The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel (11 page)

“Damn,”
I said, totally awed. “What about that guy you, uh, whacked? You feel bad for
him at all or, like, whatever?”

He
grinned again and said, “Whatever. Look, nice chatting with you but I have to
use the bathroom.”

“No
problem,” I said, standing. “I
gotta
get out of here,
anyway. Early shift tomorrow. Thanks for letting me chat with you.”

“Whatever,”
he repeated with a wink and a smile as he left the table.

I
headed back outside, moved the minivan close to his car then settled down for
another hour or so. When he came out, I waited until he was opening his door to
get in then closed in on him from behind, my knife at the ready.

Lieutenant
Dave McCall certainly wasn’t happy with me and, to be honest, I can’t say I
blamed him. His job was to find, catch and stop killers and, I admit, I
qualified, but he was batting zero when it came to me, consistent strike-outs,
15-0 in my favour. I had watched his most recent press conference, the one
relating to JJ’s demise and he had actually looked me in the eye, through the
camera lens, of course, and told me, “I am going to get you.” I’m not kidding
when I tell you, I got a chill.

Cyril
Lalonde
had held a press conference of his own,
condemning the police for their shoddy work which had resulted in the death of
his only son, a young man with so much to live for and a promising life ahead
of him which had now been shattered forever. Insinuations of a lawsuit against
the city and police had been made but the media, led by Henderson at the
Gazette
, quickly encouraged
Lalonde
to reconsider with reports and articles revisiting
JJ’s own B&E/murder incident at the
Sauvageau
residence.

Anyhow,
as bad as I felt for Lieutenant McCall, an obviously dedicated professional and
presumably a nice guy, I had a potential prospect on the slate and, depending
how things worked out, I just might be upping the score to 16-0.

Nguyen
Ty and his wife,
Mui
, had immigrated to Canada in the
late seventies, determined to start a new, better life in order to provide for
their two young sons. They had settled in Montreal in 1980 and opened a
convenience store in the Plateau district which would remain their livelihood until
the evening of February 7, 1996, when a man had entered their establishment,
demanded the contents of the cash register at gunpoint then shot them both dead
before leaving.

Huu
, their younger son, who had been
in the family’s home in the apartment above the convenience store, had heard
the shots, two sets of two, and hurried to the front window to see a person
running out from below and disappearing down the street. From above, all he
could see was someone in a bulky winter coat, possibly a parka or a heavy ski
jacket. The subject’s build suggested a male but it could have been a female. A
toque worn on the suspect’s head had prevented him from even determining the
person’s hair colour or length.

Neighbours,
a couple in the home immediately adjacent to the
Nguyens
’
business, had also heard the gun shots and rushed to the front door, cautiously
opening it to see what was going on. They had seen a man, possibly in his late
twenties or early thirties, come out of the store next door and run down the
sidewalk in front of them. He had glanced in their direction as he passed,
prompting the husband to pull his wife back inside to protect her and slam the
door shut. Both had insisted the suspect was male, of solid build and in his
thirties but the description was based on a moment’s glance.

In
a grainy, black and white staccato sequence, the soundless security tape from
the store showed a stocky male Caucasian of approximately five feet ten inches
tall wearing a tight knit cap pulled down close to his eyebrows enter the store
with his hands in his coat pockets. The single security camera was mounted to
the ceiling in the centre of the small store and positioned to capture images
of the door and service counter to one side. Once inside, the suspect moved
toward the back of the store, presumably to check if any customers were in the
aisles. In so doing, he inadvertently offered the camera a decent facial shot
as he approached before moving out of view as he passed under it.

He
returned after a moment with a bag of chips in hand and headed to the cash
register where Mrs. Nguyen waited while her husband restocked cigarette
displays on the wall behind the counter. When
Mui
rang up the purchase and requested payment, the suspect pulled out a handgun
from his coat packet, pointed it at her and presumably demanded the contents of
the cash register.

She
turned to her husband who immediately nodded and gestured with his hands as he
spoke, likely telling her to do what the man asked because she then proceeded
to pull out the stacks of bills from the cash drawer. Once done, she held out
the wad which the robber grabbed and stuffed into his coat pocket.

Mr.
Nguyen then said something to the robber and pointed to the door, presumably
telling him to leave, now that he had their money. In response, the robber
raised his handgun and fired two shots, both hitting the store owner in the
forehead. As Nguyen crumpled to the floor, the thief turned to a shocked Mrs.
Nguyen and shot her twice in the chest before bolting out the door. Both Ty and
Mui
died instantly.

There
were no other witnesses besides the three previously mentioned and what they
had seen would serve no purpose in identifying the killer. The only evidence
available was the security tape which did lead the police to
Yvon
Duhaime
, thanks to mug shots
from previous arrests which, coincidently, had been for armed robbery.

Duhaime
had
subsequently been arrested and charged with armed robbery and murder. However,
with only a grainy black and white facial shot going for the prosecution, the
case was weak and
Duhaime’s
attorney had easily
produced dozens of photos of other men who could have performed the despicable
crime. The case had been dismissed without ever getting to trial.

I
had followed the story in the papers, on the news and, yes, I had looked into
some information sources I technically wasn’t supposed to. I couldn’t disagree
with the flimsy evidence but, I just didn’t like
Duhaime
so I worked some time into my busy schedule to keep an eye on him. I just
figured that he’d either show me he wasn’t such a bad guy or he’d screw up on
my watch and regret it.

