The First Sixteen

The Vigilante Series Prequel

A novella by

Claude Bouchard

THE FIRST SIXTEEN

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2014 by Claude Bouchard

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

Published by Claude Bouchard

Dedication

On June 28, 2014, a fine Saturday morning grew dark and dreary with the news of the passing of Jack Stevens. More than a talented musical artist, Jack was a gentleman, a caring, compassionate soul and a bundle of positive energy who left us far too soon.

This book is dedicated to you, Jack… May you rest in peace, my friend…

Jack Stevens

November 3, 1965 - June 27, 2014

Table of Contents

Prologue - An Introduction

#1 - The mugger - Saturday, December 23, 1995

#2 - Chester Jackson - Monday, January 22, 1996

#3 - Mathieu Masson - Tuesday, February 20, 1996

#4 - Maxime Leclerc - Friday, February 23, 1996

#5 - Gary O’Connor - Wednesday, February 28, 1996

#6 - Pierre Brault - Friday, March 1, 1996

#7 - Henri Castonguay - Monday, March 4, 1996

#8 - Etienne Jean - Wednesday, May 1, 1996

#9 - Rick Bourque - Thursday, May 9, 1996

#10 - Ghislain Blouin - Tuesday, May 14, 1996

#11 - Philippe Robitaille - Friday, May 17, 1996

#12 - Emile Jean - Friday, May 24, 1996

#13 - Nicholas Bertrand - Wednesday, May 29, 1996

#14 - Edouard Racicot - Sunday, June 2, 1996

#15 - Jean-Jacques Lalonde - Thursday, June 6, 1996

#16 - Yvon Duhaime - Monday, June 10, 1996

Epilogue

Books by Claude Bouchard

Prologue - An Introduction

I guess I should start by telling you a little about myself though I really can’t tell you too much. You see, if I did, you might figure out who I really am, which could be devastating to my future… or yours. However, I can and should tell you enough so you can grasp what I am or, more specifically, what I did and why I did it.

You see, we all have different morals and visions of life and justice so chances are you would never even consider taking the path I did. I fully understand that and certainly don’t hold it against you because I respect your opinion and your values. I simply hope you’ll respect mine in return, even if you don’t agree with how I’ve dealt, and still deal, with things.

So, about me. I was born in Montreal in March of 1962. The actual day isn’t important. We do want to maintain some anonymity, right? Anyhow, I do and I’m writing this so I get to establish the rules. Moving along.

I don’t remember my father much because he died when I was six but I do remember he cared about my mom, my sister, Donna, and me. We didn’t see him much during the week, except when it was really cold in the winter, because he worked at the port, unloading boats or something to do with cranes and forklifts. Even then, he’d usually find a temporary job in a warehouse somewhere, because he had to provide for his family which mom said he always did.

He was up early in the morning and was gone to work when we got up. Sometimes he’d come back home in the afternoon and spend some time with me and Donna when she got back from school but, usually, he’d work some overtime and would only get back home once I was in bed. Mom often muttered about him being at the tavern which I later learned meant he was off drinking and not always working overtime. However, he did care for us and provide for us. Even mom said that for years after he died, actually until she passed away herself. He just had a weakness for alcohol, which is what killed him in the end when he drove a forklift off the pier and into the side of a container ship.

After my dad died, mom found herself a job as a cashier with a major supermarket chain but the money wasn’t great with two growing kids and, let’s face it, she was lonely, so she started seeing some men. They came and went, some sticking around for a bit but, in the end, with Donna and me around, none of them stuck it out for very long as they were looking for mom’s full attention.

That went on until I was eight or so, to my sister’s thirteen, when mom started seeing Jean. He was a machinist in some big automotive shop and he often smelled like my dad had… alcohol. I didn’t like him from the start and neither did Donna but mom seemed to and he was the first one who appeared to be willing to stick around. In fact, he was willing enough that he moved into the small house mom was renting in east-end Montreal within a couple of months. Before long, I started getting the impression that mom wasn’t completely happy with the situation but, as she mentioned from time to time, he did bring in a paycheque and money was never something to turn one’s nose at.

My dad had been an alcoholic, I get that now, but he had been the gentle type who drank himself into oblivion and slept it off until it was time to get going for the next day. Jean, as it turned out, was the type who became angry and violent when he drank and, unfortunately, drunk was a state he got into on a regular basis. Shortly after moving in with us, he began beating mom, first when more intoxicated and then without even having too many belts in him. It wasn’t too long before he began taking swipes at me for no reason besides his mood and soon after, at Donna as well… But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The problem with Donna was, she was going on fourteen by then and was starting to look more and more like a woman instead of a girl. I had noticed it myself and I was only nine, not to mention that she was my sister… Still, Jean had noticed it too and it started becoming a problem. When mom wasn’t around, he’d pat Donna on the butt sometimes or mention about how much she was turning into a little lady. As time went by, he became more assertive, making lewd or suggestive comments, but Donna kept to herself, never bringing anything up with mom, probably because she thought mom would never believe her over him.

Through all of this, I had been a witness to much but, I was just a kid, what could I do? I was only nine years old and he had already slapped the crap out of me often enough by then, just for the hell of it. I wasn’t too keen on goading him to beat on me any more than he already did. Then came the day when he got home drunk and raped Donna. I was ten, she was fifteen…

I saw it happen. I witnessed the whole thing from my secret place up in the attic through the ventilation grate. I never told anyone about what I saw back then but something changed in me that day… something told me I would have to correct those wrongs. Donna never spoke about it to me, nor did mom, but I’m sure they talked about it together because a lot of screaming went on that night and Jean was gone when I got up the next morning. Still, his being gone just didn’t make things right. It just wasn’t enough.

