Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  “Sure thing. See ya,” the voice replied before the line went dead.

  “Kill my daughter,” Morretto raved, pacing stiffly around the room. “I’ll personally cut this fucker’s balls off and shove them down his fucking throat!”

  “Easy, Giovanni,” Perry tried to calm his old boss. “Your heart. Don’t get excited. Ain’t nobody gonna touch Maria or anybody else. Don’t worry. I’ve got things under control. This guy’s a fucking coward, he ain’t gonna mess with us. I’m gonna take care of him. Relax.”

  Morretto shuffled slowly back to his armchair and unsteadily sat back down.

  “You better be right, Perry,” he warned, his gravelly voice shaky. “You better be right. Maria ain’t never done nothing to nobody. She doesn’t deserve to die. Who does this fucking bastard think he is?”

  “Don’t worry, Giovanni,” Perry repeated soothingly. “Nothing’s gonna happen to Maria. Trust me, all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Morretto yielded, looking up fondly at his right-hand man. He didn’t know what he’d ever do without him.

  “Well, I’m gonna go,” Perry announced, looking at the time. “Let you get some rest cuz it’s getting late. Goodnight, Giovanni, and relax. Don’t worry.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Perry,” Morretto smiled sadly. “Goodnight.”

  He watched his young assistant strut across the Persian rug which covered the floor of the mammoth room, calling out to him as he reached the heavy double doors.

  “Perry. You be careful out there too. This guy may be serious.”

  “Ain’t nothing gonna happen to anybody,” the under-boss replied with an assured grin. “Especially not to ole Perry.”

  With some effort, Giovanni pulled himself out of his chair and slowly plodded to the window, pushing aside the curtain to look out into the night. Outside, Perry hopped down the steps and, with his usual confident stride, briskly crossed the wide parking area to his car of the month, a Nissan 300ZX.

  “These young punks with their fancy sports cars,” Giovanni chuckled. “Gotta lie down to climb into the thing!”

  He heard the engine start and watched as the car rolled down the circular driveway away from the house, slowing as it reached the street. The engine gunned and, as the car veered onto the road, it exploded in a brilliantly massive ball of flame.

  For several seconds, Giovanni stared at the blazing wreck in shocked disbelief. He became aware of a ringing sound and realized that it was the phone. Reluctantly, he left the window and slowly, numbly, moved back to his desk where he eased gingerly into his big leather chair.

  The phone’s insistent ringing continued. As he picked up the receiver, he noticed, somewhat absently, that the call was coming in on his private line once again.

  “Hello?” he rasped, softly, wearily.

  “I warned you,” the voice said quietly. “But you wouldn’t listen. Now, do I have your word that you will lay off?”

  “Yes,” the old man whispered into the phone.

  “Good,” the voice gently replied. “Then so will I. Goodbye, Giovanni.”

  The connection broke and the voice was gone. Giovanni laid the receiver down on the desk and silently wept.

  Chapter 26 - Wednesday, July 24, 1996

  11:47 p.m. Parked half a block from Frank’s house, McCall slumped uncomfortably in his rental, amidst the empty coffee cups and hamburger wrappers and which littered the front seat. A lousy ending to a thoroughly crappy day.

  He had started the day early, visiting the West Island residence of Giovanni Morretto, scene of the apparent assassination of Perry Gaglioni, Morretto’s ‘executive assistant’.

  Morretto himself had been outside swearing at the cops, screaming of their incompetence and how all they could do was eat doughnuts with their thumbs up their ass while honest hard-working people were being murdered in cold blood. Eventually, the old man had nearly collapsed and thankfully, a young nurse had coaxed him back into the house.

  After leaving the murder scene, he and Harris had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to track down Rupert, one of Paulo’s goons, who had seen the drunk on the night of the younger Morretto’s murder. However, nobody had seen him or his partner Gino since the preceding Friday.

