Opening the door of the storeroom just a few inches, he scanned the parking area for any signs of activity. Not a soul in sight. He left the room, locking the door behind him and ducked through the ‘exit’ door into the stairwell. He crept up one flight where he paused to peer through the small window in the door; nobody.
Entering the second level parking area, he headed directly for the spot marked P2-1017; he knew where he was going. The car was there, a silver-grey Mercedes SL convertible. He looked around one last time to make sure he was alone before crawling under the luxury vehicle and getting to work.
* * * *
Johnny B. was seated at a stage-side table at the Sex Cave, finishing his third Glenlivet. He liked coming here after dinner, for an hour or so, before going to do his rounds on the street. The girls looked good and occasionally, he offered one a job with his organization. They never accepted but were always polite in their refusal. After all, they knew who he was. He was Johnny B.
He looked at his Rolex and grunted when he saw the time. It was 8:25, time to go to work. He stood and the waitress automatically appeared. Slipping a folded fifty dollar bill deep into the front of her thong, he gave her bare behind a light, friendly slap.
“See ya later, doll,” he said, grinning. “Keep the change.”
Customers were forbidden to touch the girls; the club had strict rules about that. But he was an exception. He was Johnny B.
He strutted down the long narrow staircase which led to the street, preceded by Chuck, his bodyguard. Onto the sidewalk, he paused for a moment, surveying the surroundings through narrow eyes, evaluating the activity. It was a warm summer evening and a lot of people were out. Business would be good tonight.
Crossing the sidewalk to his car, which was conveniently parked in front of the club’s entrance, he climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine as Chuck squeezed his bulky form into the passenger seat. Half a block down, the traffic light was red, so there were no oncoming cars. Johnny B. revved the engine and pulled out onto the street, spinning his tires in the process as he always did. He liked getting noticed.
He turned right on Union and then left on René-Lévesque as he headed for Old Montreal. A number of his girls worked this sector in the summer, especially around Place St-Jacques, which was crowded with restaurants, bars and a slew of prospective clients. Turning right on Beaver Hall Hill, he headed south towards the river, stopping at the red light at the corner of St-Jacques. With the exception of a car which had just turned onto the street at the top of the hill behind him, his was the only vehicle in circulation. Pedestrian traffic was also non-existent.
He always found amusing how this area could be so quiet, sandwiched between the active sector he had just left and the lively one he was going to. The light turned green and Johnny B. rapidly accelerated through the empty intersection and then decelerated just as quickly to turn left on LeMoyne. As it slowed, the Mercedes exploded into a huge fireball, sending bits and pieces of plastic, metal, flesh and bone flying through the air.
Two blocks behind the explosion, a black Corvette turned left onto Notre-Dame and headed for the cinema.
Chapter 16 - Saturday, July 13, 1996
10:00 a.m. They were gathered in Chris Barry’s office at CSS headquarters, present was Dave McCall, accompanied by his detectives, Tim Harris, Joanne Nelson and Frank Bakes as well as Bob Thompson from the Computer Centre. Since it was, theoretically, a ‘day off’ for them, all were dressed casually; jeans, t-shirts, running shoes. They had arrived a few minutes earlier and had been greeted by Sonia, Barry’s secretary, who had shown them into the office. Chris, she had informed them, would join them in a couple of minutes.
The events leading to this meeting had started the previous evening at about 8:30 when a car bomb had exploded downtown, taking the lives of John Barrows, or Johnny B. as he had been called on the street, and Charles ‘Chuck’ Dunning. Barrows was a known pimp who ran a very profitable prostitution ring downtown whereas Chuck was Johnny’s chief muscle and personal bodyguard.
Had the events limited themselves to the explosion, the police would have considered it to be a simple settlement of accounts. Johnny B. had controlled the downtown prostitution racket for a while and had a reputation of being somewhat violent with his girls as well as with any possible competition. However, at 7:00 on Saturday morning, another message had come through Eazy-Com to the police. Apparently, the Vigilante was at it again.
When McCall had called Chris about the message, the computer executive had suggested that they meet at his office to ‘unofficially’ discuss the case. Maybe an outsider’s unbiased opinion could prove useful. McCall had willingly accepted the invitation.
Sonia came into the office with a tray of muffins and doughnuts, followed by Chris who carried the coffee. After laying the tray on the conference table, Sonia left the office, closing the door behind her as McCall started the introductions.
“Chris, I’d like you to meet Tim Harris and Joanne Nelson, two of my closest partners in crime. Bob Thompson, you already know, and that one, choosing the biggest muffin, is Frank Bakes.”
Chris shook hands as they laughed and invited all to sit, gesturing towards the conference table.
As they settled into the comfortable chairs, McCall started, “Have you seen the latest message, Chris?”
“Nope, not yet,” Chris admitted, flipping open his notepad as he spoke. “But I’m about to.”
He continued to speak as he deftly worked the keyboard.
“When you called this morning, I contacted Carl Denver. He’s in his office right now, working on some tracing possibilities. He’ll be joining us when he’s done. Here we are.” The message appeared on the screen.
