Barring the fact that his means of support were completely illegal, things had been going relatively well for JJ… that is, until Paul Sauvageau, the owner of a home he was burglarizing, walked in on him and all had gone to hell.
The sad fact of the matter was, JJ had been given a chance to leave. Unbeknownst to JJ, Sauvageau’s wife and another couple had also been present and the three had witnessed the ordeal, audibly to start and visibly as it ended.
The two couples had spent the afternoon on the Sauvageaus’ boat and returned to the hosts’ home for steaks on the grill. JJ had been unaware of their arrival until Paul Sauvageau had walked in on him in the master bedroom. In a nutshell, Sauvageau had told JJ that he best leave the premises because, he, Sauvageau, was going to get one of his guns and would shoot JJ if he was still there when he returned.
The smart thing for JJ to do would have been to head for the nearest exit and hightail it out of there. In fact, the home in question was a single level ranch-style and the master bedroom had French doors leading to a terrace which offered an easy exit. Instead of leaving, JJ had grabbed the heavy, wrought-iron poker by the master bedroom fireplace, run after Sauvageau who had stormed off into the hallway and bashed him in the head, killing him. Upon seeing the other man and two women rushing toward him down the hallway, he had done what he should have in the first place… He had hightailed it out onto the terrace and got away.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been JJ’s lucky day. The beater he had been driving, which was parked on the next block, wouldn’t start when he got to it, due to a humidity sensitive distributor cap. It was a problem he was familiar with, usually solved by drying out the humidity with a quick blast from a propane torch, one of which he kept in the trunk for exactly that purpose.
However, as I mentioned, not JJ’s lucky day… While he was under the hood messing with the distributor cap and the propane torch, a patrol car happened to cruise down the street. The neighbourhood in question was not the type where folks did their own auto-mechanics curb-side, particularly not on nine year old AMC Hornets. This said, one can understand why the cops stopped to see if there was a problem.
For better, or worse, sometimes it’s all in the timing. A call had been made to the police from the Sauvageau home, probably while JJ had still been on the property. The radio dispatch subsequent to that call had been transmitted just as one officer was asking JJ if he needed any assistance. Thirty seconds later, JJ was being ordered to drop the propane torch and lay flat on the pavement with his arms and legs spread, two police issue handguns aimed at his torso as the order was issued. Less than a minute after that, JJ was handcuffed and being assisted into the back seat of the patrol car.
Fast-forward several months… The legal/justice system is not a perfect science. I won’t pretend to be an expert on the subject because I’m not. However, I do consider myself a reasonably intelligent man with a fair dose of logic and common sense thrown in for good measure and, there are limits to acceptable imperfection.
Good lawyers cost money and excellent lawyers cost even more. Cyril Lalonde, JJ’s father, through hard, honest work, had accumulated money… Apparently enough to afford excellent representation for his once disowned son. Forget about any murder charges in the death of Paul Sauvageau. The case had not even made it to trial. A plea had been entered, involuntary manslaughter in self-defence with a sentence trial pending. A court date would eventually be set for the B&E thing but, hey, that was no big deal, no rush.
While all things pended, JJ had been remanded to his father’s custody, which meant he had moved back into a mansion where he was provided for, didn’t have to do anything, ate and drank whatever he wanted, as long as he behaved himself. The ‘house arrest’, so to speak, had even included several stays at the family’s lakeside vacation home in the Laurentians. Training for future incarceration… Right…
Following a few months of this arrangement however, JJ was probably getting antsy and Papa was probably getting tired of the boy’s whining. Small outings, without surveillance, began to take place. A party with a few friends here, dinner with other friends there, an evening at a show bar with a few buddies… None of the rough and tough crowd JJ had originally gravitated to but still, he was going out again, drinking, smoking joints, snorting the occasional line, enjoying life.
