Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  “Whatta ya want?” he snarled angrily at the man.

  The visitor grinned at him for a moment without saying a word then punched Myers square in the face, hard, with a leather gloved hand.

  Casually, he glanced down the hallway in search of witnesses, but saw none. Satisfied, he entered the apartment and, after shoving Myers’ legs out of the way with his foot, closed the door behind him.

  The blow had knocked Myers unconscious for a few minutes and when he came to, his first realization was extreme discomfort. Lying on his side on the hardwood floor, his ankles and wrists were bound and had been pulled together behind his back. Something had also been stuffed into his mouth. His face felt wet and when he rubbed his chin on his shoulder, he left blood on his t-shirt.

  Raising his head as best he could, he saw the man who had hit him, standing behind the couch, calmly flipping through a magazine.

  Detecting movement, the intruder peered down at him and said, “Oh good, you’re awake. I was hoping that you wouldn’t sleep all night. I don’t want to get home too late.”

  He strolled over nonchalantly to where Peter lay on the living room floor, gazing down at him with an amused smile.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for tying you up and gagging you like I did,” he politely apologized. “I realize that it’s unpleasant. However, I have learned from experience that these things are necessary. It makes my job so much easier without the fighting back and screaming. You understand, don’t you?”

  Peter stared up at the intruder, sweat streaming from every pore on his body.

  The man calmly continued. “I read an article about poor Mrs. Slater in the paper a little while back, and I must tell you, Peter, frankly, I was shocked. What you did was not very nice. Nope, not nice at all. I hear that she’ll never walk again.”

  He paused to light a cigarette, playfully flicking the match at Myers. “In addition, one of her ribs apparently punctured a lung. Doctors still aren’t sure if she’s going to make it. Poor Mrs. Slater. Don’t you agree, Peter?”

  He watched Myers in silence for a moment, concentrating on finishing his cigarette before going on.

  “Tell me, Peter? Did you ever fall down a flight of stairs? Or better yet, did you ever fall off a balcony from the sixth floor?”

  Myers’ eyes widened with fear but the gag, unfortunately, did not permit him to respond to the man’s questions.

  “I didn’t think so,” the man said, nodding knowingly. “There’s no time like the present, don’t you agree?”

  He strolled over to the patio door and stepped out onto the balcony. Tossing his cigarette butt, he watched its glow drop six storeys to the paved parking lot below. Carefully, he examined the area behind the building for any signs of human activity but saw none. Satisfied, he returned to the living room.

  “Time to go,” he announced, bending over his trussed up victim.

  Peter began struggling as best he could as his assailant tried to grab him, adding difficulty to the latter’s task. Stepping back, the man stared down at Myers with a look of exasperation.

  “Now, Peter, you’re being difficult,” he scolded. “We’re not going to get anywhere with that kind of attitude.”

  Pulling his leg far back for maximum force, he then swung it forth, kicking Peter hard in the abdomen, knocking the wind out of him. Meeting no resistance this time, he picked up his helpless victim, flung him over his shoulder and carried him out onto the balcony.

  “Say bye-bye, Peter,” he murmured softly before tossing Myers over the railing to his death, six storeys below. The only sound was a dull thud.

  He returned inside and recuperated his burnt match from the floor. One could never be too careful. Following a quick self-examination for blood stains, none found, he left the apartment, making his way to the ground floor and to the mini-van parked two blocks away.

  He would definitely have to send a message to the cops for this one. He wanted the credit for a job well done.

  Chapter 22 - Saturday, July 20, 1996

  Gino and Rupert lazed comfortably in the rear of the well equipped fishing boat while Perry expertly piloted the craft along the small winding river.

  They had had a meeting with Perry and Giovanni Morretto the previous afternoon to once again review the events surrounding Paulo’s murder. Morretto had been insistent for details on the drunk’s appearance as he had vowed to catch the heartless animal who had murdered his son. If at all possible, Giovanni intended to take the killer’s life himself.

  At the end of their meeting, Giovanni had suggested that Gino and Rupert take a couple of days off to relax. They had been through a lot that week, deserved the break and he had graciously offered the use of his fishing cottage, north of Sept-Iles; Perry would take them up there in one of the company planes.

  The two goons had gladly accepted their boss’ generous invitation, pleased that he did not hold them accountable for the death of his son.

  The narrow river suddenly widened and they found themselves on a small lake in the middle of the wilderness. Perry cut the powerful engines and tossed the anchor overboard.

  “Welcome, my friends, to the best goddamn fishing spot in all of North America,” he announced, beaming at his two companions.

  Gino and Rupert gazed in awe, impressed by the natural beauty which surrounded them.

  “Real, real nice,” Rupert softly commented as he admired the scenery. “Peaceful. Definitely a place to relax.”

  “Absolutely,’ Perry enthusiastically agreed. “Nobody around for miles. Ain’t a soul gonna disturb us out here.”

  Returning to the front of the craft, he pulled out a cooler from one of the storage bins.

  “Anyone for a beer?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Sure! Great!” his buddies accepted.

  From the cooler, he extracted a revolver and turned back to face the two men.

