Time of year was on my side since the sun had set somewhere around a quarter after eight so it had been plenty dark at eight-forty when I had gained access to Birks’ car parked on the quiet, residential street. His ride was a 1993 Chrysler Concorde, which suited me fine with its large, roomy interior, particularly in the back where I was spending a bit of time waiting for him.
Luckily for me, he was rather punctual and at a couple of minutes past nine, Birks showed up, unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat, completely oblivious of my presence in the car. I used the instant when he pulled the door shut to sit upright, not worried that he’d see me because I had displaced the rear view mirror to reflect the ceiling.
“Thanks for your timeliness,” I said as he inserted the key in the ignition, pressing the muzzle of my revolver to the side of his neck. It was a Crosman CO2 .177 calibre pellet gun but he didn’t know that. Anyhow, it would hurt, maybe even kill him if I had to shoot. “Raise your hands up where I can see them.”
He stiffened and his eyes went to the rear view mirror by reflex which gave him, you guessed it, an eyeful of ceiling and maybe the dome light.
“What’s this about?” he asked, his tone surprisingly calm as he obeyed my command. In his defense, he did have a rather risky lifestyle.
“There will be plenty of time for explanations later,” I replied. “Right now, I want to get things set up to make sure nobody gets hurt, okay?”
He shrugged as he answered, “You’re the boss. What’s next?”
“Get over the console to the passenger seat, slowly, and keep your hands up.”
“How am I gonna do that?” he complained.
“Very carefully,” I replied. “Your life depends on it.”
He made his way over the console well enough and was soon on the passenger side. The gun’s muzzle maintained contact throughout his journey.
“Hands back behind the headrest, fingers intertwined,” I ordered, “And lean your head forward.”
I had to put the gun down because I needed both hands but I was confident he’d regret it if he tried anything stupid. As it was, he didn’t. With my friendly roll of duct tape, I did a good if unstylish job of binding his hands together from the wrists to his intertwined fingers. Next, I secured his whole hand assembly to the back of the headrest with several more feet of tape wrapped around over and under from front to back. Finally, after having him lean his head back again, I did a couple more rounds of tape around his head and the headrest. I wanted to make sure his movement was restricted.
“This isn’t very comfortable,” he commented when I was done.
“Sorry,” I replied. “It’s just a necessary precaution to avoid a car crash once we get moving.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, for the first time, a trace of fear in his tone.
“It’s a surprise,” I answered before affixing a strip of tape across his mouth. “Now, I’m going to get out, go on your side and open your door to secure your feet. Be stupid and you’ll be dead.”
I holstered the gun, got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side while casually looking around for any potential witnesses. The street and sidewalks remained deserted, one of the benefits of quiet residential neighbourhoods.
Opening the passenger door, I said, “Bend your knees and put your feet a foot apart.”
He stared at me but did what he was told and I got busy making duct tape shackles which is easier than one might think. I started by wrapping the tape around his right ankle two or three times then unrolled enough to get to his left ankle, wrapping it a few times as well before starting to alternate from one ankle to the other in a figure eight pattern. Within moments, his ankles were bound together but a foot apart with multiple tape strands crisscrossing from one ankle to the other. Crude but effective, this would allow for some limited mobility later but there was no way he could suddenly sprint away if he had the chance.
My shackles complete, I pulled his right foot close to the seat and taped it to a support bracket underneath. He wouldn’t be swinging his feet up to kick me while I’d be driving. After fastening his seatbelt around his waist, for safety’s sake, I reclined his seat as far as it would go and shut the door. Out of sight, out of mind.
Not wishing to overstay my welcome in the neighbourhood, I hurried to the driver’s seat, knowing the key awaited me in the ignition and, seconds later, we were off. I felt the ride would be a good time to chat so when I reached the first stop sign, I leaned over and yanked the tape from his mouth.
“Jesus, that hurt, you motherfucker,” Birks bellowed as we resumed our drive.
“Sorry,” I replied, “And watch your mouth, asshole. You don’t want to piss me off.”
“What the fuck is this all about?” he demanded.
I backhanded him with my right as I held the steering wheel with my left. “I told you to watch your mouth. Don’t make me warn you again.”
“Okay, okay,” he muttered, “But I’m kinda pissed off myself right now.”
“You brought it on to yourself,” I replied, “So deal with it.”
“What did I do to you?” he asked. “I don’t know you. I ain’t ever even seen you before.”
“It’s not anything you did to me,” I said, “But it’s certainly something you did.”
“You mind sharing what that was?” he asked, his tone mocking.
“You’re really not in a position to have an attitude, my friend,” I said. “That’s more annoying than you swearing at me.”
He sighed. “Alright, I’m sorry. I just want to know why you’re doing this.”
“August 17th last year,” I said. “An innocent woman died. She was twenty-three and about to give birth for the first time in her life. She, and her unborn twins, died because of you.”
“What?” he exclaimed. “You got the wrong man cuz that wasn’t me. No way.”
“You’re full of crap, Birks,” I said. “It was you.”
“H-how do you know my name?” he asked, surprised and concerned.