  At five-thirty, he had left the office to sit in his Thrifty special and wait for Frank’s departure. Little had he known that Frank had chosen this particular day to work late and had not left the office until 7:00. To add to Dave’s displeasure, his subordinate had not driven directly home, but rather, had zigzagged across town, making half a dozen stops along the way to run miscellaneous errands.

  An hour after initially reaching his home, Frank had left the house again, with McCall trailing behind him. He had gone to a local convenience store for cigarettes and stopped off at a video rental place, returning with a couple of cassettes. He had now been back for close to two hours.

  Weary, stiff and frustrated, Dave started the engine and headed for home, to Cathy.

  Chapter 27 - Thursday, July 25, 1996

  Convinced that she was no longer in any danger, McCall had called off the police guard on Eileen Baker. Perry was dead and anyhow, Chris had informed him that Eileen was spending a few days at his place with his wife to get her mind off things.

  He appreciated Chris’ help. Although the man’s participation was purely voluntary, he took things to heart and really did whatever he could.

  There had been no message, nor any indication from the press, not even Henderson, that Perry’s death was the result of the Vigilante’s handiwork. But McCall knew that it was. This being the case however, brought forth the unanswered question ‘How had the man known?’

  As far as Dave was concerned, the only people who had been aware of the specific circumstances surrounding Eileen Baker were Eileen herself, Chris, Frank and himself. They hadn’t even told the uniforms who they were guarding Eileen from.

  So who could he suspect? Frank? Painfully, Dave was starting to accept that Frank was a real possibility. He hated having to admit it but, he had to stop the Vigilante.

  The sudden ringing of the telephone broke into his unpleasant thoughts and he answered to find Eileen Baker on the line.

  “Everything all right?” he asked with a sense of urgency.

  “Yes, yes,” she quickly reassured him.

  “Good,” Dave replied, relieved. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I tried to call Chris about this, but he’s tied up in a meeting,” Eileen began hesitantly. “His wife suggested that I call you directly. After all, you are a cop and you were very good to me on Tuesday, so I agreed to call you.”

  “I’m glad to see I’m making progress,” laughed Dave. “What’s up?”

  “W-well, it might be nothing,” Eileen went on, still unsure. “But I’ve been thinking about that night, when I nearly got raped.”

  “Yes?” McCall prodded, wondering.

  “Okay. Here it goes,” Eileen, plunged ahead. “That night, just as I got to the corner of the street where I had parked, I noticed a, a little van kind of thing.”

  “A mini-van?” suggested McCall.

  “Yes. A mini-van. That’s what they call them. So, like I was saying, I noticed this mini-van, parking. I remember thinking that this guy was lucky. I had looked for a spot for fifteen minutes before finding the one I had. Anyway, after that, those, those guys showed up and I stopped thinking about parking spots.”

  “Okay,” McCall slowly acknowledged, not sure where this was going. “Is this supposed to mean something?”

  “Well, when those guys grabbed me, there really wasn’t anybody around,” Eileen explained. “We went into the alley and suddenly, there he was. Maybe it was the guy who had parked the mini-van.”

  McCall suddenly felt guilty for ever having doubted this wonderful soul.

  “Do you remember what kind of mini-van it was, what color, anything?” he asked, trying not to sound too excited.

  “I don’t know too much about cars, Dave,” s
he admitted. “But I know I’ve seen that kind of truck before. It’s the one that sort of square at the back and steep in the front. You know which one I mean?”

  “No, not really,” he replied, realizing that this might not be as easy as he hoped.

  “Wait,” Eileen suddenly exclaimed. “It’s the one that, in the commercial, it goes down the Olympic ski jump. Then it goes back up in reverse. That’s the truck I saw.”

  “Chevy Astro,” stated McCall with a smile. He liked this girl.

  “I guess so,” she answered with a shrug in her voice. “I don’t know what it’s called.”

  “What about the color, Eileen?” Dave persisted. Maybe they were onto something.

  “It was getting dark,” she replied. “But I would say it was more of a dark color like brown or burgundy, maybe green. It wasn’t white or some other light color.”

