I had seen those four children… countless times on milk cartons on our breakfast table every morning… My wife, bless her heart to this day, had even offered to empty the milk cartons into a plastic pitcher so I wouldn’t have to see them daily, but I had said no, those photos were there for a reason… She had understood and told me she agreed, then never brought it up again.
As a registered pedophile without employment, a bit of difficulty had ensued at first to find himself lodgings upon leaving prison for his lesser wrongdoings. However, with the help of the law and a government subsidy, Blouin had managed to rent himself living quarters in the form of an upper duplex townhouse in an east-end sector of Montreal, at the end of a cul-de-sac along the train tracks. It worked for him, a relatively comfortable apartment with government assistance, away from the limelight and the media. In terms of location, it definitely worked for me.
Access to information via computer systems, thanks to my day job, was a big help. Just as I could get into police and court records to conduct required research, I could also find other bits of useful information. For example, thanks to postal records, I knew that the lower level of the duplex Blouin lived in was currently unoccupied because all mail to its occupants was being forwarded to another address until early June. A couple of visits, for additional confirmation, had resulted in no answers to my calls and visual scans through windows had left me with the comfortable impression that nobody was currently living there.
A good old-fashion For Rent - Immediate Occupancy sign on the upper balcony of the neighbouring attached building told me nobody presently resided across the wall from Blouin’s apartment as well. With a bit of digging, I had discovered that the owner, who lived in the lower level, was an elderly widow who was brimming with health with the exception of a hearing deficiency. Things were definitely looking good from my perspective.
I’ve mentioned before that humans are creatures of habit and, though Blouin barely qualified as human in my book, he did share sufficient traits, including the habit thing. From observation, I had noted that his routine included going for a walk in the early evening, generally from about seven to eight, before settling in for whatever he occupied his time with in private. A visit or two to his apartment in his absence had made it clear to me that he had not lost his addiction to child pornography, unless he kept his collection of illicit video cassettes solely for nostalgic purposes. A little past surveillance from the outside once he returned had allowed me to see the familiar bluish-white glare televisions emit so my guess was the tube was his thing in the evening.
Shortly after he left for his evening stroll, I entered his home – people really should get better locks for their doors – and prepared for his return, which was really rather simple. First, I hammered a six inch nail, right behind the sliding door in the kitchen through the bottom track, leaving a couple of inches sticking out to serve as a stopper. No way he’d get out through there unless he smashed through the glass Next, I went about the apartment, scattering my props as I went, on the kitchen table and counter, a couple on the bed and dresser, a few more in the living room, on the couch, the centre table and the recliner. “What are these props?” you ask? Let me tell you.
You may remember the milk cartons I mentioned earlier. Rather than discarding them once empty, I had rinsed and saved them, specifically the ones with the photos of those four missing children from Legardeur who had met their fate at the hand of Ghislain Blouin. I had ended up with about three dozen which I had preciously safeguarded for my moment with their killer. I had known I would eventually deal with him and wanted the faces of those children to be that last thing emblazoned in his mind before he went to hell. I admit that I can be a little twisted… Anyhow…
My stage set, I settled into a small room which Blouin had furnished as a reading spot or sitting area and waited for his return, keeping track of time as he usually didn’t deviate from his routine. Tonight was no exception. I heard the front door open and close, followed by his footsteps as he climbed the long staircase leading to his apartment. He wasn’t a big or heavy man, maybe five-seven and a hundred sixty pounds but he walked with a heavy step which made it easy for me to track his approach.
At the top of the stairs, he headed towards the back along the hallway to where the kitchen and bedroom were, walking right past the spare room where I was hiding in wait. A moment of silence ensued followed by an unintelligible muttering though the tone conveyed confusion and shock. Time to get busy…
I left the spare room and headed toward the back of the apartment, just catching a glimpse of him as he hurried out of the now lit bedroom and into the kitchen.
“What is this?” he questioned aloud in French, obviously referring to my milk cartons.
I reached the entrance to the kitchen to find him standing near the counter, a milk carton in each hand, staring at them, stupefied.
“You’re not saying you don’t remember them, right?” I asked softly.
He spun around toward me, dropping both cartons to the floor as he clutched his chest with one hand.
“W-what the… Who are you?” he gasped, staring at me with eyes wide open in fear.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” I replied then grinned. “Damn, I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“W-what are you doing in here?” he demanded, not catching my Rambo humour. “Y-you have no right to be here. This is my home.”
“Well, if you want to get down to business, fine,” I said with a frown. “Answer my damned question.”
“W-what question?” he asked in return, still frozen in shock.
“I asked you if you were saying you didn’t remember them,” I replied.
“Remember who?” he asked.
“The children on the milk cartons, Ghislain,” I almost whispered. “The four children who disappeared because of you.”
“W-what is this?” he repeated. “Why are you here? Who are you?”
“Answer my question,” I demanded. “Do you remember them or not? I suggest you give me the right answer.”