THE METHOD WAS DIFFERENT, BUT THE END RESULT THE SAME. NOW YOU NO LONGER NEED TO BOTHER WITH JOHNNY B. GLAD I COULD BE OF SERVICE. REGARDS,
VIGILANTE
“At least he seems like a nice guy,” Chris commented, drawing a smile from the others.
“Fact is, he does,” McCall ruefully admitted. “I don’t know what to make of this guy. As far as we know, he’s only targeted people who, deep down, deserved what they got. Problem is, we have a system which is supposed to handle these things.”
“Maybe he feels the system isn’t working just right,” teased Joanne.
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” McCall snorted. “Hell, I agree with him. But if I had blown away a punk every time I felt it was deserved, they’d have locked me up in a nuthouse for life a while ago.”
“We’d also have a few less assholes to worry about,” Harris quipped.
They all laughed, nodding their heads in accord.
“I know you guys have been working on this quite extensively since it all started nearly seven months ago.” Chris stepped in. “But I haven’t. So, if you’ll allow me, I’ll ask a number of stupid questions which you’ve no doubt all thought of before and looked into. But maybe, just maybe, I might say something along the way which hasn’t been considered.”
“I don’t see how it can do any harm,” McCall agreed. “We’ve gotten nowhere so far. Fire away.”
“Alright,” started Chris. “Now, I’ve read about the different murders in the papers, but until recently, this whole thing was just of a passing interest to me. It was just news so I wasn’t keeping track of events. Have you established any kind of timing or frequency? Does your man act only during certain times? Once a week? Only on odd days of the month? That kind of thing?”
“Not really,” Harris shook his head. “It’s been pretty random. Some took place on weekends, others on weekdays; some on odd days, others on even. The first and second were about a month apart; same with the second and third. Then, three or four happened in about two weeks; after that, nothing for close to two months. We had started to think he had quit. Then, during the month which followed, nine, pretty evenly spaced. Two more weeks with nothing; then the two insurance guys. Two days later, Jimmy Green. Six days after that, Zack Roberts. A nine da
y break leads us to yesterday with Johnny B. and Chuck, numbers 21 and 22 on the list. Do you see a time pattern?”
“Frankly, no,” Chris admitted. “It may depend on his schedule. He might have other obligations, like a job. Were any of the victims worth paying for to have killed?”
“You mean that our killer might be a paid assassin? I don’t think so,” Joanne doubtfully replied. “They were mostly small-time, local hoods. No big organized crime people. If these were paid executions, the fees would be nothing for an assassin to get rich on. Plus, we never really found any connections linking any of the victims together. They were each doing their own bit to screw up society. I can’t see that any one person could have possibly been directly affected by all the different victims to then pay a hit man to have them whacked.”
“Methods of execution always the same?”
“Until last night, yes,” Joanne continued. “Well, Zack Roberts was injected with a lethal dose of coke and smack. The throat was slashed afterwards, maybe as his trademark. Last night, with the bomb, was a new twist. But our man has done nothing so far which would indicate that he’s a fool. Johnny B. always had at least one bodyguard with him. Getting at him with a knife or a club would have been complicated.”
Chris pushed on. “But now we know that our Vigilante also has knowledge of explosives. Any luck on the bomb so far?”
McCall took that one. “Seems that it wasn’t really complex. A one gallon canister of gasoline, half full, was fixed to the car’s gas tank. Some kind of detonating device set off the canister. Canister set off the gas tank. The forensics guys are still looking into it, but they’re pretty sure that the detonator was radio controlled. That would mean that our man must have been close by when it happened.”
“That’s nothing new,” Bakes stated. “In fact, if anything, last night was probably the furthest from his victim he’s been so far.”
“Does that mean something?” Chris pressed. “Is he getting scared? Looking for methods which allow more distance between him and his targets?”
Shoulders shrugged around the table in response.
“What about witnesses?” Chris went on. “Did anyone report anything out of twenty-two murders?”
McCall responded. “There’s Eileen Baker, whom you know about. To date, as you also know, she’s been little help. The closest thing we have to a witness besides her is a kid who saw her take off in her car. He wouldn’t have even reported that if he hadn’t heard that two guys got murdered half a block from his place.”
“But based on what Eileen Baker said, we can assume that the murders took place shortly after she left, right?” Chris queried.
“Actually, the first one, the throat slash, took place while she was there,” volunteered Harris. “The guy was lying in his blood when she ran out of the alley. The time of death established by the medical examiner indicates that the other guy died shortly after.”
“My point is,” said Chris. “The kid walked right past the alley, probably while the second guy was being murdered. Maybe he saw something which he decided not to talk about.”
“I doubt it,” Harris disagreed. “Kid showed up of his own accord. Hell, we would’ve never known he existed otherwise. He volunteered his story without any pushing on our part. I’m the one he met with. If anything, he seemed excited to be part of this, not scared. He kept saying ‘This is so cool man!’ He walked by the alley as Baker ran out and got her license plate because he thought it seemed strange; walked by the alley again fifteen minutes later, on his way to a party. He practically seemed disappointed that he couldn’t tell me more. Left me his name and number, just in case I needed his help.”
