The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel (10 page)

I’ll
spare you the gory details because that isn’t what this is all about but
Nicholas Bertrand’s body was found the following day in one of the many wooded
areas in Mount-Royal Park. He had been beaten, though not too badly, with a
blunt object, probably a baseball bat, but a knife wound, a serious throat laceration,
was determined to be the cause of death. Both the media and police believed
Bertrand to be the thirteenth victim of the
Vigilante
and stated so publicly. Of course, they were absolutely right.

Next
in line was a gentleman, the term being used sarcastically, by the name of
Edouard ‘Eddy’ Racicot. Eddy was a bull of a man in his early fifties who’d had
ties with biker gangs all his life. Somewhat of a violent man, he had been
arrested several times on assault charges over the years and had served two
terms, eighteen months and thirty months because of his aggressive nature.

Three
years earlier, shortly after his second stint in a penal institution, Eddy had
become the proud owner of
La
Minoune
, roughly translated as ‘the female pussycat’, a
strip bar in the St-Henri district of Montreal. Investing accumulated funds
from past ventures as well as capital supplied by a couple of ‘silent’ minority
partners, Eddy had turned what was previously a dive into an almost respectable
club.

Business
had thrived and Eddy had generally behaved himself, at least sufficiently for
the authorities to turn down the radar on him… until a bit over a year earlier.
Within a period of three or four months, several of the ladies employed at Eddy’s
club had shown up at hospitals, having been beaten and sometimes raped. Each
had told varying stories of being grabbed off the street or followed then
attacked in their homes but all remained steadfast that their attackers had
been unknown to them.

The
detectives charged with investigating the cases had quickly become skeptical,
considering the obvious ‘Eddy’ connection then frustrated as the victims
fearfully insisted he or his club had nothing to do with their plight, even
though all had since quit working there and a few had hastily moved to other
living quarters. Attempts to question some of the women who remained employed
at the club had garnered similar results with brushoffs, no useful information
and always, a show of constant, underlying fear.

The
situation had remained unchanged until a further victim, Natalie
Labrosse
, had confided with a nurse that Eddy had been her
attacker. However, when the police had broached the subject with
Labrosse
, she had vehemently denied everything, stating
that the nurse had misunderstood or had a personal agenda of her own.

Three
days later, Linda
Hervieux
, another of the club’s
entertainers, had shown up at the hospital and demanded to see the police,
intent on pressing charges against Eddy Racicot. Within hours, Eddy had been
arrested and charged with the aggravated assault and rape of Linda
Hervieux
. Eddy, to his dismay, had been forced to spend
three nights and two days behind bars before his bail hearing.

Though
no traces of semen had been found in earlier cases, Eddy, who had become lazy,
stupid or brazen, had not used a condom with either
Labrosse
or
Hervieux
. The prosecution had successfully applied
pressure for expedited DNA results and presented these at the hearing,
demanding that Eddy be remanded without bail. However, the defence had argued
that Natalie
Labrosse
had no relation to the case and
that, though Eddy admitted to having had sex with
Hervieux
,
it had been consensual. The judgement had gone in Eddy’s favour and he had been
released on a $250,000 bond with an order to come no closer than five hundred
feet from his accuser at any time, pending trial.

The
trial date had been set for a couple of months later and Eddy had been on his
best behaviour as he waited, spending his time at the club during operating
hours and ensuring credible alibis at all times. In the interim, both Natalie
Labrosse
and Linda
Hervieux
had
disappeared, here today, gone tomorrow, without leaving a trace, never to be
seen again.

Efforts
had been made to find the two women but had proved fruitless. Natalie
Labrosse
had never formally accused Racicot, the only
suggestion of a crime being hearsay from a concerned nurse so she really had
nothing to do with the approaching trial. As for Linda
Hervieux
,
it had become a question of her word against his so without her presence to
further convince a judge or jury, there was little point in going to court.
Though the police and the prosecution were convinced Eddy Racicot was guilty,
the case was eventually dropped as nothing could be done without evidence.

Well,
I wouldn’t say nothing… Come on… Really?

Sunday
nights were slow in the strip bar business, as far as I had determined from my
research and observations at
La
Minoune
. Though the club remained open until three in
the morning, the small parking lot was barely a quarter full by midnight and
nearly deserted by two. I had been in the club since ten and biding my time in
a tiny room used for storage behind the bathroom since midnight, waiting until
the close of business to have a chat with Eddy.

