Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  Retracing his steps around the back, he returned to address the other side of the dwelling. Two more sunken window wells were available and his devices were quickly installed. He proceeded towards the front of the home once again, on the west side this time, to set his final bomb.

  Through a window, a half dozen feet above ground level, he could hear the voices of two, no three men. He smiled; the house was not empty. Quickly, he planted his last explosive in the soft earth of a flowerbed located directly below the window before silently heading back towards the river.

  Although the yard remained deserted, he took no chance, dodging among the shadows of the trees as he spanned its length. He reached the top of the incline without incident and scanned the property for a hidden enemy one last time; nobody.

  Hurrying to the top of the staircase, he paused only long enough to press a switch on a small remote control transmitter which he pulled from his pocket. 10:00, 9:59, 9:58; the countdown had begun. He rushed down to the river level, using the steps this time.

  Six minutes later, he climbed into the mini-van and was rolling within seconds. A few more minutes went by before he heard the low intense rumbling of a massive explosion in the distance behind him.

  He turned onto a quiet side street and stopped, reached into the canvas bag on the seat beside him and pulled out his notepad. Flipping it open, he keyed in the appropriate codes to gain access to Eazy-Com. He called the first stored message from memory and quickly read it over.

  “Should mention Scorpion,” he thoughtfully decided.

  After adding a P.S. referring to the gang leader’s demise, he clicked ‘Address’, ‘MCC’ and ‘Send’ and his first message was gone. Retrieving the second, he made a similar modification and repeated the simple transmission procedure, sending this one to ‘RON’. He then exited the system, convinced that the messages could not be traced and headed for home.

  His work was done for the night and it had gone remarkably well. He was particularly pleased that, considering the magnitude and location of his target, nobody had seen him.

  Chapter 32 - Wednesday, July 31, 1996

  The headline and by-line appeared on the first page of the morning paper:

  DEVIL’S DELIGHT NO MATCH FOR VIGILANTE

  By Ron Henderson

  The message had come in on Eazy-Com at 10:28 the previous evening. In recent days, Henderson had gotten into the habit of checking for Eazy-Com transmissions at the office via his home PC on a regular basis. Last night, his timing had been nothing short of excellent.

  He had accessed his office computer at 10:34 and the message had been waiting for him. While he had been reading this privileged information, the phone had rung; it had been McCall, calling to inform him of the explosion.

  A half hour later, he had reached the scene, which bustled with frenzied activity. Dozens of cars were parked haphazardly about while hundreds of curious onlookers rambled around the cordoned-off property. Members of the local and provincial police forces kept watch as firefighters brought what was left of the burning building under control.

  Several minutes following his arrival, Ron had spotted McCall, who had promised to bring him up to speed as soon as they had something concrete. True to his word, the lieutenant had given Ron an interview at 1:45 that morning while other reporters had been required to wait until an official press conference at 6:00 a.m.

  Dennis ‘Scorpion’ Roy was dead, throat slashed, and four other bodies, badly charred and tattered, had been found amidst the wreckage of the house. As Henderson was already aware, this incident had nothing to do with turf wars with rival gangs or the internal power struggle within the Devil’s Delight organization. The Vigilante had claimed responsibility.

  Interestingly enough, the killer had completed his messages, both to McCall and Henderson, with the phrase “Just one more to go.” Was their man about to retire?

  * * * *

  “Good morning, Sonia,” Chris cheerily greeted as he strolled into the office at 8:17 a.m.

  “Morning, Chris,” his assistant anxiously replied. “Did you hear that explosion last night?”

  “You better believe it!” he exclaimed. “We were in the yard by the pool when it happened. We didn’t just hear it. We felt it!”

  “Was it that close to your place?” Sonia enquired with surprise.

  “About a five minute drive,” Chris informed her. “Repentigny’s not a big town.”

  “I hope you don’t have any damage?”

  “No. We weren’t that close,” reassured Chris. “Apparently, the only real damage was to the house which got bombed.”

  “Well I’m glad you’re all right,” stated Sonia with concern. “It’s getting so we’re not safe no matter where we go. Not even in our own home.”

  “Yeah, the world ain’t perfect, that’s for sure,” Chris ruefully agreed as he headed for his office. “Anything special this morning?”

  “Willy’s in your office.”

  “Really? Good. What’s the possibility of you getting us a bit of coffee?”

  “Already served, sir,” she giggled bashfully. “Willy asked me if I could fetch you guys a pot. He’s such a sweetheart.”

  “Oh, and I’m not,” Chris snorted playfully as he entered his office.

  In shirtsleeves and, as usual, without a tie, Willy lazed luxuriously back in one of the leather armchairs, feet crossed on the coffee table. With a cup of coffee in one hand and a magazine in the other, he looked very comfortable, very much at home.

  “Hiya boss,” he grinned as Chris walked in, glancing over the magazine just long enough to deliver his greeting.

  “Morning, Willy,” Chris chuckled, shaking his head as he headed for his desk to rid himself of his briefcase and jacket.

