Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  CSS Inc., which was rapidly becoming the leader in computer security and related investigations, had been founded by Walter a number of years ago. Initially operating under the name of SecurInvestigations Ltd., its origins had been as an investigation and security firm, offering its services to corporations with internal crime problems. In addition, it had supplied security services for public events such as concerts and conventions.

  Although the firm had gained a respectable reputation in its field over the years, changing times had gradually rendered prosperity an elusive objective. Faced with dwindling revenues due to growing competition and altering markets, Walter Olson had been attempting to identify diversification possibilities to give his company the rebirth it so justly deserved. That had been eight years ago. That was when Walter had met Chris Barry.

  Chris had approached Walter on a cold call to offer his services. He had explained to Walter how limiting his business to the saturated niche of conventional investigative services was stifling, if not adversely affecting its growth. He had spoken of rapidly changing technology in the corporate world and of new opportunities for white collar crimes, thanks to the ever increasing use of computers. He had elaborated about viruses, record falsification and embezzlement possibilities which worsened on a daily basis due to the growing information highways. He had talked about the ease with which computer buffs with criminal minds could enter systems via modems and modify records to suit their needs. He had, in effect, described a market of computer security and investigations which was there for the taking.

  This was an area which Walter, an old-timer, knew nothing about. However, the young man sitting before him obviously knew what he was talking about and presented his ideas with tremendous energy. Maybe this was the way to the future.

  Walter had little to lose as his company was going down at a rapid pace. In addition, there was something about this Barry fellow, the way he exuded confidence that stroked Walter in just the right way. On a whim, he had offered Chris a job.

  Within two years, annual revenues had increased tenfold, from twenty million to two hundred million. After five years, the company by then known as CSS Inc. (Computer Security Services), had surpassed the billion dollar mark in sales and had gone public. Revenues for the current year were expected to exceed 3 billion dollars.

  Although the firm continued to offer investigative and security services, its success in recent years was clearly owed to the world of computers. Under the skilful guiding hand of Chris Barry, a security software division had been formed, with Chris personally handling all facets including recruiting activities, hiring only the best young minds.

  CSS now boasted the reputation of leading the way in the field of systems security, counting among its clients such giants as Bombardier, BCE and American Express as well as many government agencies, both in Canada and the United States. Eighteen months earlier, the company had completely revised the systems security for the police departments of Montreal and a dozen other communities in the surrounding areas. Similar contracts were currently in the works with Toronto, Calgary and Vancouver as well as with a handful of major American cities.

  Walter was an honest man who believed in rewarding for jobs well done. For Chris, this had represented a rapid ascension to the number two spot in the company, accompanied by the salary, stock options and other perks which went hand in hand with such a high level position.

  ‘Yes, this is a good life,’ Chris thought as he turned off the shower. ‘Health, money, power, and my amazing wife, to share it with.’

  He quickly dressed and kissed his still sleeping angel before leaving for his 8:00 a.m. meeting. He was confident that this morning, they would wrap up the contract with a fourth major bank in as many months. Yes, this was a good life.

  * * * *

  Lieutenant Dave McCall turned onto Aylmer and parked his Ford Explorer by a conveniently placed ‘No Parking Anytime’ sign some twenty yards from his destination. After cutting the engine and pulling down the sun visor to display his police permit, he slid his tall, lanky form out of the 4x4 and covered the short distance quickly with his usual long strides.

  As he approached, he scanned the area, taking in a mental image of the site of Montreal’s two most recent murders. The alley had already been cordoned off and several uniformed officers were standing guard to keep the growing crowd of curious onlookers away from the crime scene. From the street, one could see what appeared to be two bodies in the alley, both covered with sheets. The large brownish-red stains also apparent on the concrete pavement made it obvious that the victims had most likely not succumbed to natural causes.

  Making his way through the throng in his customary determined fashion, McCall ducked under the yellow tape and spotted Detective Frank Bakes, clad in his usual wrinkled chinos and worn grey tweed jacket. Bakes, who had taken charge of the scene pending his superior’s arrival, glanced up from his notes as the impeccably dressed lieutenant approached.

  “This one’s pretty messy, Dave,” The solidly built detective announced grimly as his boss strode up to him. “One got his throat slashed, which isn’t too bad. The other one though, makes keeping your breakfast down somewhat of a challenge. Definitely the worst beating we’ve seen so far. Poor bastard must’ve got whacked with a pipe or something about twenty times. Good thing he had ID because I don’t even think they could have depended on dental records to identify him. The son of a bitch smashed his face.”

  “Were they punks again?” McCall asked tersely, staring down at the sheet covered victims.

  “No,” Bakes shook his head in puzzlement as he gestured towards the bodies. “That’s what makes this one strange; two guys in suits and ties. Preliminary checks indicate no records. Card key passes identify them as employees of Heritage Mutual, some insurance company.”

  “Could it be a mugging gone bad?” suggested McCall as he crouched down and raised the sheet to examine the first cadaver.