  “This is what happens when you fuck up on the job, boys,” he calmly informed them before pulling the trigger, shooting each man twice in the head.

  * * * *

  Chris lounged by the pool, sipping a cold rum & Coke while reviewing a printout he had produced the previous afternoon. The report was a complete listing of the activities which had taken place on a selected number of PCs at CSS since he had started monitoring them.

  Although much of it, being in computer code, would require some deciphering, he was knowledgeable enough to get an idea of the work which had been done. That is to say, when it was work. It never failed to amaze him how naive these incredibly intelligent employees of his could be sometimes.

  Day after day, they designed sophisticated computer systems, the purpose of which was to track transactions, time data transmissions, measure efficiency; in short, record a user’s every move. Yet, they never seemed to realize that they could be monitored by a similar system. Recipes, personal letters, financial records, computer games and various other non-business activities seemed to occupy at least a portion of their daily schedules. He would have to have a chat with his troops in the near future.

  He had just had the time to scan a half dozen pages of the thick report when he felt a hand clutch the back of his neck.

  “I thought we had a deal,” his wife growled scoldingly, tightening her grip as she spoke.

  “What?” Chris exclaimed, feigning innocence.

  “Weekdays are the time to work, weekends are the time to play,” she reminded him.

  Tossing the report into his open briefcase, he jumped to his feet and replied, “Okay, let’s play,” before taking her hand and leading her back into the house.

  Chapter 23 - Sunday, July 21, 1996

  “Nice shot,” praised Chris, watching the ball sail perfectly straight down the fairway, some 225 yards.

  “I practice when I get a chance,” was McCall’s modest reply.

  “That’s strange,” Chris replied, puzzled. “I thought that the official pastime for your kind was pigging out on doughnuts.”

  “
Screw yourself, sir,” Dave politely responded.

  It was 7:12 a.m. and still fairly quiet at the St-Isidore Golf Club, where McCall was a member. He had called Chris the previous evening to invite him for a round of golf but, more so, for some conversation.

  “Any further progress on the case?” Chris questioned as they walked along the fairway towards the green.

  “Nope, not really,” McCall replied. “Good news is we’ve now gone over four complete days without our friend acting up. Maybe he’s decided to quit and wanted to finish big time with a wise guy like Morretto.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Chris doubtfully. “But he’s gone more than four days in the past.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dave glumly agreed.

  They played their shots, both landing on the green, before resuming their conversation.

  “Has the sketch helped any?” Chris enquired hopefully, lining up for his putt, going for birdie.

  “Not yet. We showed it to one of Morretto’s bodyguards. He had gotten a quick look at a drunk who smacked him on the head the night Paulo was murdered. The best he could do was say that maybe, it could be the guy. I’ll probably pull the ape back in and put him together with my artist. Just to see what they come up with.”

  “Wouldn’t you want to make the sketch public?” suggested Chris as he removed his ball from the cup. “I mean, there may be somebody out there who would recognize this guy.”

  McCall putted, making par, then replied. “I’ve been thinking about that. But I’m not sure if I should, for two reasons. One, there’s the possibility that we scare him, which doesn’t mean however, that he just quits. He might just become even more careful than he’s been so far. Secondly, I wouldn’t want him going back to Eileen. As far as we know, she’s the only person who’s really seen him. I don’t want to put her in danger.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” said Chris, nodding in agreement. “She’s been through too much already.”

  “So, my friend, that’s where we currently stand. Twenty-three murders, hardly a clue and probable Mafia involvement now that Morretto’s a victim,” stated McCall. “Plus, I’ve got that son of a bitch reporter, Henderson, who takes pleasure in knocking our efforts every chance he gets while he publicly cheers on a serial killer.”

  They walked in silence to the second hole. After both completing excellent drives, Dave spoke up again.

  “Just between you and me, I’ve been looking into something which may relate to the case. I don’t have anything concrete enough yet, so I’d rather keep it to myself. It could turn into more than just a lead but I still have some digging to do.”

  “Remember my offer, Dave,” Chris reminded. “If I can give you any ‘unofficial’ help, let me know.”

  “I may just take you up on that real soon,” McCall admitted, thinking of the difficult task of shadowing Frank solo.

  “Seeing as we’re vaguely confiding here,” announced Chris. “I’ll let you in on something too. I’ve been doing some work on a possible theory. Some quiet systems monitoring on the side. I don’t know if it will go anywhere but I’ll keep you posted.”

  They paused to play, McCall hooking into a sand trap, Chris slicing into a pond. They looked at each other and grinned. Golf was a game of concentration.

  “Dave, have you ever looked into the possibility that this Vigilante might be active elsewhere, besides Montreal?”

  “No, not really,” McCall answered, a little surprised. “We do keep tabs of what’s going on in other cities, but there hasn’t been any pattern anywhere else like we’ve had here. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s probably just a coincidence,” Chris hesitantly replied. “I certainly wouldn’t have even noticed it if I hadn’t been involved in this case. While I was in Vancouver two weeks ago, I was watching the news before dinner one evening and they were talking about some guy who had been found dead in Stanley Park. Died from a blow to the head. I remember thinking, ‘another one!’ before realizing where I was. Like I said, it was probably just a coincidence. I just thought I’d mention it.”

