the door. However, he lived in a four storey, eight apartment building in Montreal North and punching him in the face from the second floor open landing as he greeted me seemed a little risky with residents of seven other dwellings as potential witnesses. I therefore had decided to wait for him inside his home while he was out, figuring I had invaded his home, in a sense.
Etienne, I had come to learn by keeping tabs on him, liked to dabble with heroin on occasion, particularly when he visited a female friend who lived a couple of blocks away from his place. A stripper by trade, she depended on the opiate to help her get through her night shifts at a local club with often less than desirable clientele and Etienne was more than happy to supply her with an occasional fix in exchange for a romp before she left for work.
On such evenings, Etienne generally walked her to the strip joint less than ten minutes away then headed back home to crash while watching some television. Tonight was such an evening and I was waiting patiently for his return though watching television was not quite what I had in mind.
From the sliding door in the living room, I saw Etienne approaching on the sidewalk and I took position in the corner by the entrance door. The door would hide me when he opened it and, once he was in, he wouldn’t have the reflexes to deal with me even if he saw me. As it turned out, he didn’t even see me.
The door swung open and he sauntered in, swinging it shut behind him and not even bothering to lock it as he moved further into the apartment.
“Salut, Etienne,” I said softly from behind him.
He turned, quickly by his drug-induced standards but slowly by mine, and I swung the baseball bat, satisfied to see the look of surprise and fear in his eyes immediately preceding impact. He plummeted to the cheap carpet and I let him go then watched him for a moment to make sure he was out. He was.
Taking no chances, as he might come to more quickly than I hoped, I duct taped his ankles and wrists together, slapping a strip across his mouth for good measure then pulled him up, slung him over my shoulder and headed to his bedroom. While I had been waiting for Etienne to return to his apartment, I had tied a length of yellow nylon rope to each of the four corner bed legs so, within minutes, I had him securely tied down in a spread eagled position. I considered cutting his clothes off to make him feel further violated, as he had done to his victims, but there were limits to what I was willing to do.
Since I didn’t have all night, I wanted to get things moving but I needed him to be awake before starting because, after all, the main purpose of the exercise was to make him realize he was being punished for his actions. Proceeding while he was unconscious would defeat the purpose so, using an already proven wake-up procedure, I went into the kitchen, found an empty pot in the sink, filled it up with water and returned to the bedroom where I dumped it in his face.
He spluttered and attempted to sit upright but my restraints did their job so he remained flat on the mattress. Opening his eyes, he stared at me in confusion, no doubt partly due to his drugged state but likely more so because he was wondering who the hell I was, why I was in his apartment and, perhaps his point of greatest concern, why he was tied down on his bed.
I smiled at him and said, “Bonsoir, Etienne.”
He responded with only a stare but I didn’t take it personally because, after all, I had duct taped his mouth.
Continuing in French, I said, “You don’t know who I am but I want to have a discussion with you. I can take that tape off your mouth but if I do, you have to promise to be quiet. Do you promise?”
He nodded blankly at me.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll remove it but remember, you promised. If you break your promise, there will be consequences. Do you understand?”
He nodded again and I proceeded to remove the tape, being careful to cause as little discomfort to him as possible. He remained quiet, eyeing me until I was done. Once I moved back, he screamed. However, it was a scream of short duration because I brought my doubled-up fists down in a solid jab to his solar plexus, effectively knocking the breath out of him. Obviously, he stopped screaming, concentrating on trying to breathe instead.
As he gasped for air, somewhat unsuccessfully, I said, “I asked you to stay quiet, Etienne, and you promised you would but you didn’t. Are you going to stay quiet now?”
He nodded once more and I said, “Answer me, tough guy. Otherwise I’ll just tape your damned mouth shut if all you can do is scream.”
“Oui,” he rasped, finally getting a bit of air into him.
“Good,” I replied as I picked up my baseball bat which I’d brought into the room after tying him up, “Because if you scream again, I’ll really hurt you.”
