The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel

by Claude Bouchard

  To prove his point, he took another swig, reducing the cup’s content down to about half. You’ve got to like a cooperative victim.

  “I should have bought you a big one,” I joked.

  “That’s okay,” he replied. “Thanks to you, I’ll be there early enough to get myself another one and even drink it before I start working.”

  “Well, good for you,” I said, adding nothing more.

  We rode in silence for several minutes during which time Nicholas drained his cup then sat there, holding the empty container in one hand, the plastic lid in the other as he gazed out the windshield. After a moment or two, he looked down, noticed the cup and lid he was holding and decided to reassemble the two. Not as easy a task as he was expecting. He misaligned the cover before dropping the cup between his thighs. Fumbling to pick it up, it slipped from his fingers twice before he muttered and tried to get it a third time.

  “Are you okay?” I questioned, noting his difficulties.

  He shook his head, not in response but more in trying to shake the increasing effect of the triple dose of Normison.

  “Ché pas, stie,” he mumbled, shaking his head again as the cup and lid slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Feelin’ dizzy an sleepy,” he slurred. “Was fine jus b’fore.”

  “Did you do anything?” I enquired. “Any drugs, something like that?”

  “No, no,” he replied, leaning back against the headrest and rocking his head back and forth. “Naw this morning.”

  “Last night, maybe?” I persisted. “There must be something making you feel like this.”

  “No, j-jus smoke a joint, mebbe two lass nigh,” he struggled to say. “I dunno wuz goin’ on. I’m fallin’ sleep, gonna pass out.”

  “Maybe Henri gave you something?” I suggested, “Or perhaps Max put something in your coffee?”

  “Masss?” he managed to get out, confusion adding to the somnolence. “E’s dead… Erhi too…”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I replied. “Both Max and Henri are dead. They were killed, weren’t they?”

  He rolled his head toward me and nodded, though rather awkwardly then mumbled, “Yethh.”

  “You’re passing out on me, Nicky,” I said, reaching over and lightly slapping his cheek. “Stay with me for just another minute, will you? Make an effort for me, buddy.”

  He nodded again and even struggled a bit to straighten himself in his seat as he forced his eyes open.

  “So sleepy…” he whispered.

  “That’s because I doped up your coffee, Nick,” I explained. “I needed to knock you out so I could take you somewhere without any trouble. Do you understand?”

  He shook his head and slumped forward a bit though the shoulder strap of the seat belt held him up. “Wha-whaff for?”

  “Because you’re going to hook up with Henri and Max, my friend,” I replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after everything and I promise I’ll let you wake up before I send you off. But take a nap now. You look like you need it.”

  #14 - Edouard Racicot - Sunday, June 2, 1996

  I’ll spare you the gory details because that isn’t what this is all about but Nicholas Bertrand’s body was found the following day in one of the many wooded areas in Mount-Royal Park. He had been beaten, though not too badly, with a blunt object, probably a baseball bat, but a knife wound, a serious throat laceration, was determined to be the cause of death. Both the media and police believed Bertrand to be the thirteenth victim of the Vigilante and stated so publicly. Of course, they were absolutely right.

  Next in line was a gentleman, the term being used sarcastically, by the name of Edouard ‘Eddy’ Racicot. Eddy was a bull of a man in his early fifties who’d had ties with biker gangs all his life. Somewhat of a violent man, he had been arrested several times on assault charges over the years and had served two terms, eighteen months and thirty months because of his aggressive nature.

  Three years earlier, shortly after his second stint in a penal institution, Eddy had become the proud owner of La Minoune, roughly translated as ‘the female pussycat’, a strip bar in the St-Henri district of Montreal. Investing accumulated funds from past ventures as well as capital supplied by a couple of ‘silent’ minority partners, Eddy had turned what was previously a dive into an almost respectable club.