“Look, whoever you are, you just better get out of here,” he said, failing to get the shake out of his tone. As he spoke, he took a subtle step back and dropped his right arm, not only to the side but back a little, towards the countertop behind him.
“The knife block is empty,” I said conversationally. “Did you think I’d leave all those sharp blades around so you could attack me with them?”
He stared at me then turned to look at the knife block behind him. Empty, just like I’d said. He turned back and suddenly sprinted forward directly at me. In the time it took him to cover the six or so feet which separated us, I was able to note that he intended to try to head butt me in the chest or stomach area so I raised a knee at the appropriate moment and broke his nose, not to mention sent him flipping in the opposite direction to land flat on his back. He unfortunately also banged his head pretty hard on the floor when he landed. Fortunately, there currently were no neighbours downstairs.
I helped him up, whether he wanted me to or not, and guided/dragged him along the hallway to the living room. Once there, since it was his home, I let him have the recliner and dropped him into it. I didn’t care about him crumpling the milk cartons I’d left there. He had seen my props.
“Where are they?” I asked.
He tried to laugh in derision but it hurt because of the broken nose so he just kind of snorted then winced.
“Where are they?” I asked again.
“Who?” he asked in return, taking the dummy approach but only succeeding in annoying me.
I stared at him for a long moment then took a step toward the couch and picked up one of the cartons I’d left there. One of the girls, the youngest of his victims. I stepped back closer to him as I looked at the photo on the carton then leaned toward him, bringing the carton forward until it was six inches from his face.
“Let’s start with her,” I said. “Where is she?”
“I don’t kn
ow,” he answered softly as he gazed at the young girl’s face. “She sure was a cutie. Was she never found?”
I crushed the carton into his face, pretty hard, not really impressed by his gasp of pain, you know, because of the already broken nose then backhanded him, knocking him askew in the recliner. Grabbing the front of his shirt, I pulled him toward me then shoved him back, centred in his comfortable chair. I picked up another milk carton from the centre table by my side, one of the boys this time, and held it up for his viewing.
“Let’s try with another,” I suggested, “But I want you to keep in mind that you will tell me where they are, all of them.”
He looked at me, trying to gauge where this might end and finally sighed and said, “You’re going to kill me. We both know it and we both know I can’t stop you. If that’s the case, why should I tell you anything? It won’t change anything for me so why should I care?”
“Those four children will never get to experience life and its pleasures,” I replied, “Because you ended their lives to cover up your having abused them for your own sick pleasure. They deserve a proper resting place. Their families deserve, at the very least, some closure. That’s why you should tell me.”
He looked pensive for a moment then turned to me with a faint smile. “Very nicely said, touching, in fact, but, in the end, it still changes nothing for me. Sorry.”
I looked back at him and smiled in return. “You know what, Ghislain? For some crazy reason, I was hoping you’d say that.”
#11 - Philippe Robitaille - Friday, May 17, 1996
Ghislain Blouin’s battered body had been found by the police on Wednesday morning, thanks to an anonymous call made at eight-seventeen in the morning from a pay phone at the Berri-UQAM Metro, likely Montreal’s busiest subway station. I confess, my prints would have been on that quarter if I hadn’t wiped it down and handled it with a bit of tissue paper; and thanks to the standard Bic pen, not only did it ‘Write first time, every time,’ it also worked wonderfully when I had used it to punch in the number on the dial pad.
This was the first time I had ever reported one of my events, deeds, therapy sessions… call them what you will, but there was a reason for my doing so. Before moving on to, uh, wherever I had sent the sick bastard, Ghislain Blouin, out of the goodness of his heart, and with my coaxing, had left a hand-written note with rather precise details of where he had disposed of the bodies of the milk carton children. I had felt this information warranted speedy discovery and acted accordingly. Thankfully, though sadly, the animal had provided accurate information… Closure for the bereaved… Moving along…
Philippe Robitaille was a firefighter, even a hero, or he had been. Over a period of three to four years, Robitaille’s name had frequently appeared in the pages of the city’s favourite daily tabloid, Le Journal de Montréal, where his life-saving efforts were exalted on numerous occasions thanks to his selfless efforts.
Men, women, children, even pets had been whisked to safety, away from the terrifying grips of destructive infernos, thanks to the devotion Robitaille had for his chosen profession. A few had not been as lucky and had succumbed to smoke or flames but, after all, Robitaille and his colleagues were not superheroes, they were only men and women doing the best they could to protect the public from one of the earth’s powerful elements.
However, following a number of investigations over time, people within the firefighting organization, and without, had begun to question Robitaille and his appearances at the fires, all deemed criminal and most, rather spectacular. The majority of these blazes had been determined to be the work of the same arsonist and investigators had zeroed in on Robitaille as a prime candidate.
Unfortunately, loose lips within the fire department and police force, combined with journalists looking for the next big story, had led a couple of over-zealous investigators to search for and seize evidence without the proper warrants. As it had turned out, it had been precisely the evidence which would have convicted Robitaille and put him behind bars for years. The case had fallen apart for the prosecution and a murderous arsonist, likely the worst in the city’s history, had gone free.