  William Cobourne had joined Walter Olson just a few months after the latter had founded the company some twenty years earlier. He had been a cop with an attitude who, at the age of thirty-five, had been asked to resign from the force.

  He had not been asked to leave for having done anything illegal. In fact, Willy had probably been the most honest cop around. He had simply, over a ten year period, managed to get on the wrong side of the vast majority of the people he had worked with, including most of his superiors. When asked to resign, he had complied, but only after slugging his captain, naturally, without the presence of witnesses.

  Two days later, he had joined SecurInvestigations as Chief Investigator, then heading a team of two which had since grown to well over one hundred. From day one, he and Walter had never managed to spend more than five minutes in the same room without getting into an argument. However, Willy was excellent at what he did and had remained with Walter ever since and, although neither man would ever admit it, they were extremely fond of each other.

  “So, got anything for me?” Chris asked as he dropped into the vacant armchair and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Report’s on the table,” Willy sombrely replied, tossing the magazine aside as he looked up at Chris with grave eyes. “Got pictures too, boss. Everything to nail the man.”

  Chris picked up the envelope from the table and pulled out a sheaf of pages and photographs. He glanced through the pictures and then rapidly read through the written report, a grim expression on his face.

  Willy waited quietly for Chris to finish before speaking again. “You gonna go to his boss with this?”

  “I don’t have any choice, Willy,” Chris nodded grimly.

  “Too bad,” gloomily commented Willy, standing up. ‘I’ve always hated to see a cop go down.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Chris sadly agreed. “But I’m going to have to talk about this. Trust me, it’ll be for his own good. Thanks, Willy. You did a great job, as usual.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Willy grunted over his shoulder as he left the room.

  * * * *

  8:32 a.m. Carl Denver entered his office to find a Post-it note from Chris on his computer screen:

  Carl,

  McCall calle
d early this morning. Vigilante has struck again. Check Eazy-Com for transmissions around 10:30 p.m. last night to McCall and Henderson. Thanks,

  Chris

  Shrugging, he booted the PC and accessed Eazy-Com to verify for records of the message transmissions. Sure enough, they were there.

  Wearily, he repeated the process of erasing them, failing to understand why they kept appearing. But this never ending puzzle was really no longer a matter of concern. Tomorrow was retirement day.

  * * * *

  It was 11:45 a.m. and Dave McCall sat at a table at Le Mirada, impatiently awaiting Chris’ arrival. His friend had called him earlier that morning, urgently indicating that they had to meet to speak about Frank. A CSS investigator had followed Bakes the previous evening and Chris had some unpleasant news to report.

  Although Dave had not had any sleep for close to thirty hours, he remained surprisingly alert. There was no doubt that the previous night’s events had kept the adrenalin pumping and he was quite anxious to hear what Chris had to say about Frank. He also wished to discuss his concerns regarding Carl Denver, though he realized this might prove fruitless. It all depended on what Frank Bakes had done with his time the night before.

  “Which is something I’d know if Chris would only get here,” Dave muttered under his breath as he looked up at the restaurant entrance for the hundredth time.

  As if responding to a cue, Chris sauntered in and began scanning the dining area in search of McCall. Dave rose to his feet, waving his buddy over to the table.

  “Jesus, do you look like shit,” Chris smirked as he slid into the chair opposite McCall.

  “Thanks. Wish I could say the same about you,” Dave retorted, glaring down sourly at his rumpled suit. “I should have called you last night and had you join me.”

  “You should have,” Chris agreed, still amused. “I was only five minutes away. And there I was, just wasting my time, swimming and sleeping with my wife when I could have been up with you all night.”

  Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by the waitress’ arrival to take their orders. Upon her departure, Chris resumed the discussion.

  “So tell me about your evening. What else did you do besides chat with reporters and pose for the cameras?”

  “I was at the office late last night,” recounted Dave, ignoring his friend’s humour, “Trying to catch up on some paperwork. Around 10:30, the message from our pal came in on Eazy-Com, telling me about the explosion plus a throat slash in the backyard. I called the locals, they were already on their way then headed on down myself with Tim. When we got there, the place was a zoo.”

  He paused to light a cigarette from Chris’ pack and went on.

  “Cars all over the place, lots of curious neighbours milling around, local cops and the QPP trying to control the crowd. Fire trucks were there hosing the place down. Spent the whole night there and didn’t find squat, but at least I made Henderson happy. Gave him first run with some information around two in the morning then gave a general press conference around six. Called you around 6:30.”

  “No wonder you look like shit,” Chris commented sympathetically. “What was the final tally?”

  “End result is five dead guys, all gang members, including Scorpion, their leader, and one very tired cop. I don’t know how my wife puts up with me.”

  “It’s cuz you’re such a nice guy,” Chris encouraged with a grin.

  “Yeah, right,” grunted Dave. “So, that’s the story of my life. What about you? Anything exciting going on? Didn’t you want to talk about Frank?”

  Chris held off his reply as the waitress arrived with their lunch.

  Once she had gone, he hesitantly responded. “Like I told you, I had a guy following Frank last night.”