  Business had thrived and Eddy had generally behaved himself, at least sufficiently for the authorities to turn down the radar on him… until a bit over a year earlier. Within a period of three or four months, several of the ladies employed at Eddy’s club had shown up at hospitals, having been beaten and sometimes raped. Each had told varying stories of being grabbed off the street or followed then attacked in their homes but all remained steadfast that their attackers had been unknown to them.

  The detectives charged with investigating the cases had quickly become skeptical, considering the obvious ‘Eddy’ connection then frustrated as the victims fearfully insisted he or his club had nothing to do with their plight, even though all had since quit working there and a few had hastily moved to other living quarters. Attempts to question some of the women who remained employed at the club had garnered similar results with brushoffs, no useful information and always, a show of constant, underlying fear.

  The situation had remained unchanged until a further victim, Natalie Labrosse, had confided with a nurse that Eddy had been her attacker. However, when the police had broached the subject with Labrosse, she had vehemently denied everything, stating that the nurse had misunderstood or had a personal agenda of her own.

  Three days later, Linda Hervieux, another of the club’s entertainers, had shown up at the hospital and demanded to see the police, intent on pressing charges against Eddy Racicot. Within hours, Eddy had been arrested and charged with the aggravated assault and rape of Linda Hervieux. Eddy, to his dismay, had been forced to spend three nights and two days behind bars before his bail hearing.

  Though no traces of semen had been found in earlier cases, Eddy, who had become lazy, stupid or brazen, had not used a condom with either Labrosse or Hervieux. The prosecution had successfully applied pressure for expedited DNA results and presented these at the hearing, demanding that Eddy be remanded without bail. However, the defence had argued that Natalie Labrosse had no relation to the case and that, though Eddy admitted to having had sex with Hervieux, it had been consensual. The judgement had gone in Eddy’s favour and he had been released on a $250,000 bond with an order to come no closer than five hundred feet from his accuser at any time, pending trial.

  The trial date had been set for a couple of months later and Eddy had been on his best behaviour as he waited, spending his time at the club during operating hours and ensuring credible alibis at all times. In the interim, both Natalie Labrosse and Linda Hervieux had disappeared, here today, gone tomorrow, without leaving a trace, never to be seen again.

  Efforts had been made to find the two women but had proved fruitless. Natalie Labrosse had never formally accused Racicot, the only suggestion of a crime being hearsay from a concerned nurse so she really had nothing to do with the approaching trial. As for Linda Hervieux, it had become a question of her word against his so without her presence to further convince a judge or jury, there was little point in going to court. Though the police and the prosecution were convinced Eddy Racicot was guilty, the case was eventually dropped as nothing could be done without evidence.

  Well, I wouldn’t say nothing… Come on… Really?

  Sunday nights were slow in the strip bar business, as far as I had determined from my research and observations at La Minoune. Though the club remained open until three in the morning, the small parking lot was barely a quarter full by midnight and nearly deserted by two. I had been in the club since ten and biding my time in a tiny room used for storage behind the bathroom since midnight, waiting until the close of business to have a chat with Eddy.

&nb
sp; The room I had settled in had one small window overlooking the parking lot and, at almost half past two, I saw two guys stumble across to one of four remaining cars, get in and slowly drive away. Over the next ten minutes, I could hear some murmuring, laughing and the occasional shout as remaining staff seemed to be lining up to call it a night. Shortly after, I recognized the doorman and a bartender as they made their way to their vehicles, each accompanied by two ladies, likely the remaining dancers, either off for a late night party or, more likely, simply giving them a ride.

  Regardless, that was the least of my concerns as now only one car remained in the lot, Eddy’s 1994 Cadillac Seville STS. A couple of previous surveillance visits had me convinced that the big man was now alone in the building, well, besides me. It was always possible that he had one of the ladies with him for some after-hours private entertainment but past observations had revealed nothing of the sort. In addition, though I certainly didn’t consider the man to be a genius by any means, I figured he was smart enough to stay away from the games which had nearly landed him behind bars just a few months earlier.

