Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  YOU ARE WRONG, MY FRIEND. THE GENTLEMEN WERE TRYING TO RAPE SOME POOR SOUL. I WOULD NOT KILL FOR NOTHING. F.Y.I. THANKS FOR YOUR PAST AND, HOPEFULLY, CONTINUED SUPPORT.

  VIGILANTE

  Dumbfounded, Henderson stared at the screen as he slowly whispered, “Son of a bitch!”

  Quickly, he moved the cursor to the Sender icon and frantically clicked the mouse several times. The screen went blank. Nothing. There was no return address.

  “Son of a bitch!” he repeated softly, both awed and terrified. “What do I do? What do I do?”

  He considered going to his editor but quickly decided against it. The boss would insist on printing an article about the e-mail and, as a result, the cops would get involved. The wiser thing to do was to wait and see if the Vigilante sent him more messages. If the sender was truly the ‘Vigilante’, this could be the start of an incredible relationship. Ongoing communication with the serial killer could result in a real inside edge for future, perhaps award-winning, articles. This could be his ticket to rubbing elbows with the elite of Canadian journalism and beyond.

  Yes, he decided, he would keep this to himself. In a day or two, he’d think up an angle to write an article about rumours or reliable sources regarding the rape possibility. He’d let the Vigilante know that he was still on his side. It was in his best interest, possibly for more reasons than one.

  * * * *

  Having completed another demanding semester with a heavy workload in her quest for her Master of Fine Arts degree, Sandy had suggested she might go spend a couple of days at her mother’s cottage in the Laurentian Mountains. Decompression is what she called these little retreats to the comfortable log-cabin-style home nestled in the woods near Mont-Tremblant, ninety minutes north of Montreal. He had agreed, but only after she had promised to be back for the week-end. She had solemnly vowed to return by Saturday afternoon and make up for her absence in a big way at that time.

  So it was Thursday evening and he was on his own. He watched a little television for a while but lost interest within the hour. Goddamn reruns. Bored, he went into their study, or ‘the office’ as they affectionately called it, where he retrieved his notepad from his attaché-case.

  Returning to the living room, he settled comfortably on a couch and flipped open the screen of the compact but powerful computer which automatically came to life. He keyed in his password, followed by several security codes and quickly found the directory he was looking for.

  Selecting the file named PROSPECTS, he began to scan through the data bank with rising anticipation as he looked for something to do. He sometimes mused that he had a dual-persona of sorts as he almost felt he became another person when embarking on one of his projects. Following a few moments of searching, he smiled as he decided and made his selection. Highlighting the chosen item, he transferred it to another file appropriately entitled SETTLED.

  He now had plans for the evening.

  * * * *

  Computers had never been Dave McCall’s forte. He used them when he had to and did understand their usefulness but, in his mind, there was absolutely nothing wrong with a good old-fashion pen and pad of paper or a hard-copy file. Fortunately, his work required little use of such machines and, when it did, he had twelve people reporting to him, many of whom couldn’t function without the damn things. In addition, when things got too technical, he could also count on Thompson and his band of geniuses from the Computer Centre. After all, they were the best.

  Unfortunately, this time the best had not been able to trace the origin of the Eazy-Com message. Although Thompson and his team did what they could to keep up with rapid technological change, public sector budgetary cuts and cost controls in recent years had somewhat slowed their efforts. As one of the whiz kids had explained to Dave, equipment and software was being developed and perfected everyday. What was great today was obsolete tomorrow. As a result, keeping up was practically impossible.

  Bottom line was, with the tools and technology available to the Computer Centre, they had not been able to trace the source of the e-mail.

  Whenever Dave McCall grew frustrated, angry, or both, he had the habit of pacing slowly back and forth in his glassed office with hands clasped behind his back, glaring harshly at nothing in particular and muttering to himself. Through experience, his staff had come to recognize Dave’s ‘walks’ as a clear ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign unless the disturber was the bearer of good tidings or critical information.