  “This is great, Eileen,” cried McCall. “This could really help. Even if it’s not our guy, this might mean another witness. Maybe the guy you saw parking saw somebody or something.”

  “Well, I’m glad I can help,” Eileen shyly responded. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner, but I’ve been pretty shaky since then.”

  “No problem,” McCall reassured her. “Better late than never. I’m really happy you called, Eileen.”

  “Good,” she replied, pleased. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I think of anything else. Bye.”

  “Take care, and thanks,” said Dave. “Bye.”

  He hung up the phone, looking happier than a clam. Then, just as quickly, the smile disappeared: Frank Bakes drove a mini-van; a burgundy Chevrolet Astro.

  He could no longer afford to take his time with the investigating of his subordinate. He would have to do more about Frank in a hurry.

  * * * *

  Eileen slowly replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and sat quietly with a troubled, thoughtful expression.

  “What’s the matter?” Chris’ wife gently asked. “Why the long face?”

  “I sorta feel sorry for him. That’s all,” Eileen replied softly. “I know he deserves to pay for what he’s done. Chris convinced me of that. I just feel strange being involved in getting him caught.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” encouraged her hostess. “You’re doing the right thing.”

  “I know I am,” nodded Eileen with a sad smile.

  * * * *

  Ron Henderson fidgeted anxiously as he waited in the reception area of the Special Homicide Task Force Centre. He scowled, again, at the clock on the wall; 1:26. His patience was wearing thin. McCall had said 1:00 and now, the asshole was stalling him. Four more minutes, then he was out of there. After all, McCall was the one who had wished for this meeting, not him.

  Dave McCall had called him on Tuesday morning, stating that they needed to have a little chat. When Henderson had enquired as to why, the cop had replied that he wished to discuss some of Henderson’s sources of information. The reporter had informed McCall that his sources were confidential and therefore, he had nothing to discuss. McCall had responded with, “Thursday, 1:00 p.m. We’ll meet in my office,” after which the arrogant schmuck had hung up.

  Henderson had seriously considered simply not showing up. However, he remained just a tad uncomfortable with his new found friendship with the Vigilante. After all, the guy killed people, violently, apparently as a hobby. The possibility that such a man was slightly unbalanced did exist. Also, the terms ‘accomplice’, ‘accessory to the crime’ and ‘obstructing justice’, however vaguely, rang in Henderson’s mind. Maybe the lieutenant might have something to say which was worth hearing.

  “Mr. Henderson,” McCall greeted, approaching his guest with extended hand.

  “Lieutenant McCall,” Ron coolly replied, rising from his seat.

  As they shook hands, Henderson allowed himself to examine his host. He had seen the man in the papers and on the news on several occasions in recent years but the photographs and T.V. screen had not done McCall justice. The cop was definitely younger than he appeared via the media; early thirties, maybe less. And he looked intelligent. He no doubt had to be to have the job he did at his age.

  Maybe he wouldn’t be such a bad guy. Maybe they would get along.

  McCall motioned for his guest to follow, continuing to speak as they went along.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he apologized, sounding sincere. “We’ve got a case load which could keep four times as many people busy twenty-four hours a day. Unfortunately, we live in a violent world, Ron.”

  Stopping at a vending machine, he turned to the reporter. “Coffee?”

  “Sure. Black, no sugar.”

  “You’ve obviously never had this coffee before,” McCall half-joked.

  “You’re drinking it at your own risk,” he added, handing Ron a cup of thick black liquid.

  They continued on down the corridor and into the young lieutenant’s office.

  “Have a seat,” invited Dave, gesturing to one of the chairs as he closed the door.

  “Thanks,” accepted Henderson, his tone cool and formal. “Now, what can I do for you, Lieutenant McCall?”

  “Let’s start by cutting the crap,” McCall grinned. “Name’s Dave and I’d like you to call me that. If you have no objection, I’ll call you Ron.”

  “Fine by me,” Henderson shrugged.