The
room I had settled in had one small window overlooking the parking lot and, at
almost half past two, I saw two guys stumble across to one of four remaining
cars, get in and slowly drive away. Over the next ten minutes, I could hear
some murmuring, laughing and the occasional shout as remaining staff seemed to
be lining up to call it a night. Shortly after, I recognized the doorman and a
bartender as they made their way to their vehicles, each accompanied by two
ladies, likely the remaining dancers, either off for a late night party or,
more likely, simply giving them a ride.

Regardless,
that was the least of my concerns as now only one car remained in the lot, Eddy’s
1994 Cadillac Seville STS. A couple of previous surveillance visits had me
convinced that the big man was now alone in the building, well, besides me. It
was always possible that he had one of the ladies with him for some after-hours
private entertainment but past observations had revealed nothing of the sort.
In addition, though I certainly didn’t consider the man to be a genius by any
means, I figured he was smart enough to stay away from the games which had
nearly landed him behind bars just a few months earlier.

Hearing
nothing after a couple of minutes, I eased the door of the storage room open,
confident the hinges would not give me away, thanks to a pocket-sized can of
WD-40 I had thoughtfully brought with me. The hinges remained silent, which was
a good thing since Eddy happened to amble right past the short corridor which
led to the bathroom and storage room beyond, just as I poked my head out.

Seconds
later, I heard the clinking of ice dropping in a glass, followed shortly by the
tinkling of the cubes as liquid was pour atop them. Another moment went by and
Eddy returned, armed with a snifter filled almost to the brim with some amber
liqueur, perhaps Amaretto or maybe Grand Marnier but hopefully not cognac on
ice, for heaven’s sake.

I
followed immediately, trailing behind him as he entered the far room to the
right at the end of the hallway, the one marked ‘PRIVATE’ next to the rear
exit. He seemed to sense a presence as he crossed the carpeted floor of the
fair-sized room and began to turn toward me. I swung my baseball bat like a pro,
literally batting the snifter out of his grip while fracturing a good number of
the twenty-seven bones generally found in the average human hand.

He
yelped in pain, a high-pitched squeal, in fact, which left me surprised
considering a man of his robust stature and reputation. However, the moment was
not appropriate to comment on his disappointing vocal reaction because, as I’ve
mentioned, Eddy was a big guy and known for physical nastiness.

That
said, as he instinctively doubled over to cradle his damaged hand with the
other between his knees, I wound up again and whacked him sort of on the side
of the head, more like just below the left ear, catching a mix of jaw and neck.
Whatever the appropriate anatomical terms might be, he fell over and let loose
another yelp.

Still
keeping the ‘big guy/assault convict’ theme in mind, I swung the bat again,
with rather precise aim, and actually winced when I heard the crack of his
kneecap. However, keeping with the old, ‘better safe than sorry’ adage, I
delivered two more solid blows, just to make sure he didn’t suddenly up and run
out on me or worse, at me. After all, it was almost three in the morning so I
wanted to get things done.

He
curled up into a big, tight ball but as soon as he sensed the initial attack
was past, he rolled back to look at me and shouted, “You are dead, mother–”

As
he expressed these words, he made the mistake of pointing at me with his yet
uninjured hand and arm and, well, I interrupted his statement with another
swing of the bat, quite probably breaking his radius and ulna. As I’ve
mentioned in the past, I’m not a doctor so please don’t quote me on anything
medical. These are guesses at best and may not be accurate. Anyhow…

“I’m
in damned better shape that you are, moron,” I told him.

He
wiped the tears from his eyes on his shoulders then looked up at me with a
grin. “You are going to regret the day some drunk sailor fucked your whore of a
mother.”

“Holy
crap, did you know my old man?” I exclaimed, looking perplexed.

“What?”
he asked, confused by my reaction.

I
bashed him three, well, maybe four times with the bat before replying. “He
might have been a drunk but don’t you bad-mouth my mother.”

By
now, I think I had hurt him enough that he was starting to take me seriously.

“Okay,
what’s this shit about?” he demanded, trying to back away and reposition
himself as painlessly as possible. “I don’t know who the hell you are so I don’t
know who the hell your old man or your mother was, okay?”