  Dave was ‘walking’ when Harris stuck his head into the doorway.

  “Smile, Boss. There may be hope yet. Thompson’s on 217 for you.”

  Grunting in response, Dave returned to his overflowing desk and dropped wearily into his chair before picking up the phone.

  “Yeah, Bob. What can you do for me this fine evening?” he asked in a tired, pleading voice.

  Thompson laughed. “I can try to save your ass again, as usual. Listen, I understand that we weren’t able to track that message for you. According to my boys, it seemed to come out of nowhere. Good news is I think I know someone who can help you. A buddy of mine back from my days in night school. He was smart, went into the private sector and now, he’s a goddamned millionaire. Goes by the name of Chris Barry and he pretty much runs CSS Inc.”

  “CSS? Sounds vaguely familiar,” commented Dave.

  Thompson explained. “They’re the ones who re-designed our systems a year or two ago and they also look after all our computer security. These guys are true systems specialists and they’re really up on the latest technology. Hell, they make it. Anyhow, Chris and his people have helped me a few times in the past, pro bono, and I’m sure that he’ll be happy to give us a hand once again. He’s that kind of guy. I left him a message late this afternoon so I should hear back from him sometime tomorrow. I’ll have him give you a shout once I’ve spoken to him.”

  “Thanks Bob. Great. I’ll look forward to hearing from him.”

  Hanging up the phone, Dave leaned back into his chair, a hint of a smile on his lips. He had great faith in Thompson who, in turn, seemed to have great faith in this Chris Barry fellow. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope yet.

  * * * *

  As he got ready for the evening, he thought about Tuesday night once again. It continued to bother him and he did not like feeling unsettled.

  Sure enough, he had come upon other crimes in progress in the past and had handled them, without prior planning. However, Tuesday night had been different. This time, there had been a witness and she had gotten a good look at him; a very good look.

  Maybe she wouldn’t talk, he reasoned, trying to reassure himself. After all, he had saved her life or, at the very least, prevented her rape. However, people were funny sometimes. You did them a favour and yet, they turned on you. The question was, what would she do and to this, he did not have the answer.

  He had actually seen the whole thing unfold.

  Having just stepped out of the mini-van and set the alarm, he had spotted her as she rounded the corner. The two jerks in suits had been following close behind and had moved in on her as she had hurried for her car. One had grabbed her and dragged her into the alley while his elder cohort had just stood and watched with a stupid grin on his face.

  Scanning the area, he had quickly confirmed the absence of any other onlookers and had hurriedly followed the trio into the alley, pausing only to memorize her plate number. One could never have too much information.

  Into the alley, things had been almost too easy. The older guy had just been standing there, watching and drooling like a goddamn idiot while playing with himself via his pants pocket. Consequently, the man had not heard a thing coming and a fraction of a second was all which had been required to eliminate him.

  To that point, the terrified young woman had not even noticed this welcome intrusion. Her young assailant had had all her attention. But when he had spoken, she had looked at him, intently. Just for a moment, because she had left quickly. But she had looked at him.

&nb
sp; Once she was gone, her aggressor had pleaded a bit, but not for long. The first blow with the baseball bat had knocked the wind out of the bastard and within fifteen seconds, he had been unconscious. Although the man had been dead after half a minute, the vicious clubbing had continued for a bit, fuelled by the vivid image of a sister, victimized so many years before.

  He didn’t regret what he had done on Tuesday night. Giving these subhuman sons of bitches what they deserved never bothered him. Quite the contrary, it satisfied him, however temporarily.

  But the witness bothered him. She was, after all, in a position to identify him which was certainly not something to be considered lightly. Although he did what he did for morally correct reasons, he was obviously aware that legally, he was a murderer. However, being caught, arrested, convicted and imprisoned could not be part of the equation. He needed to know what the witness was planning to do with the knowledge she had acquired about him on Tuesday. He would have to speak to her.