Don’t get me wrong here. It’s not like I’m criticizing the fact the boy and his dad weren’t respecting the agreement they had with the court. If there ever was a time I applauded someone defying the law, this was definitely that time. JJ would be a hell of a lot easier to get at if he was out somewhere versus holed up in the big, secured, walled-in and gated property these folks called home.
In the end, JJ proved to be somewhat of a disappointment and dealing with him was almost anticlimactic, so deserving was he of his demise. In my tracking of JJ’s outings, I had noted recently that on Thursdays, he would go to a strip bar near the airport, alone, and sit for a couple hours, having a few drinks while he watched the ladies perform. I had been there twice, watching him, and he hadn’t met up with anyone. He was simply there for the show.
Not wishing to make my presence too noticed in the posh, waterfront sector of Roxboro which the Lalondes called home, I had gone on the assumption that JJ would be heading to the strip bar for the evening and, if past practice meant anything, he’d show up around nine. On this basis, I had arrived thirty minutes early, parked in the rather vast and mostly empty lot located in the rear and settled comfortably behind the tinted windows in the back of the minivan to observe. Surrounded by warehouse or manufacturing facilities, the area was pretty deserted at this time so I doubted anyone had noticed my arrival and were on their way to see what I was up to.
My plan had been that, worst case scenario, JJ wouldn’t show up, I’d have wasted a bit of time and I’d go home. However, a couple of minutes before nine, bless his heart, he rolled into the lot in the red RX-7, one of two of daddy’s cars he liked to use, the other being the dark blue 300ZX. Owning a dozen car dealerships has its privileges. He parked and headed inside, I waited ten minutes and followed.
The number of customers inside correlated well with the number of cars in the lot, maybe fifteen to twenty guys, some in small groups, a scattering of loners plus a doorman, two waitresses and a barmaid. I sat at a table, a couple over and one behind from JJ, ordered a beer and waited while I watched.
Over the next hour, JJ did what he had done on previous visits, leaving his table and heading to the washroom every ten to fifteen minutes, just a minute or two at a time before returning to enjoy the show. After that hour, when he was on his fifth drink and as many bathroom cocaine runs, I picked up my second beer and went over to join him.
“Hey, there,” I said. “Mind if I sit for a minute.”
He glanced at me and smiled. “Suit yourself, mister.”
I sat down and said, “If I’m being too nosey here, just tell me and I’ll leave you alone, okay?”
He smiled at me again, riding nice and confident on his buzz. “Sure thing, buddy. What do you want to know?”
“I almost feel dumb now,” I said, “But, are you JJ Lalonde?”
“I might be,” he replied. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Shit, no,” I said with a grin, “But I know you from television, on the news with the whole trial and stuff. You’re like a star.”
He grinned back at me. “I’m a star?”
“Hell, yeah,” I insisted. “Me and my buddies at the shop, we followed the whole thing on the news and we were rooting for you. Always nice to see someone kick the system’s ass.”
He turned toward me, interested and asked, “That’s how you guys saw it? I kicked the system’s ass?”
“Damned right, that’s what you did,” I confirmed. “Busted into some rich bastard’s place, knocked him off and you’re sitting here with me talking about it. How the hell you did it is what I’d like to know. Was the judge your grandpa or what?”
J
J laughed, enjoying the celeb-like attention. “No, it wasn’t that but something just as good. My dad has more money than the rich asshole I whacked so he’s paying for all these hotshot lawyers. Before this whole thing is over, he’ll probably sue the damned cops for putting us through all this shit.”
“Wow,” I said, looking utterly amazed. “So, it’s just that easy?”
“Yessir,” he replied. “All you need is a rich old man who’ll pay anything to keep from getting his name smeared.”
“Damn,” I said, totally awed. “What about that guy you, uh, whacked? You feel bad for him at all or, like, whatever?”
He grinned again and said, “Whatever. Look, nice chatting with you but I have to use the bathroom.”
“No problem,” I said, standing. “I gotta get out of here, anyway. Early shift tomorrow. Thanks for letting me chat with you.”
