The Drowned Man

by David Whellams

  “That’s the one. He won’t be out for two more years. But that’s not the real story.”

  Peter had to smile. “No? Somebody saw an opportunity?”

  “Right.” Deroche held up his coffee cup in a dramatic toast. “We are celebrating, Peter. It is early September, perhaps time for the monthly payback for the Famille Rizzuto.”

  Peter was alert to the fact that the decline of the Rizzutos was recent, and ongoing. “Monthly?”

  “Absolutely. Almost every month over the last twelve someone has bumped off a Rizzuto or one of their close associates. It started in August a year ago with Frederico Del Peschio, a Rizzuto captain, getting himself shot to death in La Cantina, his own restaurant. I didn’t bother taking you there: shall we say, it would be an uncomfortable dining experience.”

  Peter had to laugh again. At that moment, unprompted, the waitress delivered a stack of cinnamon toast to the table. It seemed that all of Montreal existed to punctuate Deroche’s protracted stories in the middle of the night.

  The inspector enumerated the many assassinations and shootouts that were reducing the clan. He might have been dictating an affidavit. Peter waited for the final update on the Sophoclean tragedy of the Rizzuto organization.

  “And just two weeks ago,” Deroche said, a touch of schadenfreude in his grin, “the U.S. courts turned down Vito’s appeal for early parole.”

  The Rizzuto family remained under siege and Peter wondered if they had managed to strike back in any effective way. Such was the dynastic history of the mafia; regime change was vertiginous and peppered with public executions. Deroche was implying that the climax to the turf war in Montreal might not occur until Vito Rizzuto returned from prison. Meanwhile, it was clear, open shootings and strategic firebombings would continue. A September attack was to be expected but it was only the beginning of the month. Evidently, Deroche had inside information.The young policeman jumped up from the booth and announced, “I’m going to the toilet but when I get back I want to hear all about the Krays.”

  Deroche’s bathroom break gave Peter time to think about the best way to relate the story of the Kray brothers. It was tit-for-tat: no discussion of the stolen letters until he told the story of the twins. The young inspector saw the battle with the Montreal mafia as a classic struggle and more important to the identity of his city than even the separatist movement. The war waged against the Kray gang by the Metropolitan Police Murder Squad had its classic elements too — Peter’s Oxford professors would have called it minor Greek tragedy — but was difficult to understand without knowing the bizarre culture of the East End of London.

  Deroche returned with the same expectant smile on his face and repeated, “The Krays. Tell me.” But the command was ill-timed, for at that moment four men in dark clothes entered the diner. The waitress looked up but remained unperturbed, though Peter saw the pair in the corner booth cringe. It was evident that the four were policemen; they ignored the waitress and sized up the conversation in the other booth as innocent. They did check out Peter but, he judged, they were used to Deroche’s quirky methods and were not deterred. For his part, Peter, obviously not local or a francophone, knew to keep anonymous and silent.

  Deroche spoke to the men in French. Peter grabbed a few words but they used a flowing joual that went over Peter’s head. He heard the words “cagoule” and “membre en règle,” and the Rizzutos were mentioned twice; he knew that “membre en règle” bespoke an initiate of the mob, a made man. The two diner patrons edged out the door. The conversation lasted several minutes, ending with Deroche issuing orders and his men nodding. After they left, the inspector slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table. They got up.

  “I still want to hear about the Krays,” he said.

  Peter had been inside dozens of stakeout vehicles during his career. That was mostly back in 1995 when the FBI, to whom Peter had been assigned that summer, went after the Unabomber, the scruffy Luddite who had attacked targets across the United States with a series of deadly home-made bombs in an almost random pattern. No one knew where or when the Unabomber would attack next, and the Quantico wonks identified more than ten potential targets in as many states. Peter had wasted many summer nights staring at the walls of university laboratories and corporate head offices from the passenger seat of an unmarked sedan. Every one of the stakeouts had been futile, although Peter had usefully employed the long, vacant hours to develop a theory on the Unabomber’s attack pattern that eventually helped the Bureau narrow down the manhunt.