  * * * *

  Jimmy Green basically lived for Thursday nights. Thursday was pay-day which meant cash to go to Charlie’s, drink and play some pool. If he got lucky, he could get together with one of the bimbos who hung around the bar and get laid. Otherwise, his wife was back at home for that. It was win-win either way.

  Tonight hadn’t been the best of Thursdays. He’d played eight-ball for a couple of hours but had consistently lost and was down fifty bucks. As far as women went, nothing of interest was happening at Charlie’s on this particular night so by 10:00 p.m., Jimmy, slightly drunk and definitely horny, decided to cut his losses and go home. The bitch was probably sleeping by this time, but what the hell, she’d just have to wake up and tend to his needs. He paid his bets and bar bill and shuffled out to the parking lot.

  As he unlocked the door of his pickup truck, a voice behind him quietly enquired, “Howya doing, Jimmy?”

  He turned to find a stranger standing a half dozen feet away, clad in black jeans, a baseball cap and a black leather jacket. Although it was dark, the man wore sunglasses, the mirror kind. In his hand was a baseball bat, swaying ever so gently.

  “Who the hell are you?” Jimmy demanded in a surly tone, displaying more confidence than he actually felt.

  “Why do you beat your wife?” the stranger asked softly, ignoring Jimmy’s question.

  “Listen, buddy,” Jimmy growled, trying to fight the fear growing in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t know who the fuck you are or what you’re talking about. You just better get the hell away from me or I’ll break your fucking legs!”

  For a few seconds, the stranger just stood there, looking at Jimmy and smiling. He then raised the baseball bat and smashed it into the side of Jimmy’s skull.

  * * * *

  As Frank Bakes pulled into his driveway, he glanced at the dashboard clock. 10:37, still early. What the hell, he had nothing else to do and was on the later shift in the morning.

  He backed his mini-van back into the street and headed for the local video store. He’d rent a movie or two to pass what remained of the evening.

  Chapter 4 - Friday, June 28, 1996

  Carl Denver loved computers. He remembered being twelve years old and buying his first, a Commodore Vic 20, with the money he had preciously saved from his paper route. His stepfather had always bitched at him about it, telling him that he was wasting his time, that he would never get anywhere in life playing his silly games on his stupid machines. But Carl had known the old man was wrong. What did he know anyway? All the horny louse had been good at was losing jobs, drinking and domestic violence.

  His had not been the best of family lives but, in the end, Carl had faired nicely. After finishing high school, he had sought a job in the computer field and, thanks to his self-acquired in-depth knowledge of that fascinating world of zeros and ones, had quickly found a suitable programmer’s position.

  Although Carl had never furthered his formal education, he was a true genius when it came to bits and bytes and had quickly advanced in his career path. After having occupied several positions of progressive responsibility with a handful of employers over the course of eight years, he had joined CSS Inc.

  The security software division had been in full blown expansion and hundreds of applicants had been lining up for a chance to join the re-born elite firm. At the time, Carl had been employed with Intelecturer Ltd., a software developer which specialized in educational programmes, earning $43,000 per year. One afternoon, he had received a call from Pierre Gaudry Consultants, a head-hunting firm which was on retainer with CSS; was he possibly interested in a career change with definite advancement possibilities?

  Two days later, he had met with none other than Chris Barry himself and, at the term of their three hour meeting, Barry had offered Carl a job as senior programmer with a starting salary of $70,000 annually. Needless to say, Carl had immediately accepted the position.

  He had now been with the company for five years and, at the age of thirty, was earning over $100,000 annually as a senior development analyst. His work consisted mostly of identifying methods to access confidential, supposedly secured information. His job was to find ways to beat the system. He sometimes considered it ridiculous to get paid so well to do what he loved so much.