“Whatever,” he repeated with a wink and a smile as he left the table.
I headed back outside, moved the minivan close to his car then settled down for another hour or so. When he came out, I waited until he was opening his door to get in then closed in on him from behind, my knife at the ready.
#16 - Yvon Duhaime - Monday, June 10, 1996
Lieutenant Dave McCall certainly wasn’t happy with me and, to be honest, I can’t say I blamed him. His job was to find, catch and stop killers and, I admit, I qualified, but he was batting zero when it came to me, consistent strike-outs, 15-0 in my favour. I had watched his most recent press conference, the one relating to JJ’s demise and he had actually looked me in the eye, through the camera lens, of course, and told me, “I am going to get you.” I’m not kidding when I tell you, I got a chill.
Cyril Lalonde had held a press conference of his own, condemning the police for their shoddy work which had resulted in the death of his only son, a young man with so much to live for and a promising life ahead of him which had now been shattered forever. Insinuations of a lawsuit against the city and police had been made but the media, led by Henderson at the Gazette, quickly encouraged Lalonde to reconsider with reports and articles revisiting JJ’s own B&E/murder incident at the Sauvageau residence.
Anyhow, as bad as I felt for Lieutenant McCall, an obviously dedicated professional and presumably a nice guy, I had a potential prospect on the slate and, depending how things worked out, I just might be upping the score to 16-0.
Nguyen Ty and his wife, Mui, had immigrated to Canada in the late seventies, determined to start a new, better life in order to provide for their two young sons. They had settled in Montreal in 1980 and opened a convenience store in the Plateau district which would remain their livelihood until the evening of February 7, 1996, when a man had entered their establishment, demanded the contents of the cash register at gunpoint then shot them both dead before leaving.
Huu, their younger son, who had been in the family’s home in the apartment above the convenience store, had heard the shots, two sets of two, and hurried to the front window to see a person running out from below and disappearing down the street. From above, all he could see was someone in a bulky winter coat, possibly a parka or a heavy ski jacket. The subject’s build suggested a male but it could have been a female. A toque worn on the suspect’s head had prevented him from even determining the person’s hair colour or length.
Neighbours, a couple in the home immediately adjacent to the Nguyens’ business, had also heard the gun shots and rushed to the front door, cautiously opening it to see what was going on. They had seen a man, possibly in his late twenties or early thirties, come out of the store next door and run down the sidewalk in front of them. He had glanced in their direction as he passed, prompting the husband to pull his wife back inside to protect her and slam the door shut. Both had insisted the suspect was male, of solid build and in his thirties but the description was based on a moment’s glance.
In a grainy, black and white staccato sequence, the soundless security tape from the store showed a stocky male Caucasian of approximately five feet ten inches tall wearing a tight knit cap pulled down close to his eyebrows enter the store with his hands in his coat pockets. The single security camera was mounted to the ceiling in the centre of the small store and positioned to capture images of the door and service counter to one side. Once inside, the suspect moved toward the back of the store, presumably to check if any customers were in the aisles. In so doing, he inadvertently offered the camera a decent facial shot as he approached before moving out of view as he passed under it.
He returned after a moment with a bag of chips in hand and headed to the cash register where Mrs. Nguyen waited while her husband restocked cigarette displays on the wall behind the counter. When Mui rang up the purchase and requested payment, the suspect pulled out a handgun from his coat packet, pointed it at her and presumably demanded the contents of the cash register.
She turned to her husband who immediately nodded and gestured with his hands as he spoke, likely telling her to do what the man asked because she then proceeded to pull out the stacks of bills from the cash drawer. Once done, she held out the wad which the robber grabbed and stuffed into his coat pocket.
Mr. Nguyen then said something to the robber and pointed to the door, presumably telling him to leave, now that he had their money. In response, the robber raised his handgun and fired two shots, both hitting the store owner in the forehead. As Nguyen crumpled to the floor, the thief turned to a shocked Mrs. Nguyen and shot her twice in the chest before bolting out the door. Both Ty and Mui died instantly.