  “It might be worth looking into, at least a little,” McCall thoughtfully commented.

  They walked and played in silence for a while, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Chris was thinking of Carl Denver while McCall thought of Frank. Both had been in Vancouver at the time the Stanley Park murder had taken place.

  Chapter 24 - Monday, July 22, 1996

  I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DEATH OF PETER MYERS. PLEASE FORGIVE ME FOR MY RECENT VARIANCE IN METHODS OF EXECUTION. I HAVE COME TO REALIZE THAT THE PENALTY MUST FIT THE CRIME. UNTIL THE NEXT TIME.

  VIGILANTE

  McCall gazed at the message and actually smiled, unable to hold it back. He had to struggle to not like the guy. The Myers case had enraged him when he had read about in the papers a few months ago. The sick bastard had deserved to die.

  Leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, Dave mulled over a theory which had been slowly simmering in the back of his mind in recent days.

  The crimes of some of the Vigilante’s victims, such as Paulo Morretto and now, Peter Myers, had been well publicized. However, most of the others who had succumbed by the killer’s hand had not been publicly displayed. Some had been in the process of being monitored by the cops but had not been arrested or accused of any crime, at least not currently. Then, suddenly, they were gone, thanks to the Vigilante.

  The more McCall looked at this case, the more it became obvious that whoever the perpetrator was, he had to have access to privileged information.

  This brought him back to thoughts of Frank. He had not discovered any evidence that concretely linked his subordinate to the murders. However, by the same token, he had not found anything that came close to an alibi during even one of the crimes.

  He had tried following him twice so far, with no success, though he regretted not having stayed later on Friday. He might have discovered, once and for all, if Frank was their man.

  He would just have to continue tracking him. It was tough, alone, but he still wasn’t ready to ask someone else to do it. He still had too much respect for Frank. He would only be able to label Frank guilty when he, himself, was convinced that he was. Until then, this was a personal project.

  Picking up the phone, he speed dialled Chris Barry’s direct line to ask for a trace on the new message.

  * * * *

  Carl was busy analysing the specifications of the new security system for Century Bank when Chris strolled into his office.

  “Hey there,” greeted his boss, closing the door before dropping onto one of the chairs in front of Carl’s desk.

  “Hi, Chris. How’s it going?” Carl responded, putting down the specs.

  “All right, I guess,” replied Chris. “But I just got another call from McCall. The cops received another message for us to trace.”

  “Again!? Don’t you think we’re just wasting our time, Chris?” argued Carl, his frustration obvious. “I mean, this will be what, the fifth message we trace on this guy? We got zip with the four others. Why should this one or any others in the future, prove any different? At some point, someone’s gonna have to accept that this guy knows what he doing. He’s not going to do something stupid like leave his number.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Carl,” Chris patiently replied. “But I also understand that the cops want to catch the guy. Say he starts getting nervous, or over-confident. Say he makes a mistake or decides after half a dozen messages that we’ve grown tired of tracing him and stops covering his tracks. That’s why we have to continue. We have to show that we’re smarter than he is.”

  “You’re the boss,” Carl replied grudgingly, a touch of sarcasm evident in his tone. “If that’s what you want. But I still think that we’re giving the cops too much of our time for free.”

  “Maybe,” Chris answered tightly as he stood to leave. “But until I decide otherwise, humour me.”

  ‘Fine!’ thought Carl angrily as he
watched his superior walk out. ‘I’ll just keep on erasing the goddamn messages for the next two weeks. After that, I’ll be done and gone. Then, whoever is playing these fucking games with me can play with himself!’

  * * * *

  Chris returned to his office with Carl and the man’s recent change of attitude on his mind.

  Ever since they had started working with the cops, Carl had been acting strangely. Could it be possible that the firm’s top development analyst had something to hide? Obviously, these Eazy-Com tracings did not please him and he had been in Vancouver when that murder had taken place. It was much too early to paint a solid case but a number of pieces were starting to fit.

  “Soon, very soon,” Chris decided. “I will have to start looking into what dear old Carl is doing with his PC.”

  * * * *

  Like any respectable high ranking member of an organized crime family, Perry had more than his fair share of reliable police contacts. Therefore, not much effort had been required to obtain details on the progress and leads in the Vigilante case, which, to date, did not amount to very much.

  The killer had sent a few untraceable messages through some computer network but these Perry was not overly interested in. The other lead the cops had however, seemed to hold more promise.

  This Vigilante had apparently come upon a rape in progress a month earlier and had done in the two horny idiots. Of course, he had let the girl go.

  With a little encouragement, Perry had managed to convince one of his cop friends to come up with a name. Eileen Baker. His friend had also given him a color copy of a composite sketch, the result of Baker’s description of her saviour.

  Seated in the comfort of his lavish office at Morretto Construction headquarters, Perry smiled as he scanned over Baker’s data sheet. He didn’t understand why the public complained about lack of results with the city’s finest. As far as he was concerned, the cops did an excellent job; and made his life so much easier.