  “Now,” McCall continued, “I asked you to drop by so that we could play straight with each other. I’m not going to bullshit you and I hope that you don’t bullshit me, Got it?”

  “Sounds fair so far,” agreed Henderson, starting to believe that he actually might like this guy.

  “Good,” Dave went on. “Now, I may tell you some stuff that I don’t want you to talk about. I’m gonna trust you not to use anything I say unless you check with me first. If I say ‘No’, you don’t use it.”

  The journalist nodded in response as McCall continued.

  “I think that you and I will get along fine, Ron. I’m not going to ask you to reveal your sources cuz I realize that you have a job to do. Anyway, with some of the information which you’ve had recently, it would have been likely that your source was a cop; one of my cops.”

  He paused for a second before, trying to read something in Henderson’s expression but drawing a blank.

  “If that had turned out to be the case, I’d have found out without your help and I’d have done some serious ass-kicking. But my cops know that. They’re smart so they shut up. So I asked myself, if Ron’s not getting his information from my people, where is he getting it from? I thought about it for a while, and I believe I found the answer. It was so obvious, it was funny.”

  Henderson gazed at McCall with narrowing eyes.

  “You want to know where?” taunted McCall.

  “Sure. Why not,” replied the reporter with an uneasy grin. He certainly wasn’t going to say.

  “Eazy-Com,” stated Dave as a matter of fact.

  “Eazy-Com?” repeated Henderson, a well acted expression of puzzlement on his face.

  “Eazy-Com,” Dave confidently nodded. “You’ve recently been receiving messages from the Vigilante on Eazy-Com. Do you know why I believe that?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” answered Henderson, suddenly feeling a bit warm. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “With pleasure,” McCall replied. “I figured, if our killer-friend’s been sending us messages on Eazy-Com, why can’t he be sending someone else messages as well?”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Henderson slowly exclaimed under his breath.

  “Remember, Ron. You don’t use this. We have a deal.”

  “Don’t worry. You have my word,” promised the reporter. “I’m just really impressed that you guys managed to keep this quiet to date. I guess you’re all smarter than I’ve given you credit for.”

  “Right up there above reporters.” McCall valiantly rallied. “Now, to date, we haven’t been able to trace any of his messages. He erases the path on the networ
k or something like that. I don’t really understand computers. What I’d like to do is this. I’d like my computer guy, Chris Barry at CSS, to look into the messages you’ve received. Just in case our friend didn’t consider it necessary to erase the traces of what he sent to you. Do you think we could do that?”

  “I guess,” Henderson replied. “But I doubt you’ll find anything.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ve received three messages so far,” explained the journalist. “Normally, when you receive e-mail on Eazy-Com, you can click a ‘sender’ icon and the sender’s address appears. If you want to reply, you just transmit to ‘sender’. But, there was no sender address for any of the messages I got.”

  “I’d like to check anyway,” Dave insisted. “Can you supply me with the details on those messages? The dates and times they were sent, what they said, that kind of thing?”

  “I-I guess,” Henderson hesitantly replied. “I just wouldn’t want this guy to be mad at me.”

  “We’re not going to tell him you’re helping us,” McCall laughed before becoming serious once again. “Anyhow, I’ll get a court order if I have to. I’m not going to give up any chance to catch this wacko. He’s killed at least twenty-four people so far.”

  “I get to use anything else he sends me?” Henderson asked, starting to give in.

  “Absolutely,” stated Dave. “But, I’d expect you to let me know when he does contact you. Please understand, Ron, right or wrong, he is a killer and we’ve got to stop him.”

  “Alright, I’ll let you know if he contacts me again,” agreed Henderson, beginning to appreciate the true efforts the cops made. “And I’ll try to go easier on you guys in the future.”

  “Thanks,” McCall grinned. “And I’ll stop calling you all those names when I read your articles.”

  “I’ll stay clear of that one,” Ron grimaced as he rose to his feet. “Unless there’s anything else, I’d better get going. I’m doing a radio spot at 2:30. Dave, it’s been a pleasure and I think we’ll get along.”