“A mutual acquaintance shared it with me,” I replied. “You remember Mathieu Masson, don’t you? He told me your name was Rick Bourque, known as Birks on the street.”
“Uh, Matty’s dead, man,” said Birks. “He couldn’t tell you nothing.”
I laughed. “Of course, Matty’s dead. I killed him, you moron. He told me about you before he died. He told me he had been driving the car and that you were the shooter. Why the hell do you think I’m here?”
“Y-you killed Matty?” he said. “Why?”
“Are you paying attention?” I asked. “He was driving, knowing full well you would be shooting a semi-automatic weapon out in public, putting the lives of countless innocent people at risk. Sylvie Theriault and her twins are gone because of Matty, and because of you, of course.”
“But –” he started to say.
“But nothing,” I interrupted. “Don’t try to deny it because Matty told me everything. Telling me you didn’t do it will piss me off even more than your swearing or your attitude.”
He was silent for a moment then said, “It was an accident, man. We weren’t gunning for her.”
“True,” I agreed, “But she’s still dead, right? You still shot her with an illegal weapon on a busy street in broad daylight, right?”
“Aw, fuck man,” he whined, “So now you’re gonna kill me?”
“Now, I want some information from you,” I replied.
“What kind of information?” he asked, a hint of hope in his tone.
“The gun you used,” I said, “Where is it?”
“I got rid of it,” Birks replied. “I couldn’t take no chance of the cops finding it. I didn’t think Matty would crack when they talked to him but, just in case, I tossed the gun in the river.”
“What river?” I asked, to see if he was lying.
“Saint-Lawrence,” he answered immediately, “From the Jacques-Cartier Bridge on the walking path at three in the morning
same night I’d used it.”
“Where did you get it?” was my next question.
“I bought it off some guy,” he replied.
“Who, Birks?” I asked, showing some frustration. “Give me a damned name.”
“The guy could get in real trouble, man,” Birks argued. “I gave him my word.”
“How stupid are you?” I snapped. “I killed Matty over this and you know that because he’s dead and he was the only one who could tie you into this. Now, you’re concerned because some guy who sold you a gun could get in trouble? Look at yourself, you idiot. You are in trouble. Give me his damned name.”
“Aw, Jesus, man,” Birks whined again. “Alright, his name is Greg O’Shea. He works for some company that make guns and stuff for the army.”
“So, this gun you had,” I asked, “It was from where this Greg works?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Birks. “He’s a manager or something and he figured out some way to get guns out without nobody noticing. Some guy I know hooked me up with him and I bought a piece. That’s all. Just the one gun we talked about.”
“Does Greg sell a lot of guns like that?” I asked.
“I guess,” said Birks. “He had a bunch of different guns he showed me to choose from and he told me to let him know if I needed anything else.”
“Good to know,” I said, memorizing O’Shea’s name for later. “Thanks, Birks. You did good.”
We rode along in silence for a minute or two until Birks spoke up. “Where are you taking me?”
“Do you like golf?” I asked in response.
“Golf?” he repeated. “Like, the game?”
“Yes, golf,” I confirmed.
“I never played,” he said. “Only went to drive some balls a couple of times and, you know, mini-putt kinda thing.”
“I’m taking you to a golf course,” I said. “It’s not finished yet, still under construction. We’re almost there.”
“What are we going there for?” he asked.
“You ask a lot of questions,” I replied. “Just shut up, wait and you’ll see soon enough.”
We rode the short distance remaining in silence and were soon on the site of the future Montreal Island Golf Club near the eastern tip of the island. Construction had begun but was in the early stages with the opening of the first of two courses planned for 1998, in two years’ time. From a recent visit, I knew that security was non-existent which meant there would be nobody around for miles, barring traffic on Autoroute 40 some distance from the location I had selected. I parked the car facing north, away from the highway, and turned off the engine but left the headlights on because I needed to see and it was dark.
“We’re here,” I announced.
“Now what?” Birks asked, his tone shaky, not surprising considering he figured things weren’t looking up for him.
“Now, we’re going to get out,” I replied before opening the door and getting out.
I went around the car and opened the passenger side door then crouched down and sliced the tape which secured his right ankle to the seat brace.
“You can stretch your legs now,” I said as returned his seat to the upright position.
Moving to the rear door, I pulled it open and, with a couple more strategic cuts, the tape holding Birks head and arms to the head rest was no longer an issue.
“Okay, you can get out now,” I said as I slammed the rear door shut.
“No, I can’t, goddamn it,” he whined. “I’m still fucking taped.”
Reaching in behind the head rest, I got hold of one end of the cut tape and yanked it, taking some of his hair out as well.
“Jesus, are you crazy?” he shrieked as he struggled, successfully freeing himself. “You ripped my fucking hair out.”
I reached into the car, grabbed the front of his denim jacket, yanked him out and slammed his back against the closed rear door before slapping him on the side of the head.
“You have memory problems, buddy?” I asked as I stepped back. “Didn’t I tell you to watch your mouth when you’re talking to me?”
“Yeah, yeah you did,” he replied, whining again as he rubbed the side of his head on his shoulder, “But that hurt like a bitch.”