“Don’t
worry about it, Ed,” I replied. “Is it okay if I call you Ed?”

He
stared at me, almost in awe, though awe is probably not the right word. “What
are you? Fucking crazy? You come in here and beat the shit out of me and ask me
if you can call me Ed? What the fuck is that about?”

“You
swear a lot,” I replied, mostly to annoy him. “Anyway, the reason I asked if I
could call you Ed was because you are such fucking trash that I was hoping to
save the extra syllable needed to call you Eddy.”

The
look he gave me then can only be described as incredulous.

“You’re
a fucking basket-case,” he almost whispered, with the same awe I mentioned
earlier. “You’re a psychopath.”

“Okay,
Ed-
dy
,” I replied, becoming serious. “If we’re going
to start with the name calling, fine. You’re a rapist and a murderer. You’re a
lot of other shit as well but those two are more than enough for me to deal
with you.”

“Ah,
that’s what this is about,” he said. “Not that I did any of the shit you’re
saying but was one them bitches your sister or what? Your wife, maybe?”

“Never
met or saw either one of them in my life,” I replied. “That’s not the point.”

He
grinned again then asked, “So, what’s the point?”

“You
fucked up big time and now you have to pay,” I told him. “You can redeem
yourself, just a little bit, and tell me what happened to Natalie and Linda.
Where are they?”

This
time, he laughed. “You could beat me to death, asshole, and I’d never tell you.”

I
smiled back at him and said, “You know what, Eddy? For some crazy reason, I was
hoping you’d say that.”

Eddy
Racicot never did tell me where the bodies of Natalie
Labrosse
and Linda
Hervieux
had ended up but I hadn’t expected
he would. He was a tough guy to the end but he still paid for what he had done.
I felt sorry for the missing ladies as well as their families and friends but I
had done all I could with Ed… Win some, lose some… Such is life…

Next
on my prospect list was a twenty-five year old slug who had only himself to
blame for his lot in life. Jean-Jacques
Lalonde
,
known by many as JJ, had everything laid out for him, if only he had wanted to
grasp it and make the requisite effort. His father, Cyril
Lalonde
,
an honest, hard-working man, had gone from humble beginnings to build a well-respected
local empire of automobile dealerships, able to satisfy customers favouring
products of Michigan origins as well as those whose tastes leaned toward
foreign makes and models.

Had
JJ so desired, he could have been flashing business cards with a president’s
title by the age of twenty-two, though dad had insisted on an undergraduate
degree for that option. Lesser options had existed if higher studies didn’t
mesh well with the boy’s vision. Twelve distinct car dealerships plus an
administrative head office for the holding company offered a multitude of
employment opportunities ranging from clerical to finance to trades to sales.
The problem was, JJ was lazy and didn’t see why he should have to do anything
considering his father’s millions.

Cyril
had warned his son on a number of occasions, all while exercising patience but
had finally given up in disgust, ironically on JJ’s twenty-second birthday,
giving the boy ten thousand dollars in cash as a start-up fund and kicking him
out of the house.

JJ,
and his wad of bills, had initially been greeted with open arms by a number of
friends. However, after a couple of months, as the bankroll dwindled to nothing
and it became clear there wasn’t any more coming from where that had come from,
the party was over. He was welcome to stay with any of a number of friends and
acquaintances but, the saying holds true with all walks of life, there’s no
free lunch… or dinner, booze, drugs and lodgings, for that matter.

He
was staying with a buddy, Arnaud was the guy’s name, when the notice, so to
speak, was delivered. Arnaud, who was a nice enough guy but who also became
physical when he had to prove a point, had asked JJ for a hundred bucks to
cover for expenses over the last couple of days. When JJ had informed Arnaud
that he didn’t have any money, the latter had told him that trying to eat with
a broken jaw or walk with a broken leg was not the kind of problem anyone
wanted to deal with. Though cash was preferred, items which could be easily
pawned or sold with a similar street value, plus an additional fifty percent ‘
gotta
deal with it’ fee, were also accepted.

As
mentioned, Arnaud was a nice enough guy so he had been willing to give JJ some
coaching, which had basically amounted to, “bust into some houses, steal some
shit and sell it for cash or give me the shit to deal with for a fifty percent
premium.” Arnaud had specified his right to refuse any shit he felt he couldn’t
move with ease.