“What do you want from me?” he asked with sincerity, obviously concerned but also curious about the predicament he found himself in.
“I want you to explain to me why you did what you did to Leo and Isabelle Gingras,” I answered because I really was intrigued by what made such an animal tick.
He looked at me with a calculating gaze, as if trying to determine what the correct response to my question might be. Finally, after a moment, he did his best to look dejected and said, “It was all Emile’s idea. I didn’t know what he was planning to do. I thought we were only going to steal money and stuff. I didn’t even know anyone was home.”
“So, this was all your brother’s idea?” I asked for confirmation.
“Yeah, it was,” Etienne reasserted. “Like I said, I thought it was just to steal stuff. I wasn’t expecting things to get rough. I don’t do that kinda crap. It kinda freaked me out.”
“I can imagine.” I replied then asked, “What was it that freaked you out? Was it seeing Emile beating on Leo when he opened the door or was it watching him simultaneously run after Isabelle?”
“Uh, yeah, when, uh, he went after the lady,” Etienne confirmed with uncertainty. “She was screaming and running and Emile went after her like crazy.”
“And what were you doing while he was running after her and beating her husband at the same time?” I questioned, purely out of curiosity.
“Well, I was, uh, I was –”
“You’re full of shit is what you are, Etienne,” I said as I slapped the tape back across his face before pulling out the roll for a fresh strip. “And to try to blame it on your little bro on top of it all? I’m very disappointed…
“Here’s what we’re going to do. First, I’m going to read you Isabelle Gingras’ statement which she made to the police a few hours after you left. I found it to be a clear, believable recounting of events and I’m sure you’ll agree with me once you’ve heard it, since you were there. Then, once we’ve agreed on what actually happened, we’ll deal with things accordingly…”
#9 - Rick Bourque - Thursday, May 9, 1996
Some of you may, or may not, remember Sy
lvie Theriault although I hope you do. I had mentioned her in some detail when describing my encounter with Mathieu Masson on February 20, 1996. Sylvie was the young mother-to-be of twins and the innocent victim who took two stray bullets in a failed drive-by shooting. Mathieu was the driver of the shooter’s car on that fateful day in August, 1995. A missing element remained to be dealt with in order to close the chapter on this atrocity. The shooter, as confirmed by my buddy, Matty, when we had discussed it less than three months ago, was Rick Bourque, aka Birks.
Birks headed a gang, albeit not a very big or highly organized one, but good enough to generate revenues sufficient to keep him in a decent apartment on the outskirts of Montreal’s St-Leonard district with a running car, food and so on. Unfortunately, unless something went wrong with my plans, all of that was going to end for him before the evening was over.
Considering the crime which Birks had gotten away with was shooting a semi-automatic weapon on a busy, public boulevard in broad daylight, I figured he was someone who might be armed and, maybe, dangerous. I would have to be even more cautious with this one because getting shot just didn’t sit well with me.
As with my other prospects, I had been keeping tabs on Birks and, like many of his kind, he wasn’t as bright or careful as he should have been. With relative ease, after a few surveillance outings, I had managed to establish enough of his routine, at least that which worked with my schedule, to fix a day and time for our encounter.
I had also had the opportunity to visit his apartment on a couple of occasions and had determined that he did not have a stash of firearms hidden away somewhere. In fact, he had nothing which could be considered an illegal weapon of any kind. Worst case scenario was that he carried a piece and it certainly wouldn’t be a semi-automatic rifle. I would deal with that as required because it was either him, or me.
Though I was taking no chances, I doubted Birks was packing lately, believing that he was being very careful with firearms since the Theriault killing. In addition, Thursday nights were poker nights with his top guys in a back room at Ti-Paul’s, a tavern-like affair with loose ties to Birks’ crew in the nearby Montreal North district. Any guns required in case of any sudden trouble would likely already be on location.
The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel Page 5