  Hearing nothing after a couple of minutes, I eased the door of the storage room open, confident the hinges would not give me away, thanks to a pocket-sized can of WD-40 I had thoughtfully brought with me. The hinges remained silent, which was a good thing since Eddy happened to amble right past the short corridor which led to the bathroom and storage room beyond, just as I poked my head out.

  Seconds later, I heard the clinking of ice dropping in a glass, followed shortly by the tinkling of the cubes as liquid was pour atop them. Another moment went by and Eddy returned, armed with a snifter filled almost to the brim with some amber liqueur, perhaps Amaretto or maybe Grand Marnier but hopefully not cognac on ice, for heaven’s sake.

  I followed immediately, trailing behind him as he entered the far room to the right at the end of the hallway, the one marked ‘PRIVATE’ next to the rear exit. He seemed to sense a presence as he crossed the carpeted floor of the fair-sized room and began to turn toward me. I swung my baseball bat like a pro, literally batting the snifter out of his grip while fracturing a good number of the twenty-seven bones generally found in the average human hand.

  He yelped in pain, a high-pitched squeal, in fact, which left me surprised considering a man of his robust stature and reputation. However, the moment was not appropriate to comment on his disappointing vocal reaction because, as I’ve mentioned, Eddy was a big guy and known for physical nastiness.

  That said, as he instinctively doubled over to cradle his damaged hand with the other between his knees, I wound up again and whacked him sort of on the side of the head, more like just below the left ear, catching a mix of jaw and neck. Whatever the appropriate anatomical terms might be, he fell over and let loose another yelp.

  Still keeping the ‘big guy/assault convict’ theme in mind, I swung the bat again, with rather precise aim, and actually winced when I heard the crack of his kneecap. However, keeping with the old, ‘better safe than sorry’ adage, I delivered two more solid blows, just to make sure he didn’t suddenly up and run out on me or worse, at me. After all, it was almost three in the morning so I wanted to get things done.

  He curled up into a big, tight ball but as soon as he sensed the initial attack was past, he rolled back to look at me and shouted, “You are dead, mother–”

  As he expressed these words, he made the mistake of pointing at me with his yet uninjured hand and arm and, well, I interrupted his statement with another swing of the bat, quite probably breaking his radius and ulna. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I’m not a doctor so please don’t quote me on anything medical. These are guesses at best and may not be accurate. Anyhow…

  “I’m in damned better shape that you are, moron,” I told him.

  He wiped the tears from his eyes on his shoulders then looked up at me with a grin. “You are going to regret the day some drunk sailor fucked your whore of a mother.”

  “Holy crap, did you know my old man?” I exclaimed, looking perplexed.

  “What?” he asked, confused by my reaction.

  I bashed him three, well, maybe four times with the bat before replying. “He might have been a drunk but don’t you bad-mouth my mother.”

  By now, I think I had hurt him enough that he was starting to take me seriously.

  “Okay, what’s this shit about?” he demanded, trying to back away and reposition himself as painlessly as possible. “I don’t know who the hell you are so I don’t know who the hell your old man or your mother was, okay?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Ed,” I replied. “Is it okay if I call you Ed?”

  He stared at me, almost in awe, though awe is probably not the right word. “What are you? Fucking crazy? You come in here and beat the shit out of me and ask me if you can call me Ed? What the fuck is that about?”

  “You swear a lot,” I replied, mostly to annoy him. “Anyway, the reason I asked if I could call you Ed was because you are such fucking trash that I was hoping to save the extra syllable needed to call you Eddy.”

  The look he gave me then can only be described as incredulous.

  “You’re a fucking basket-case,” he almost whispered, with the same awe I mentioned earlier. “You’re a psychopath.”

  “Okay, Ed-dy,” I replied, becoming serious. “If we’re going to start with the name calling, fine. You’re a rapist and a murderer. You’re a lot of other shit as well but those two are more than enough for me to deal with you.”