Faced
with the prospect of no place to live while dealing with severely damaged body
parts, JJ had contacted a few people who he knew were active in the B&E
trade, begging for assistance in his plight. Two of these, a married couple in
fact, who made a fairly decent living with their home theft business had let
pity sway them and agreed to train and coach JJ through active participation
for a nominal cut of the take.

Over
time, JJ had honed his skills and eventually gone solo, allowing him to forego
having to trust anyone else on a job or split the proceeds. With practice, he
had become rather proficient at his craft, often targeting homes in some more upscale
sectors which he had become familiar with over the years, thanks to his father.

Barring
the fact that his means of support were completely illegal, things had been
going relatively well for JJ… that is, until Paul
Sauvageau
,
the owner of a home he was burglarizing, walked in on him and all had gone to
hell.

The
sad fact of the matter was, JJ had been given a chance to leave. Unbeknownst to
JJ,
Sauvageau’s
wife and another couple had also been
present and the three had witnessed the ordeal, audibly to start and visibly as
it ended.

The
two couples had spent the afternoon on the
Sauvageaus
’
boat and returned to the hosts’ home for steaks on the grill. JJ had been
unaware of their arrival until Paul
Sauvageau
had
walked in on him in the master bedroom. In a nutshell,
Sauvageau
had told JJ that he best leave the premises because, he,
Sauvageau
,
was going to get one of his guns and would shoot JJ if he was still there when
he returned.

The
smart thing for JJ to do would have been to head for the nearest exit and
hightail it out of there. In fact, the home in question was a single level
ranch-style and the master bedroom had French doors leading to a terrace which
offered an easy exit. Instead of leaving, JJ had grabbed the heavy,
wrought-iron poker by the master bedroom fireplace, run after
Sauvageau
who had stormed off into the hallway and bashed
him in the head, killing him. Upon seeing the other man and two women rushing
toward him down the hallway, he had done what he should have in the first place…
He had hightailed it out onto the terrace and got away.

Unfortunately,
it hadn’t been JJ’s lucky day. The beater he had been driving, which was parked
on the next block, wouldn’t start when he got to it, due to a humidity
sensitive distributor cap. It was a problem he was familiar with, usually
solved by drying out the humidity with a quick blast from a propane torch, one
of which he kept in the trunk for exactly that purpose.

However,
as I mentioned, not JJ’s lucky day… While he was under the hood messing with
the distributor cap and the propane torch, a patrol car happened to cruise down
the street. The neighbourhood in question was not the type where folks did
their own auto-mechanics curb-side, particularly not on nine year old AMC
Hornets. This said, one can understand why the cops stopped to see if there was
a problem.

For
better, or worse, sometimes it’s all in the timing. A call had been made to the
police from the
Sauvageau
home, probably while JJ had
still been on the property. The radio dispatch subsequent to that call had been
transmitted just as one officer was asking JJ if he needed any assistance.
Thirty seconds later, JJ was being ordered to drop the propane torch and lay
flat on the pavement with his arms and legs spread, two police issue handguns
aimed at his torso as the order was issued. Less than a minute after that, JJ
was handcuffed and being assisted into the back seat of the patrol car.

Fast-forward
several months… The legal/justice system is not a perfect science. I won’t
pretend to be an expert on the subject because I’m not. However, I do consider
myself a reasonably intelligent man with a fair dose of logic and common sense
thrown in for good measure and, there are limits to acceptable imperfection.

Good
lawyers cost money and excellent lawyers cost even more. Cyril
Lalonde
, JJ’s father, through hard, honest work, had
accumulated money… Apparently enough to afford excellent representation for his
once disowned son. Forget about any murder charges in the death of Paul
Sauvageau
. The case had not even made it to trial. A plea
had been entered, involuntary manslaughter in self-defence with a sentence
trial pending. A court date would eventually be set for the B&E thing but,
hey, that was no big deal, no rush.