“All right,” accepted Chris, convinced. “So we have no witnesses, excluding Eileen. And therefore, we have no description, excluding Eileen.”
“Speaking of Eileen, any idea if she’ll get back to you?” enquired McCall.
“I can’t promise anything,” Chris replied. “But I have a pretty good feeling. I don’t want to call her, at least not for now. I told her I wouldn’t. If I break my word, I’ll lose her trust. I want to give her some time.”
“I agree,” nodded McCall. “You met her less than forty-eight hours ago. Wait. Maybe she’ll come around.”
“I hope so,” said Chris. “I think she can help. I’m not convinced that she’s intentionally holding back anything. I do believe though, that if she really thinks about it, she’ll remember at least a few more details. A little would be better than nothing at all.”
A knock on the door interrupted their discussion and Carl Denver joined them, closing the door behind him.
“Everybody, this is Carl Denver,” Chris announced. “Carl, this is Dave, Bob, Frank, Joanne and Tim.” He gestured towards each guest as he introduced them.
“Have a seat,” Chris offered. “So, what have we got?”
“Same as the others, I’m afraid,” Carl gloomily replied, “Nothing.”
They continued the conversation for a few minutes, concentrating the discussion on the computer aspects of the investigation, after which Carl excused himself to return to his office.
The meeting continued for another hour, sadly ending with a consensus that they were no further ahead than they had been in the past.
* * * *
Carl rushed back to his office, extremely troubled and worried. He had told Chris and the cops that, once again, there was no trace of the message, as had been the case with the first two. This time, he had lied.
Rather than bother his contacts at Eazy-Com, he had done the tracing himself immediately, knowing that Chris would ask him to eventually do so anyway.
He had accessed the Eazy-Com databank routinely, his mind much more on what he and his wife would do that afternoon than on the task at hand. This was easy work and he was confident, certain, in fact, that the result would be the same as the other times. There simply was no reason for it to be otherwise.
However, while scanning the Eazy-Com communication logs, he had found a record of the transmission; a complete record. He had nearly missed it, caught up in his daydreaming, but it had suddenly jumped out at him, a sender’s address; 114.195.824//CSS.INC.427.
Dumbfounded, he had verified the message identification number and found it to match. This tiny bit of information, buried amongst hundreds of thousands of other bits of data, confirmed the transmission of the Vigilante message from CSS Inc. headquarters, PC number 427; His PC.
His initial reaction had been one of panic. How could this be? It was hardly possible! Something was terribly wrong and he was suddenly very afraid.
Feeling suddenly paranoid, he had hurried to close and lock the door of his office, not wanting anyone to come in on him. After a minute or two, he had regained a semblance of composure and had started to think a bit more clearly.
He would have to erase the record, that was a given. A thought flashed through his mind which gave rise to panic once again; backups. The message had been sent at 7:03 that morning and it was now 9:27. Nearly two and a half hours. It was possible that a backup had been made but there was nothing he could do about that. Maybe, he prayed, luck would be with him. After all, it was Saturday and he knew Eazy-Com backed up less frequently on weekends. Most likely, he reasoned, nobody else would verify with Eazy-Com, assuming that he had.
He had checked the time; 9:31. Chris had said that they’d be meeting with the cops at 10:00 which meant he had less than half an hour to erase the traces. There was no way in hell he could allow anybody to get a hold of this kind of evidence and start snooping around the systems at CSS, no matter what. He simply had too much at stake, too much to lose. Mustering all his energy and knowledge, he had gotten to work, doing what he did best.
* * * *
11:45 p.m. He started watching Saturday Night Live and quickly decided he’d be better off joining Sandy in bed. He turned off the television and headed upstairs, stopping in ‘the office’ before going to the bedroom.
Picking up his notepa
d on the desk, he proceeded to punch in a series of access codes, quickly making his way into the Eazy-Com databank. He needed to check again, just to make sure. There was no record of the message.
Smiling with satisfaction, he exited the system and went to Sandy.
Chapter 17 - Monday, July 15, 1996
10:45 a.m. Following his initial meeting with Chris Barry nearly two weeks earlier, Dave McCall had begun the painful task of secretly investigating his own people. He had started with those less close to him, one by one, looking into their shift schedules and analyzing their daily reports, verifying their comings and goings on the dates of the murders. And one by one, he had been able to eliminate them as suspects.
If any one of them was involved, he or she would have to be acting as part of a team, not alone, and for the time being, he had no reason to believe that his Vigilante was more than one person.
In conducting his research, he had kept three individuals for last; Joanne, Frank and Tim, his closest detectives. Both Joanne and Tim had been easy to eliminate as they had been with him while several of the murders had occurred. Frank however, had been quite a different story.
McCall had doubted nothing before analyzing the shift schedules. Frank had been rather heavily involved with the case since its beginning and, in McCall’s mind, had also been present while some of the murders had taken place. But as he had proceeded with his analysis, he had come to realize that he could not vouch for Frank’s whereabouts on any of the murder dates. Not one. Frank had either been off duty or following up on some lead, alone. None of his daily reports placed him anywhere with a reliable alibi at the times of the murders.
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