  “Nope. Doesn’t look like it.” disagreed Bakes, running a hand through his perpetually dishevelled, short dark hair. “They both still have their wallets loaded with credit cards and cash. If you’re gonna go to this much trouble to rob a guy, you might as well finish the job.”

  “Who found the bodies?” McCall enquired, dropping the sheet back in disgust over the first victim and heading towards the second.

  “Owner of that restaurant,” replied Bakes with a sudden mischievous grin as he pointed. “Came out to throw some trash into the dumpster. He isn’t feeling too good right now.”

  “I’ll guess that we don’t have any witnesses?” asked Dave, already knowing the answer.

  Frank shook his head. “I have a couple of uniforms ringing doorbells, asking if anyone heard or saw anything unusual. They haven’t reported back yet.”

  “Alright,” sighed McCall through clenched teeth as he stared at the second corpse, the battered one. “I’ll let you finish up here. There’s not much I can do anyway.”

  He took one last look before covering the victim’s mutilated face then glanced up at Bakes as he spoke. “Try to get your report to me by tomorrow morning so I can add it to our impressive collection.”

  There was no mistaking the sarcasm in his voice.

  Dave McCall could not remember a time when he did not want to be a cop. He was convinced that it was a hereditary trait, following in the footsteps of his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. It was in his blood.

  Upon completing high school at the age of seventeen, he had enrolled into the three year Police Technology programme in Lennoxville. He had then gone on to complete a graduate degree at McGill University with majors in law and criminology. He could have passed the bar and become a lawyer, in fact he was sometimes mistaken for one in court with his chiselled features and six foot, slender yet muscular frame sporting his made-to-measure designer suits; but Dave McCall wanted to be a cop and nothing else. It was in his blood.

  He had joined the force at the age of twenty-four, right ar
ound the time he had married Cathy. They had met when she was four. He had been five. Best of friends over the years, they had realized by their late teens that they were in love. Today, they still remained best of friends.

  From the onset, Dave had worked hard to prove himself and by the age of twenty-eight, he had made detective and was working homicide. It was obvious to his superiors that Dave was a superstar and that his ascension through the ranks was far from over. Now, only three years later, he was completing his first year as lieutenant heading a special division of homicide with a dozen detectives reporting to him.

  Located in an old office building on Cypress just off Dominion Square in downtown Montreal, the Special Homicide Task Force Centre did not resemble the typical police station. A receptionist, rather than a desk sergeant, greeted visitors and uniformed officers were rarely found on site. Barring the two holding cells at the back, the place could have been mistaken for the offices of any given business.

  Just as untypical as its locale were the affairs in which the Task Force was involved. McCall’s division concentrated only on the bizarre, high profile and extraordinary murders which took place in his fine city. In addition, his team was often called upon to lend a hand in similar cases outside its official jurisdiction.

  Approximately six months earlier, two days before Christmas, this most recent series of murders had started. Although the majority had occurred in or near the downtown sector, a few had taken place in the suburbs.

  To date, the slayings all had two points in common. For one, the victims, without exception, had all been known to the authorities; gang members, pushers, pimps and the like. Secondly, all had died by one of two means. Either their throats had been viciously slashed or they had been bludgeoned to death with a club of sorts.

  As Dave made his way back to the office, he considered these two latest killings and agreed with Frank Bakes that they were puzzling. Sure enough, the methods of execution matched the others though this particular beating had been exceptionally brutal. However, these two victims were not criminals. Neither even had a record of an outstanding parking ticket. Apparently, they worked for an insurance company; managers or sales reps, based on their attire. Their wedding bands indicated that both were family men.

  Thus far, the choice of targets had suggested the work of some nut-case vigilante, saving the innocent from the trash of our society. But if that was the case, why had these two ended up on the killer’s selection list? Either the presumed pattern had been a coincidence or these latest victims were.

  It was possible that some other wacko had decided to copy-cat the Vigilante. God only knew the press had been talking enough about this rash of murders over the last six months, especially that idiot, Ron Henderson, from the Gazette who practically praised the Vigilante whenever another execution occurred. “If the cops aren’t taking care of the garbage on the street, at least somebody is,” was the reporter’s clear message. What Henderson obviously didn’t realize was that this kind of rampant journalism was exactly what often spurred unbalanced individuals to duplicate such atrocious crimes in hopes of getting their fifteen minutes of fame. Criminal history showed numerous examples of copy-cats committing gruesome crimes and then confessing to other hideous acts they had not even committed. If this turned out to be the case with the two last murders, McCall intended to make Henderson pay, one way or the other.

  But did such a person, this Vigilante, even exist? To be honest, even Dave’s division had no tangible evidence linking any of the murders to date. What they had was a growing number of victims, all criminal barring two, all singled out and executed by blade or club with never a witness. These similarities led to a hunch, a gut feeling which was strong enough to convince McCall that these last two victims had, for some reason, also fallen prey to the person responsible for all the other deaths.

  He had a serial killer on his hands. Unfortunately, after eighteen murders, he did not have anything which even faintly resembled a lead.