  * * * *

  Cursing under his breath, Dave McCall stormed into his office, fighting the incredible urge to punch, kick or throw something. They now had number nineteen on their hands and, of course, to add to his pleasure, Henderson had the front page spot in the Gazette again, praising the Vigilante. Christ, the reporter was making this killer sound like a goddamned hero.

  The body had been found around midnight in the parking lot of Charlie’s, a low-life pool bar in the east end. The beating had not been too severe this time, less than half a dozen blows; broken ribs, a broken arm, and a couple of solid whacks to the head. One of them had done the trick.

  The victim, Jimmy Green, a warehouse worker, was somewhat known to the cops in the neighbourhood, having been arrested several times in the past for disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace. One of Jimmy’s favourite hobbies seemed to be getting sloshed and picking fights.

  The police had also responded to a call to Jimmy’s home about a year ago, when neighbours had claimed a big fight was taking place at his house and that he just might kill his wife. Things had been quiet when the police had arrived, although it had been clear from the disarray in the place that more than just words had been exchanged.

  Jimmy’s wife had answered the door when the uniforms had knocked and had quickly assured them that everything was alright. Jimmy was just drunk and she had done something to piss him off. She had obviously been crying and the right side of her face was red and slightly swollen. She had insisted that she was fine and had asked the officers to leave.

  From where he lay sprawled on a couch in the living room, Jimmy had told the cops that he was sorry; they had just gotten into a little argument was all. The police had left and no charges had been laid.

  Well, Jimmy’s wife would not have to worry about his beating her any more. Someone had made sure of that; dead sure.

  The cops had interviewed Mrs. Green for a couple of hours earlier that morning and were relatively certain that she was not involved in Jimmy’s death. She had definitely not been the one to kill him. Three neighbours had been playing cards with her until 11:45 the previous evening while Jimmy’s estimated time of death was 10:00. In addition, she was a rather frail slip of a girl and most likely not physically capable of delivering the forceful blows indicated in the M.E.’s initial report.

  Tim Harris tapped on the door frame as he strolled into Dave’s office, interrupting his boss’ thoughts.

  “We might have another lead relating to Tuesday night,” he informed McCall as he hopped his rear onto the small conference table in the corner. “A student was walking home, just before 9:00, when he saw some lady run out of the alley and get into a car, a black Celica. She started up the engine and took off with the
tires screaming for about half a block.”

  “Did he get a good look at her?” McCall demanded hopefully, hungry for some positive news.

  “Not really,” Tim replied, “Except that she was young, 25 to 30, well dressed, skirt and jacket kind of thing, high heels and had a decent body. The kid was surprised to see someone like her, dressed like that, running the way she was.”

  “Wonderful,” Dave sarcastically growled.

  “Hang on,” Harris soothed. “It does get better. Our witness did happen to look at our lady’s license plate when she took off. He didn’t get the whole thing but clearly remembers TSN. Said that he’s a sports buff so he didn’t have any trouble remembering the letters.”

  “Any trace on the car so far?”

  “Not yet,” Harris shook his head. “Spoke to Reynolds at DMV ten minutes ago. He promised to get whatever he could come up with before noon.”

  “Did the kid see or hear anything else?” McCall pushed on.

  “Nope. He was on his way home to change for a party after work. Walked back past the alley fifteen minutes later and didn’t see or hear anything then either.”

  “Okay,” sighed Dave. “Let me know how you make out on that plate.”

  As Tim left his superior’s office, Joanne Nelson stuck her head through the doorway and announced, “A Chris Barry on 213 for you, Dave. You want to take the call?”

  “Yes!” McCall exclaimed as he punched the number on the phone. “Mr. Barry, this is Dave McCall. Thanks for calling so soon. I presume that Bob Thompson filled you in on what this is about?”

  “Yes Dave, he did,” replied Chris. “I just wanted to touch base with you to let you know that we’ll do whatever we can to help. I’ve always enjoyed doing this kind of work for Bob in the past; makes me feel useful. It’s our feeble attempt at showing that we’re not in business just for the money.”