  As protocol for stakeouts seemed to require, the two detectives sat in silence for the first five minutes while they evaluated the sightlines and settled in for a long night. The two teams from the diner were out there somewhere, Peter assumed, with everyone focused on the Caparza funeral facility across the way, where pink and lavender spotlights lit up the façade in a kind of Bellagio-celebrates-Easter effect. This was the facility Réjean Parrish had pointed out to Peter. He turned in his seat to assess his companion’s mood, wondering if Deroche could sit still for the next several hours. Peter had reconciled himself to a night with no sleep, knowing he could nap on tomorrow’s plane ride.

  He took care in delivering the saga of the Kray gang, aware that Deroche would draw parallels with the Montreal mafia. Peter also knew that the Kray story was bound to disappoint. There was a quicksilver quality to it. The true, factual story was strung through a thousand court documents, sentencing statements, the testimony of a hundred victims and a heap of prison evaluations. The public story, distorted by the tabloids, had long ago been encased in impenetrable clichés. Even the moral lesson — the Krays were born poor and found wealth only via the most brutal pathways of crime — had been undermined, rendered problematic, by their minor-key ending. Ronnie had died in prison of a shattering heart attack, while miles away in Norfolk, Reggie rotted away in Wayland Prison until, the evil and the malice sapped out of him, he was released in 2000. He died an enervated has-been.

  The funeral home distracted Peter. Why would anyone attack a repository for the dead? Is there another Rizzuto in the basement? Perverse, unpoliceman-like thoughts ran riot. How precisely does one effect a breach in a funeral home? Do they leave night watchmen?

  He ran through the sordid story of the identical twin brothers who, egged on by a wilful mother, brawled their way to dominance of the East End and expanded to the West End of London in the Swinging Sixties. Peter looked for points of resonance for Deroche. He knew nothing about growing up in Montreal but the saga of criminals fighting their way out of destitution was a universal one. The Krays had been evil, not lovable or benighted; the twins were destructive hoodlums and Peter said so. He spoke for thirty minutes while the young inspector listened raptly.

  “The twins were eventually taken out of circulation by a team of Met officers who came to be known, mostly afterwards, as the Murder Squad. In truth, the Yard was pretty ineffective during much of the sixties, failing to nail the brothers on the usual organized crime fiddles like extortion, skimming of gambling proceeds, drug smuggling, gold smuggling, and so on. We eventually got them on a murder charge.”

  “Were you a member of the Murder Squad?” Deroche asked.

  “No, it was before my time,” Peter said. “I met Reggie much later, in prison. Ronnie was already dead. I interviewed Reggie about the money laundering trade run by his successors. You see, we hoped he would give us inside information. He refused to cooperate.”

  Deroche leaned back in the driver’s seat “How long have you been a chief inspector, Peter?”“Forever” was the answer. Peter wanted to be honest but as usual with Deroche he found it hard to tell what direction the younger man was coming from. But they were only reminiscing.

  “A long time, Sylvain. The ranks keep changing with Scotland Yard. They asked me to take the classification ‘superintendent’ a few years ago but I never felt like a superintendent.”

  The Yard was constant
ly adjusting the senior grading of detectives, merging — and muddling — the detective function in with executive management. Peter wasn’t sure where the classifications stood presently but he was pretty certain that “chief inspector” would be revived on some future organization chart. Evolution in the Metropolitan Police was circular.

  Deroche grew melancholy. The night had turned cold but he seemed unwilling to turn on the heater. “The next rank up in the Sûreté is chief inspector.”

  “Of course, Sylvain, these days I have to add ‘retired’ to my stationery.”

  Deroche evidently could not imagine the concept of retirement and he jumped to another topic. “You’re leaving for London tonight, Peter?”

  “Yes, but I need more information from you. What happened when you questioned Greenwell the night of the killing? What did he say about the letters?”