“I thought you were a tough guy,” I replied. “Big tough guy who goes around killing innocent, pregnant women.”
“Aw, come on, you said that already,” he argued, “And it only happened once.”
“That’s right,” I agreed, “But once too many.”
“Look, I’m sorry but it was an accident,” Birks replied. “What’s done is done. You can’t bring the lady back and, anyhow, they said on the news she died like, instantly, so she didn’t suffer or nothing.”
I stared at Birks for a moment then took another step back as I pulled out the revolver and aimed it at his face.
“Holy shit,” he exclaimed, raising his taped hands up in defense then relaxing a bit. “Aw, crap, that just a BB gun, you bastard.”
“Pellets, actually,” I replied. “Powered with compressed CO2.”
“You fucking kidnapped me with a pellet gun?” he stated more than asked.
I responded by pulling the trigger and shooting him in the face, just below the right cheekbone. He howled in pain as he grasped his face as best he could then stared at me with panic in his eyes as he noted he was bleeding.
“What’s the matter?” I asked as I shot him again, this time in the shoulder. “It’s just a pellet gun. You said so yourself though the manufacturer does specify that this is not a toy. Did you know that those pellets shoot out at four hundred thirty-five feet per second? That’s almost two hundred ninety-seven miles per hour. Pretty impressive if you ask me, even though it’s just a pellet gun.”
“You’re crazy, man,” he shrieked. “You broke some fucking teeth.”
“Aw, damn,” I replied as I shot him in the ribs, causing him to gasp, tense up then fall to the ground.
“So, not so cool to get shot at?” I asked as I yanked him back up to his feet and leaned him up against the car again. “Even with a pellet gun?”
“What do you want from me?” he sobbed. “Why are you doing this?”
“If you still don’t understand why I’m doing this, you’re a sadder bastard than I thought,” I said. “As for what I want from you, it’s simple… retribution, payback, the punishment to fit the crime.”
“So, you’re just gonna kill me?” he asked, his voice quavering in pain and fear. “You’re no better than I am.”
“Get out of here,” I said.
“W-what?” he asked, not comprehending.
I gestured to the north, away from the highway and said, “Go. Get away from me.”
“I’m all taped up, man,” he whined. “How can I go anywhere?”
I nudged his foot with mine and said, “You’ve got some loose there. You can’t run but you can certainly walk. Move.”
He glanced at me then started shuffling away, as quickly as his duct tape shackles allowed him to go. When he had gone about ten feet, I shot him in the back and he went down with a moan. I walked up closer and fired the two remaining pellets at him then holstered the gun and pulled out my knife.
#10 - Ghislain Blouin - Tuesday, May 14, 1996
My dealing with Birks the previous Thursday had gotten me another headline with Henderson at the Gazette, a front page spread in the Saturday edition, in fact, which covered what details were known, a recap of the Vigilante murders to date and the highlights of Lieutenant Dave McCall’s press conference held late Friday afternoon. Montreal’s top murder cop clearly recognized he had a serial killer on his hands, he obviously didn’t like it, even if the victims were all scum, and he promised the public that resolution in the ongoing case would soon be the final chapter.
I felt for the guy and wished I could help him. In fact, I was, in my own way, though he obviously didn’t share my opinion. I’m sure he would have preferred that I turn myself in or, at the very least, cease my activities but I had
my things to do with an established schedule to respect. As they say, you can’t please everyone.
Next on my ‘to do’ list was Ghislain Blouin. I had mentioned earlier that among the more horrendous crimes was home invasion. However, there are few crimes, if any, more despicable than those which involve the abuse or exploitation of children. For an adult to take advantage or prey on others incapable of defending themselves because of their lesser size, physical and mental capabilities makes me sick to the core with anger. Anyone who seeks to personally benefit at the expense of children, for personal gratification or any type of gain, deserves a punishment more severe than death itself.
Succinctly stated, fifty-two year old Blouin was a pedophile, a child pornographer and a killer. Not only had he satisfied his sick thrills on countless occasions, he had also filmed some of these activities and subsequently distributed them for financial gain as technology had permitted him to do so. Though he had been arrested and even served six months of prison time for indecent exposure and soliciting juveniles, the authorities and the courts had never succeeded in proving his guilt for his more serious, hideous aberrations of human life.
The molestations he was responsible for which he himself had documented in video format, their distribution through illegal networks of child porn, the sickening harm and trauma he had instigated… he had never had to pay for. At least four of these children had gone missing, never found, which acquaintances had sworn had been videotaped in his home, based on decor, wall colors, furniture and so on… Walls had been repainted, even wallpapered, furniture changed, paintings discarded and replaced… Just to hide what had happened.
The court’s decision had been one of ‘not guilty’, due to lack of sufficient evidence. Some of his neighbours, seated in the courtroom audience, had screamed revolt… They had seen these children on several occasions, two girls and two boys, aged from seven to ten, at Blouin’s previous home in the North Shore town of Legardeur, before their disappearance. The judge, a man encompassed by the letter of the law, had threatened to clear the court and arrest all malfeasants at this outcry then dismissed the case.
The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel Page 6