While
all things pended, JJ had been remanded to his father’s custody, which meant he
had moved back into a mansion where he was provided for, didn’t have to do
anything, ate and drank whatever he wanted, as long as he behaved himself. The ‘house
arrest’, so to speak, had even included several stays at the family’s lakeside
vacation home in the
Laurentians
. Training for future
incarceration… Right…

Following
a few months of this arrangement however, JJ was probably getting antsy and
Papa was probably getting tired of the boy’s whining. Small outings, without
surveillance, began to take place. A party with a few friends here, dinner with
other friends there, an evening at a show bar with a few buddies… None of the
rough and tough crowd JJ had originally gravitated to but still, he was going
out again, drinking, smoking joints, snorting the occasional line, enjoying
life.

Don’t
get me wrong here. It’s not like I’m criticizing the fact the boy and his dad
weren’t respecting the agreement they had with the court. If there ever was a
time I applauded someone defying the law, this was definitely that time. JJ would
be a hell of a lot easier to get at if he was out somewhere versus holed up in
the big, secured, walled-in and gated property these folks called home.

In
the end, JJ proved to be somewhat of a disappointment and dealing with him was
almost anticlimactic, so deserving was he of his demise. In my tracking of JJ’s
outings, I had noted recently that on Thursdays, he would go to a strip bar
near the airport, alone, and sit for a couple hours, having a few drinks while
he watched the ladies perform. I had been there twice, watching him, and he
hadn’t met up with anyone. He was simply there for the show.

Not
wishing to make my presence too noticed in the posh, waterfront sector of
Roxboro which the
Lalondes
called home, I had gone on
the assumption that JJ would be heading to the strip bar for the evening and,
if past practice meant anything, he’d show up around nine. On this basis, I had
arrived thirty minutes early, parked in the rather vast and mostly empty lot
located in the rear and settled comfortably behind the tinted windows in the
back of the minivan to observe. Surrounded by warehouse or manufacturing
facilities, the area was pretty deserted at this time so I doubted anyone had
noticed my arrival and were on their way to see what I was up to.

My
plan had been that, worst case scenario, JJ wouldn’t show up, I’d have wasted a
bit of time and I’d go home. However, a couple of minutes before nine, bless
his heart, he rolled into the lot in the red RX-7, one of two of daddy’s cars
he liked to use, the other being the dark blue 300ZX. Owning a dozen car
dealerships has its privileges. He parked and headed inside, I waited ten
minutes and followed.

The
number of customers inside correlated well with the number of cars in the lot,
maybe fifteen to twenty guys, some in small groups, a scattering of loners plus
a doorman, two waitresses and a barmaid. I sat at a table, a couple over and
one behind from JJ, ordered a beer and waited while I watched.

Over
the next hour, JJ did what he had done on previous visits, leaving his table
and heading to the washroom every ten to fifteen minutes, just a minute or two
at a time before returning to enjoy the show. After that hour, when he was on
his fifth drink and as many bathroom cocaine runs, I picked up my second beer
and went over to join him.

“Hey,
there,” I said. “Mind if I sit for a minute.”

He
glanced at me and smiled. “Suit yourself, mister.”

I
sat down and said, “If I’m being too nosey here, just tell me and I’ll leave
you alone, okay?”

He
smiled at me again, riding nice and confident on his buzz. “Sure thing, buddy.
What do you want to know?”

“I
almost feel dumb now,” I said, “But, are you JJ
Lalonde
?”

“I
might be,” he replied. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Shit,
no,” I said with a grin, “But I know you from television, on the news with the
whole trial and stuff. You’re like a star.”

He
grinned back at me. “I’m a star?”

“Hell,
yeah,” I insisted. “Me and my buddies at the shop, we followed the whole thing
on the news and we were rooting for you. Always nice to see someone kick the
system’s ass.”

He
turned toward me, interested and asked, “That’s how you guys saw it? I kicked
the system’s ass?”

“Damned
right, that’s what you did,” I confirmed. “Busted into some rich bastard’s
place, knocked him off and you’re sitting here with me talking about it. How
the hell you did it is what I’d like to know. Was the judge your grandpa or
what?”

JJ
laughed, enjoying the celeb-like attention. “No, it wasn’t that but something
just as good. My dad has more money than the rich asshole I whacked so he’s
paying for all these hotshot lawyers. Before this whole thing is over, he’ll
probably sue the damned cops for putting us through all this shit.”

“Wow,”
I said, looking utterly amazed. “So, it’s just that easy?”

“
Yessir
,” he replied. “All you need is a rich old man who’ll
pay anything to keep from getting his name smeared.”