  “A colleague and I went to his shop in Old Montreal as soon as Mrs. Hilfgott informed us of the transaction. That was less than four hours after the incident. Greenwell owns the building that holds his bookstore. He sleeps in a room above the business. I agree, Chief Inspector, that Greenwell is our best suspect. But he had an alibi. When I knocked on the door of his bookshop, he came downstairs to meet me. He was not alone. We went inside. A younger man — his name is Georges — came out of his rooms upstairs. He claimed to have been there for several hours, and that earlier Greenwell was at the club where this boyfriend works.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Not sure,” Deroche said. “A cool customer, Georges. But Greenwell was upset.”

  “He was nervous, you mean?” Peter said.

  “Yes.”

  “Did the transaction happen?” Peter said.

  “According to Greenwell, it did. He met Carpenter downstairs in the store and they exchanged the money for the letters.”

  “Did he have the ten thousand cash? Did you examine it?”

  “He showed me the bills. He kept them in a cigar box, loose. But . . .”

  “What?”

  “The store was a mess. He had the cigar box just sitting on a shelf beside some dusty books. A bad way to do business.”

  “Did you impound the money?”

  “No.” Deroche hesitated — both detectives knew that he had made a mistake.

  Peter persisted. “But Greenwell is your top suspect?”

  “Yes, in the sense that he is one of the few we have to choose from. But Greenwell does not possess a driver’s licence, let alone a car.”

  “Does Georges?”

  “Driver’s licence, yes. Vehicle, no.”

  “Where is Greenwell now, do you think?”

  “He asked if he was under arrest. I had to say no but I told him not to leave town. He promptly fled Montreal later that day and we believe he is staying with his cousin in Halifax. His boyfriend did not go with him. We will arrest Greenwell when he returns. Second degree murder, at least.”

  “What about the letters, Sylvain?”

  “Greenwell swore the letters were authentic, and he never saw them again after Carpenter took them away.”

  “This is important. Did Greenwell or Georges mention the girl?”

  Deroche shook his head. “No. Not a word. but I confirmed with Frank Counter that her particulars have been added to Interpol’s database, as well as CPIC. And the rental car, too. A stolen car citation has been posted on CPIC and the FBI base, and I’ve notified Canadian Border Services.”

  Peter knew that CPIC stood for the Canadian Police Information Centre, the national criminal database.

  Incomprehensible static burst from the radio. It put Deroche into manic mode. Quickly, he leaned past Peter and opened the glove box, revealing a large revolver. Peter looked in astonishment at the .357 Smith & Wesson; it was a cowboy’s gun. Next to it sat a black, rectangular device with a pistol grip that Peter recognized as a Taser, a tool that he had never used or even trained to use.

  “Peter, I trust you are up to date with your weapons!”

  Peter said nothing.

  Deroche reached in and with a flourish hefted the gun before Peter’s face. Peter did not visibly react, but he was certainly confounded. He wasn’t licensed to carry a firearm in Quebec. Here loomed disastrous consequences, he thought: any discharge of a gun this size in a quiet suburban neighbourhood would generate fierce outrage from the public and civic officials alike. The Sûreté hierarchy would come down hard on Deroche, and Peter had no intention of getting himself or the inspector in trouble. The weapon had a six-inch barrel and could not easily be concealed. But the most important consideration was Peter’s lack of local authorization to carry a gun at all. Peter was about to point out this fact but then Deroche restored the gun to the glove compartment. Peter diverted to a different subject.

  “Who do you think is attacking the Rizzutos?”

  Deroche shut the glove box, though not in an angry way. “Could be the Calabrese faction. Maybe the bikers. Never underestimate the Angels. They’re all over North America.”

  Peter read his thinking. “But you don’t think so.”

  “No. This is a real live gang war, Peter, but whoever it is knows they will need the approval of the mafia Commission in New York, or what passes for the Commission these days. That cuts out the Angels, at least in terms of directing crime in Montreal. I think it’s the ’Ndrangheta faction.”

  Peter knew, if vaguely, that the ’Ndrangheta were an outgrowth of the Calabrese factions within the mob. They were known for their viciousness and for their impenetrable, cell-like structure. There would be no Joe Valachis ratting on them.