I
followed
Duhaime
sporadically several times to see what
he was up to but he did nothing remotely wrong on those occasions. Yet, nothing
indicated that he worked for a living so he had to be getting money from
somewhere. I figured he was laying low for a little while in the wake of the
Nguyen incident or simply hadn’t committed any robberies on the evenings I had
followed him. However, I had a feeling that sooner or later, he would return to
his naughty ways on my watch. As it turns out, I was right.

Duhaime
lived in the
Rosemont sector near St-Michel Boulevard and Belanger Street and, based on
earlier surveillance, tended to remain local in his outings, shopping at nearby
stores and frequenting neighbourhood bars and eateries. With this in mind, I
wondered what he might be up to around ten that evening when he left his
apartment, went to the corner on Belanger and boarded the 95 bus eastbound
shortly after.

I
followed and roughly fifteen minutes later,
Duhaime
got off the bus. I pulled over then watched as he crossed the street and
backtracked a short block, heading toward a two storey strip mall across the
street from where I had stopped. The top floor consisted of apartments, any one
of which might be
Duhaime’s
destination. A half dozen
businesses occupied the ground floor though four were closed at this time of
the evening. Of the two remaining, one was a seedy looking billiards bar and
the last, in perfect view from where I sat, was a convenience store.

I
watched as
Duhaime
cut through the almost vacant
parking lot, clearly not heading to any of the darkened locales or apartments
at the far end of the building. He continued his trek, eliminating
possibilities as he went until it became clear he was going to the convenience
store, unless he walked straight by… which he didn’t.

He
entered and, through the glass door, I saw him glance at the clerk behind the
counter to his left as he headed toward the back of the store and disappeared
from sight. He returned a moment later with a six-pack of beer which he placed
on the counter… before reaching inside his windbreaker and pulling out a
handgun.

I’m
not a religious man but I prayed he wouldn’t shoot the clerk who, even from a
distance, I could tell was barely more than a kid. I could have rushed over to
try to intervene but not without putting myself at risk in more ways than one.
The clerk stepped back and raised his hands then lowered them as he approached
the counter again, likely to empty the till as ordered.

I
saw
Dumaine
reach over the counter with his free hand
before stuffing something, the cash, no doubt, into the pocket of his jeans.
This was it – the moment I feared was upon us. It seemed as time slowed as I
watched
Duhaime
take a step toward the door then
pause as he pulled the trigger before rushing out and disappearing northbound
up the side street.

I
stomped on the accelerator and u-turned across Belanger and into the parking
lot. As I stopped in front of the store, I saw the clerk’s head appear from
behind the counter as he dared peek to see if the coast was clear. When he
stood completely, albeit on shaky legs, I could see he wasn’t injured, or at
least not seriously and deemed it was time to go.

I
pulled onto the side street, looking to see if I could spot
Duhaime
and, as I glanced to my left behind another larger strip mall on the opposite
corner, I saw him running in the distance, heading west. My guess was that he’d
cut back to Belanger past the strip mall and catch the bus back home.

I
turned around and returned to Belanger as well, hanging a right to head back to
Duhaime’s
neighbourhood. As I approached
Lacordaire
Boulevard, the next intersection, I noticed
Duhaime
waiting at the bus stop on the corner. Not a
complete idiot, the black windbreaker he had been wearing was now pale grey –
it was reversible – and the red ball cap had been switched for a black one.

The
light was red so I stopped with
Duhaime
standing
barely a dozen feet from me. If I’d had a gun of my own, I could have popped
him right there and gone home. However, I didn’t have one and wouldn’t have
taken the chance even if I had. The light turned green and I drove off, smiling
as I noticed the 95 westbound bus coming in behind me.

I
made it back to
Duhaime’s
neck of the woods several
minutes ahead of him which gave me time to park further up the street and get
in position to wait for him.
Duhaime
lived on 12
^th
Avenue, one block east of St-Michel and half a block south of Belanger. An
alley ran parallel to Belanger between 12
^th
and St-Michel and I knew
Duhaime
would either walk it on his way home or at
least walk by it on 12
^th
. Though I hoped he’d choose the first, either
option would put him close enough to the trash containers where I’d be waiting.

I
saw the bus go by and got into position between two of the containers, crouched
somewhat but peering over the top of the trash receptacle toward St-Michel. If
he didn’t appear at the far end of the alley within a minute, I’d know to
expect him on the other side in a couple of minutes. Luck was on my side and he
rounded the far corner into the alley thirty seconds later.

I
crouched lower, wishing to be completely out of sight, even though the unlit
alley was shrouded in darkness. I listened intently for his footsteps as I
counted the seconds but heard nothing as he probably was wearing rubber-soled
shoes. I then heard a slight, gritty sliding sound – perhaps his foot had
brushed a patch of sandy dirt – and knew his appearance was imminent. Seconds
later, he strolled right by me, oblivious of my presence and his impending
fate.

I
also wore rubber-soled shoes and
Duhaime
never heard
me, never had a chance. As soon as he passed, I was up and behind him. I
slapped my right hand to his forehead, yanking him toward me as I raised a knee
into his back. The knife in my left hand went to his throat and with one
perfectly executed slash, it was over.

I
wiped my blade on his windbreaker then closed the knife and slipped it into my
pocket before dragging him back a few feet to where I had waited for him
seconds before. A quick scan of the area confirmed the absence of any witness,
always a good thing. I left the alley and headed half a block down to where I
had parked, got in the minivan and drove home.