  “Ah, that’s what this is about,” he said. “Not that I did any of the shit you’re saying but was one them bitches your sister or what? Your wife, maybe?”

  “Never met or saw either one of them in my life,” I replied. “That’s not the point.”

  He grinned again then asked, “So, what’s the point?”

  “You fucked up big time and now you have to pay,” I told him. “You can redeem yourself, just a little bit, and tell me what happened to Natalie and Linda. Where are they?”

  This time, he laughed. “You could beat me to death, asshole, and I’d never tell you.”

  I smiled back at him and said, “You know what, Eddy? For some crazy reason, I was hoping you’d say that.”

  #15 - Jean-Jacques Lalonde - Thursday, June 6, 1996

  Eddy Racicot never did tell me where the bodies of Natalie Labrosse and Linda Hervieux had ended up but I hadn’t expected he would. He was a tough guy to the end but he still paid for what he had done. I felt sorry for the missing ladies as well as their families and friends but I had done all I could with Ed… Win some, lose some… Such is life…

  Next on my prospect list was a twenty-five year old slug who had only himself to blame for his lot in life. Jean-Jacques Lalonde, known by many as JJ, had everything laid out for him, if only he had wanted to grasp it and make the requisite effort. His father, Cyril Lalonde, an honest, hard-working man, had gone from humble beginnings to build a well-respected local empire of automobile dealerships, able to satisfy customers favouring products of Michigan origins as well as those whose tastes leaned toward foreign makes and models.

  Had JJ so desired, he could have been flashing business cards with a president’s title by the age of twenty-two, though dad had insisted on an undergraduate degree for that option. Lesser options had existed if higher studies didn’t mesh well with the boy’s vision. Twelve distinct car dealerships plus an administrative head office for the holding company offered a multitude of employment opportunities ranging from clerical to finance to trades to sales. The problem was, JJ was lazy and didn’t see why he should have to do anything considering his father’s millions.

  Cyril had warned his son on a number of occasions, all while exercising patience but had finally given up in disgust, ironically on JJ’s twenty-second birthday, giving the boy ten thousand dollars in cash as a start-up fund and kicking him out of the house.

  JJ, and his wad of bills, had initially been greeted with open arms by a number of frien
ds. However, after a couple of months, as the bankroll dwindled to nothing and it became clear there wasn’t any more coming from where that had come from, the party was over. He was welcome to stay with any of a number of friends and acquaintances but, the saying holds true with all walks of life, there’s no free lunch… or dinner, booze, drugs and lodgings, for that matter.

  He was staying with a buddy, Arnaud was the guy’s name, when the notice, so to speak, was delivered. Arnaud, who was a nice enough guy but who also became physical when he had to prove a point, had asked JJ for a hundred bucks to cover for expenses over the last couple of days. When JJ had informed Arnaud that he didn’t have any money, the latter had told him that trying to eat with a broken jaw or walk with a broken leg was not the kind of problem anyone wanted to deal with. Though cash was preferred, items which could be easily pawned or sold with a similar street value, plus an additional fifty percent ‘gotta deal with it’ fee, were also accepted.

  As mentioned, Arnaud was a nice enough guy so he had been willing to give JJ some coaching, which had basically amounted to, “bust into some houses, steal some shit and sell it for cash or give me the shit to deal with for a fifty percent premium.” Arnaud had specified his right to refuse any shit he felt he couldn’t move with ease.

  Faced with the prospect of no place to live while dealing with severely damaged body parts, JJ had contacted a few people who he knew were active in the B&E trade, begging for assistance in his plight. Two of these, a married couple in fact, who made a fairly decent living with their home theft business had let pity sway them and agreed to train and coach JJ through active participation for a nominal cut of the take.

  Over time, JJ had honed his skills and eventually gone solo, allowing him to forego having to trust anyone else on a job or split the proceeds. With practice, he had become rather proficient at his craft, often targeting homes in some more upscale sectors which he had become familiar with over the years, thanks to his father.