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced an envelope which he laid on the table and slid across to McCall.

  “My man is good, Dave,” he warned, his tone serious. “You’ve got a full report there and even some pictures of Frank in action. I wish this wasn’t true but it is. No doubt about it, you’ve got enough there to nail him.”

  McCall tore open the envelope and, feeling slightly nauseous, started looking through the photographs. The first depicted Frank as he entered what appeared to be a motel room. The next was of a woman, most likely a prostitute based on her attire, knocking on the door. Next, Frank opening the door. The remaining photos could have sold as high quality pornography. Chris’ man was very good. It was definitely Frank; that could not be argued. The idiot hadn’t even had the common sense to pull the drapes.

  McCall looked up at Chris, grinning from ear to ear, unable to hide his elation.

  Chris bore a similar expression as he spoke. “I guess Frank is not our man.”

  “Nope,” laughed McCall with relief. “Based on these, Frank may be Da Man but he’s not our man!”

  “You going to kick his ass?” Chris curiously enquired.

  “You’re damned right,” McCall replied. “Nothing official cuz he’s a good cop, but I’m gonna come down on him all right. Then I’ll probably kiss him.”

  “So, do you want me to pull my man off,” questioned Chris smugly. “Or do you want more pictures?”

  “No, this is more than enough,” Dave smirked. “I’m sure that Frank will be satisfied with these.”

  With the subject of Frank Bakes finally closed, both men fell silent as they turned their attention to their food. Following several minutes of steady eating, Dave resumed the conversation as he pushed his plate aside.

  “Now that Frank has an alibi, we need to talk about something else, Chris.”

  “Sure. What’s about?”

  “How well do you know Carl Denver?”

  “Funny you should bring him up, because I was going to,” Chris slowly responded. “To answer your question, not as well as I thought, but I’ll explain that after. Why do you ask?”

  “Well,” replied McCall, “Harris has been looking into owners of Chevy Astros and it turns out that Denver’s on the list.”

  “That’s right,” Chris confirmed. “I hadn’t really thought about it. He usually drives his Corvette.”

  “What colour’s his van? Do you know?”

  “Dark grey,” answered Chris. “Charcoal.”

  “Alright,” McCall went on. “So Carl owns a charcoal Chevy Astro. Next, we all suspect that the Vigilante is fairly at ease with computers and communication networks. I think you’ll agree with me that Mr. Denver is so qualified?”

  Chris nodded as the lieutenant continued.

  “You remember the sketch, Chris? Who would you say it reminds you of?”

  “Carl?” Chris replied questioningly. “So you think it might be him?”

  “I know that it’s flimsy right now,” Dave admitted. “But I think it deserves some looking into.”

  “I definitely agree,” stated Chris with determination. “Remember when I told you that I was working on something, monitoring systems?”

  “Yeah, when we played golf?” Dave curiously replied.

  “That’s right,” Chris confirmed. “Well, the monitoring I was doing was at CSS. Since we were looking for someone with strong computer skills, I figured what better place to start than in my own back yard. So I started tracking my brightest people, which included Carl.”

  He leaned forward, lowering his voice as he continued.

  “Now, lately, Carl’s been acting strange, he’s nervous, jumpy. It seemed to have started around the time we got involved with this case. Then, about a week ago, he starts bitching about how we’re wasting our time helping the cops with these Eazy-Com messages. His attitude bothered me, left me with the impression that he had something to hide so I started zeroing in on what he’s been doing on his PC.”

  “And?” Dave anxiously insisted.

  “I haven’t finished my analysis yet, but I can tell you that he has been doing some stuff that seems a little out of the ordinary.”

  “Like what?” enquired McCall, the adre
nalin starting to flow again.

  “It’s hard to say right now,” admitted Chris. “These reports are a lot of computer code. With the work I did yesterday, I can tell you that Carl has been tapping into Eazy-Com and making some systems changes. It may not be related to this case so I don’t want to jump the gun. I’m going to have to do some more digging, backtracking into records, to see what those changes were.”

  “But assuming it’s him,” McCall queried. “You’re suggesting that the guy ran back to his office every time he wanted to send a message? Why not use a PC at home? Wouldn’t that be a lot less risky?”

  “I doubt Carl owns a computer,” Chris explained. “It’s not worth it. We supply all our programming and development people with a portable, a notepad. And these are changed or upgraded every six months to keep them on the leading edge. So, to answer your question, no, he wouldn’t have to go to the office at all to send his messages. He’d just use the notepad.”

  “How the hell do you track what he’s doing on this notepad?” questioned Dave, becoming confused and frustrated.

  “Each notepad is linked to our network via wireless modems, making them simply an extension or terminal of each user’s PC at the office,” Chris explained. “This means that even if Carl used his notepad, I should be able to find something.”

  “Even if he erased the message?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Absolutely,” responded Chris, growing excited. “The monitoring I’ve been doing actually records everything which is done on the computer. Anything which is entered or erased; letters, numbers, backspaces, deletes, everything.”

  “So we might really have something here,” McCall mused. “How soon do you think you can figure this out?”