  * * * *

  Sixty year old Walter Olson whistled cheerily as he strolled down the hallway leading to the executive suite at CSS headquarters, waving to some employees and greeting others in offices and cubicles he passed along the way. Once passed the floor to ceiling glass doors leading into the suite, he poked his head through the doorway of Celine, his assistant’s office, gave her a big smile and thumbs-up as she was on the phone, crossed the foyer to the boardroom and entered.

  Seated comfortably at the far end of the expansive room, feet crossed atop the mammoth conference table and sporting a huge grin, Chris Barry watched his short, roly-poly boss come in and drop into his usual chair at the opposite end. The younger man had already shed his jacket and loosened his tie while Walter had escorted the five top executives of Century Bank on their way out.

  The meeting had gone extremely well, with Chris effortlessly presenting the final sales pitch and Century Bank signing the contract. CSS Inc. would replace the computer security systems in each of Century’s 625 branches and would handle all of the bank’s future investigative work. Walter was not surprised as he had seen Chris wow his audience with such presentations more times now than he could remember. Not only was his young COO extremely bright, he was also good-looking, charming, respectful and sincere. During the eight years that Walter had known Chris, he had never heard a negative comment about the man be it from within or outside the firm.

  “What the hell do you need me for?” Walter bellowed, beaming at Chris. “Do you realize how much money this company would save if it didn’t have to pay my huge salary?!”

  “All I do is present the deals you so wisely come up with, Walt,” Chris responded with a serious air. “If the customers are lining up to buy our services, it’s because you built a damn fine company. You started this place so if it weren’t for you, it wouldn’t exist. I’m just the humble messenger.”

  “Bullshit, Barry!” Walter guffawed. “What are you sucking up for this time, another raise or another stock option?”

  “Both,” Chris winked.

  “I figured as much,” chuckled Walter, shaking his head in mock despair as he stood and headed to the small but well stocked liquor cabinet in one corner. “Now, we just signed another major deal and I’m kind of thirsty. It must be four o’clock somewhere, right?”

  Chapter 3 - Thursday, June 27, 1996

  10:14 a.m. Dave McCall sat in his office, swamped by the ever growing collection of files and reports related to the Vigilante case. However, his attention was not currently directed at the ominous piles of paperwork which surrounded him. He was much more interested in Ron Henderson’s front page article in that morning’s Gazette, entitled VIGILANTE, OR JUST A KILLER?

  Immediately below the headline was a rather vivid colour photograph of the previous morning’s crime scene. Obviously, some photographer had shown up before the bodies had been covered and had made excellent use of a mighty fine zoom lens.

  “Goddamned photographers,” McCall muttered as he examined the photo in disgust. “The gorier the better.”

  The article started by relating the details surrounding the two most recent murders allegedly committed by the supposed Vigilante. It then went on to describe the various killings over the last half year, all eighteen, highlighting the similarities linking them. Henderson concluded his story by stating that the two latest victims were not known criminals as others had been in the past. In fact, they were both insurance salesmen who had been with the same firm for a number of years.

  Had the Vigilante grown tired of targeting the bad guys? Was he (or she?) now looking for greater thrills? This was a definite twist from journalist. His numerous articles over the last six months had valiantly cheered the Vigilante’s efforts all while criticizing the police’s attempts to fight crime in the city.

  “Flip-flopping, Henderson?” Dave spat out. “Can’t make up your mind, you moron?”

  As McCall finished going over the article for a second time, Tim Harris, one of his top
detectives, rushed into his office without bothering to knock.

  “Dave, maybe it isn’t much, but it’s the most we’ve had so far!” he uttered breathlessly, thrusting a printed sheet at his boss. “We just got a message on Eazy-Com from the Vigilante!”

  THE PAPERS ARE WRONG. I DO NOT KILL FOR PLEASURE. ONLY THOSE WHO DESERVE IT PAY THE PRICE.

  VIGILANTE

  It wasn’t much, but it was something! Since these murders had started popping up, they had not had one clue; nothing. Now, this wacko had suddenly decided to open up the lines of communication with them. This message might very possibly be the first of many.

  Better yet, it was also possible that the wizards down at the Computer Centre might be able to track where the e-mail had come from. Maybe this was more than they thought, maybe, their big break. Perhaps the Vigilante had finally made a serious mistake. After eighteen vicious slayings, their killer might be decompensating, becoming disorganized, basically losing it.

  “Call Thompson at the Computer Centre!” Dave excitedly ordered. “Tell him I need his two best men here NOW! And tell everyone that NOBODY is to breathe a word of this to ANYBODY! I don’t want the press getting a hold of this and scaring our friend off! That’s it. Go!”

  * * * *

  10:21 a.m. Ron Henderson typed away in his cramped cubicle, working on an article for the next day’s paper, when his PC suddenly beeped. The small flag-shaped EC icon appeared in the corner of the screen, waving back and forth, indicating he had an incoming message on Eazy-Com.

  Moving the cursor to the flag, he clicked the mouse to immediately access the contents of the transmission. The usual EC logo quickly filled the screen before fading away to reveal the message it concealed underneath.