In the aftermath, several people with the fire department and police force had been terminated or demoted due to the outcome of the botched investigation. Ironically as it may seem, Robitaille, after receiving a union negotiated severance package, had gone on to find himself a senior management position with a rapidly growing firm specializing in fire security systems for large commercial and residential buildings. Go figure…
Issues in his relationship had come about during the turmoil surrounding his professional versus criminal activities and, as a result, Robitaille and his girlfriend had split up. She had kept the house, which had been hers to begin with, and he had found an apartment in a well-to-do high-rise in downtown Montreal within walking distance of his new job.
The building in question offered 24/7 security in the lobby which was a great selling point to potential renters. However, it also had an underground garage accessible through both drive-in and walk-through entrances where camera surveillance was non-existent, nor was any actual patrolling, mainly because only one security guard was present per eight hour shift.
Anyone who wanted to could easily slip in without being noticed when a car was entering or leaving. Another alternative was to use one of three walk-in accesses, two which didn’t always lock properly and all three which dog owning residents often propped open because using their key card was too much of a hassle. Obviously, un-propping the door upon their return was also a pain so many didn’t bother.
To be frank, I had done a bit of my own surveillance and had noted that the security desk in the lobby was often deserted. Whoever the guard on duty was, he regularly went to the bathroom, took a break, went to visit a lonely tenant in some apartment… whatever, who knows where the heck he went? All I know is, strolling in through the lobby and accessing the elevators without being noticed was completely possible, which is what I did.
Robitaille was still in his infancy as a corporate executive and was taking the learning curve seriously, in the office early every morning and rarely out before seven in the evening, even on Fridays. Back home before seven-thirty, he usually just took the time to change before going to the gym made available to tenants. His workouts generally lasted no more than thirty minutes as he rotated muscle groups from one evening to the next, his goal being to stay in shape, not become Mister Universe or anything similar.
Most nights, he stayed in, unless some social event came up, but Friday nights seemed to be Robitaille’s time to let loose and release the pressure of a demanding week of work. Following his Friday workout, he rarely was in his apartment for more than twenty minutes, to shower and dress, before heading out for dinner and fun. Chosen locations were mostly singles’ bars which also served food, where he might hook up with someone for the evening and maybe more.
I had selected that twenty minute window between his workout and departure as the ideal time to meet Robitaille and was at his door ten minutes after he had returned to his apartment from the gym.
“Monsieur Robitaille,” I called as I knocked on his door. “Antoine, de la sécurité.”
I had no clue if there was a guard named Antoine but Robitaille had just moved in and I doubted he knew any of them on a first name basis.
I heard movement inside and a muffled enquiry. “Qui est-ce? Il y a un problème?”
“It is Antoine from security,” I repeated in French. “There is no problem but I do have a package for you which requires your signature, sir.”
“A package?” he replied. “Very well. Give me a minute.”
No more than a minute passed before the deadbolt slid back and the door opened.
He stood there, gazing at me expectantly, wearing only a towel around his waist. I stood there, wearing a dark suit, shirt and tie, holding a shoe-box sized package against my chest with one hand, my other hand behind my back encased in a black leather boxing
-bag glove, the kind with a steel bar sewn into the palm to wrap your fingers around for some added oomph.
“You said I have to sign something?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, holding the package out to him.
As he took the box and looked at it, I swung my gloved fist up and around, connecting perfectly, a sold blow just above the nose, right between the eyes. He toppled backward, going completely limp as he dropped like a felled tree to the carpeted floor. I glanced quickly down the hallway to ensure nobody had suddenly appeared to witness my dastardly deed but life was treating me right. It was just me and Robitaille who was currently taking a nap of sorts.
He had been good enough to fall sufficiently far that I barely had to push his feet aside to close the door. After locking it, I wasted no time getting the box I’d brought open because I needed the roll of duct tape it contained to deal with Robitaille. Who knew when he might come to and, as I mentioned, he worked out and looked in pretty good shape. Mind you, I was in pretty good shape as well but, in this line of work, risk minimization is always the best policy.
I taped his ankles together then rolled him over and did his wrists behind his back. Once I had him secured, I picked him up in a fireman’s carry, no pun intended, and moved him to the bedroom where he would be more comfortable. As additional benefits, the room was the furthest from the apartment’s entrance and I could close the door for further sound insulation. I was thankful to Robitaille for having selected a corner unit with no neighbours on the other sides of the walls. His choice of a building with concrete floors for the tenants’ peace of mind was not to be neglected either.
While he finished his nap – I had checked and he was still alive with a strong pulse and steady breathing – I finished my preparations for his awakening with the remaining contents of the box I had delivered, namely three dozen tea lights and an aerosol can of WD40. Actually, the flammable lubricant would only be used later and would be solely for theatrical purposes, meaning to scare the bastard before the final act.
The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel Page 7