  “They’re moving into Ontario,” Deroche said. “This group comes out of southern Calabria and are a cutting edge force to be reckoned with . . .”

  His account was shut down by the buzzing squawk of his radio, which he extracted from his black leather jacket. He pressed a button on the front.

  “Oui. Allo?”

  Peter missed the entire blurred response in French, except for the one word, “camion.”

  “Attendons. Deux minutes,” the inspector replied, and punched the red off button.

  The inspector turned to his passenger. “They spotted a panel truck, no printing on the side, coming along the street behind Caparza’s. It paused two hundred yards away then drove off slowly.”

  “It didn’t turn up our way,” Peter said. There had been no traffic in the entire time they had been stationed in the alley.

  Deroche eased a .45 pistol out of the inside left pocket of his coat. Peter stared at it in dismay. One shot would send a victim straight into the basement of the mortuary across the way, and if mourners were needed, the gun report would wake up every snoring resident of the surrounding streets. Deroche placed the weapon delicately on the console between the front seats.

  A blast of static and the same voice said, “The van is back. We can’t see it but it hasn’t come out the other side of the building.”

  “Okay,” Deroche instructed. “Attendons.”

  Deroche opened the glove box and considered the .357, then the pastel-lit façade.

  A loud whump! came from the area behind the Caparza facility. It rippled through the building and underground across the road towards the two men in the car. A mushroom cloud of white smoke rose from the rear of the funeral home, and as the mist climbed it was highlighted by the pink and blue floodlights shining on the front windows. The plume dissipated within a few seconds but by this time Deroche had the .45 in his right hand. Peter noted that the inspector became completely calm. A grin was on his face as he called into the walkie-talkie, “Allez.”

  Peter did not hesitate. He reached into the glove box and took hold of the awkward revolver, as well as the Taser, which he wasn’t sure how to activate. But Deroche had his door open now, and Peter, a weapon in each fist, awkwardly came out the passenger door. As he cros
sed the street he shoved a weapon into each pocket of his coat.

  Deroche ran full tilt ahead across the empty avenue. Peter, who was fit from his expeditions with Jasper, soon caught up. He smelled fire and soot, although from his angle by the side wall of Caparza’s he could not see any flames. Peter was cued in for gunfire and secondary explosions, as well as the engine noise of the van that was supposed to be there. He was unsure whether the detective on the walkie-talkie had identified a sports utility vehicle, a small truck or a minivan but he told himself to be ready for whatever came out of the back parking lot.

  Instead, the two detectives heard only shouting, which became screeches of human pain. Rounding the back corner of the home, they met a scene of fiery chaos. A storm of concentrated yellow, red, and orange flames shot out from a wide back window of the Caparza facility. A man, unidentifiable in the flames that rendered him a torch, flailed against the fiery backdrop. For some reason, he did not drop to the ground and roll; rather, he flailed uselessly against what Peter could see was a gasoline inferno. One of the black-clad detectives ran into the light with a puny fire extinguisher, from his surveillance vehicle no doubt, and sprayed foam retardant on the man, who then collapsed onto the paved parking lot. The detective emptied the canister onto the sizzling body.

  His partner arrived with two plastic bottles of water and dumped them up and down along the unfortunate figure. A policeman from the second team was preoccupied with another assailant whom he had trapped face down some ten yards away on the edge of the firelight. He cuffed the man. His partner arrived at that moment, a large extinguisher in his arms, and they turned their attention to the main blaze, which roared out through the back door and the broken windows. Peter noted that the first attacker, though his clothing continued to give off acrid smoke, was no longer afire. All the policemen now faced the flames. The one with the large tank heaved it up with both hands and launched it right into the centre of the window opening.

  “Baissez-vous!” he called, and all the policemen, Peter included, hit the ground. The projectile went off and somehow caused the raging flames to implode, contracting the fire, and perhaps slowing its revival and saving the building. Already Peter could hear a fire engine approaching down the avenue.