There were no other witnesses besides the three previously mentioned and what they had seen would serve no purpose in identifying the killer. The only evidence available was the security tape which did lead the police to Yvon Duhaime, thanks to mug shots from previous arrests which, coincidently, had been for armed robbery.
Duhaime had subsequently been arrested and charged with armed robbery and murder. However, with only a grainy black and white facial shot going for the prosecution, the case was weak and Duhaime’s attorney had easily produced dozens of photos of other men who could have performed the despicable crime. The case had been dismissed without ever getting to trial.
I had followed the story in the papers, on the news and, yes, I had looked into some information sources I technically wasn’t supposed to. I couldn’t disagree with the flimsy evidence but, I just didn’t like Duhaime so I worked some time into my busy schedule to keep an eye on him. I just figured that he’d either show me he wasn’t such a bad guy or he’d screw up on my watch and regret it.
I followed Duhaime sporadically several times to see what he was up to but he did nothing remotely wrong on those occasions. Yet, nothing indicated that he worked for a living so he had to be getting money from somewhere. I figured he was laying low for a little while in the wake of the Nguyen incident or simply hadn’t committed any robberies on the evenings I had followed him. However, I had a feeling that sooner or later, he would return to his naughty ways on my watch. As it turns out, I was right.
Duhaime lived in the Rosemont sector near St-Michel Boulevard and Belanger Street and, based on earlier surveillance, tended to remain local in his outings, shopping at nearby stores and frequenting neighbourhood bars and eateries. With this in mind, I wondered what he might be up to around ten that evening when he left his apartment, went to the corner on Belanger and boarded the 95 bus eastbound shortly after.
I followed and roughly fifteen minutes later, Duhaime got off the bus. I pulled over then watched as he crossed the street and backtracked a short block, heading toward a two storey strip mall across the street from where I had stopped. The top floor consisted of apartments, any one of which might be Duhaime’s destination. A half dozen businesses occupied the ground floor though four were closed at this time of the evening. Of the two remaining, one was a seedy looking billiards bar and the last, in perfect view from where I sat, was a convenience store.
I watched as Duhaime cut through the almost vacant parking lot, clearly no
t heading to any of the darkened locales or apartments at the far end of the building. He continued his trek, eliminating possibilities as he went until it became clear he was going to the convenience store, unless he walked straight by… which he didn’t.
He entered and, through the glass door, I saw him glance at the clerk behind the counter to his left as he headed toward the back of the store and disappeared from sight. He returned a moment later with a six-pack of beer which he placed on the counter… before reaching inside his windbreaker and pulling out a handgun.
I’m not a religious man but I prayed he wouldn’t shoot the clerk who, even from a distance, I could tell was barely more than a kid. I could have rushed over to try to intervene but not without putting myself at risk in more ways than one. The clerk stepped back and raised his hands then lowered them as he approached the counter again, likely to empty the till as ordered.
I saw Dumaine reach over the counter with his free hand before stuffing something, the cash, no doubt, into the pocket of his jeans. This was it – the moment I feared was upon us. It seemed as time slowed as I watched Duhaime take a step toward the door then pause as he pulled the trigger before rushing out and disappearing northbound up the side street.
I stomped on the accelerator and u-turned across Belanger and into the parking lot. As I stopped in front of the store, I saw the clerk’s head appear from behind the counter as he dared peek to see if the coast was clear. When he stood completely, albeit on shaky legs, I could see he wasn’t injured, or at least not seriously and deemed it was time to go.
I pulled onto the side street, looking to see if I could spot Duhaime and, as I glanced to my left behind another larger strip mall on the opposite corner, I saw him running in the distance, heading west. My guess was that he’d cut back to Belanger past the strip mall and catch the bus back home.
The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel Page 10