A couple of quiet years went by after that. Mom stopped seeing anyone even though some guys she worked with or met somewhere showed some interest. Donna and me kept on going to school and were doing quite well. Some martial arts courses became available after class and just attracted me so I started to train. It made me feel good to work out and let out some energy, all while keeping control inside. I asked Donna to come a few times but she wasn’t interested. In fact, she seemed interested in less and less as time was going by.

By the time she was seventeen, she didn’t seem to care about much at all. She was doing drugs, I know because I saw her using them. She smoked pot and hash but also took pills and snorted stuff, maybe coke but who could know for sure. I had even found a syringe in her dresser once so she was into all kinds of crap. When I had tried to talk to her about it once, she had just laughed then told me not to worry, to mind my own business and to keep my damned mouth shut.

She left home a couple of months before turning eighteen and, though I heard from her a few times over the next two or three years, she eventually simply disappeared, without a word, without a trace. That forever left me with a deep sense of frustration and despair since Donna had been a smart, beautiful person with so much promise but her life had been ruined because of the senseless, selfish actions of an evil person.

Life went on, I grew older, finished high school and found a job as an office clerk with a computer consulting firm downtown because I didn’t like depending on mom for money. She didn’t earn that much with her cashier’s job to begin with and needed everything she had to keep a roof over our heads. I had to argue with her along the way to let me pay room and board but she finally relented and admitted she could use the extra cash.

I worked hard, did what was needed to get ahead and moved forward professionally. Along the way, I was fortunate enough to meet the woman who would become my partner for life. With her, I could share my frustrations and anger, just as she could share hers with me. We had both suffered a loss due to senseless violence so we each fully understood how the other felt. The overall problem, we both agreed, was there seemed to be nothing we could really do about it besides endure the pain.

More time went by and we continued to console one another, often simply by drawing strength from other’s presence in silence as compared to discussing the issues which plagued us. I never planned what would eventually happen and I know she certainly didn’t either since she was never involved when these events took place.

However, she was fully aware of what was going on because I told her everything and she agreed with what I was doing because it served as a therapy as much for her as it did for me. Once the process had started, purely by accident, as it was, we both knew the day would come when our wounds would be sufficiently healed and this therapy would no longer be required. That day did come, our final day of reckoning, after which all remained was our invisible but endurable scars… We were at peace.

#1 - The mugger - Saturday, December 23, 1995

As I mentioned before, none of this had ever been planned. It all started by accident though it was likely much more a question of destiny, of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or, perhaps I should actually say, being at the right place at the right time.

It was two days before Christmas. A couple of years earlier, problems with her knee had led my retired mother to require a cane to get around without having to worry about finding herself sprawled out on the ground somewhere. When the problem had arisen, one of her friends had given her a cane leftover from a deceased parent, an ugly, battered aluminum thing, which she had been using since. I never liked that cane so, for Christmas, I had a wood sculptor my wife knew make her a worthy one, a hand-carved hickory affair, a true work of art which I knew my mother would love.

I had gone to pick up the finished piece at the sculptor’s apartment and was heading back to where I had parked the car when I was suddenly grabbed from behind and shoved into the alley I was just walking by. My attacker shoved me forward, deeper into the alley, taking no chances with possible witnesses though there was no foot traffic on the street to begin with. Starving artists don’t generally live in the nicest neighbourhoods so residents tended to stay indoors after dark.

I lost my balance and began to pitch forward which resulted in my assailant losing his grip on the back of my coat. Rather than trying to regain my footing, I continued with my fall, bending over and tucking my knees up into an often practiced roll. A second or two later, I was standing again, a few feet away from and facing the surprised thug.

“Gimme your wallet,” he ordered, the blade of his knife glinting briefly in the dim light coming from a second storey fire escape landing.

I don’t know what it was but at that moment, I knew this sorry mugger had made a serious mistake by randomly selecting me as his would-be victim. Years of anger and frustration with no possible escape, coupled with sustained martial arts training fused together, giving me the pressure releasing solution I had been seeking for the longest time without even knowing.

I smiled at him and said, “You’re going to regret having run into me but only for a short while.”

“Gimme your damned wallet and that thing you’re holding,” he snarled, referring to the plastic wrapped hickory cane.

“You want this?” I asked, raising the cane in the air, my left hand wrapped around the handle, the tip pointing at him.

“Give it to me,” he insisted, taking a half-step toward me, looking for his opening to lunge with the blade.

Bringing my right foot forward, I grasped the cane at its centre with my right hand and jabbed it at his face, my left arm acting like a piston and driving the tip into his right eye. He emitted a strangled, gasping gurgle as he dropped the knife and raised both hands to his face.

“What… the… hell?” he muttered in pained shock, not comprehending that he had just been very seriously injured.

I shifted the cane in my left hand, I’m a Southpaw, taking a firm hold of the shaft about six inches from the tip. As he dropped to his knees, still not seizing what was going on, I reared back then swung forward smashing the solid, ornately carved handle against his right temple. I heard the dull thud created by the impact and watched in satisfaction as my assailant toppled like a rag doll to the gritty pavement and lay motionless.

A quick survey of the area confirmed the absence of any witnesses. After all, we had remained rather quiet and, as previously mentioned, folks didn’t roam the area in the evening just for fun. I also had my mugger to thank for leading me into the alley. Leaning down, I picked up his knife, a very well-honed, five inch locking blade number, and looked at it then at him.

“You were going to use this on me, you little shit?” I murmured, my breath steaming in the cold night air. “Not a good idea at all.”

I prodded him with my foot but he remained motionless. Perhaps he was already dead but I had no intention of taking any chances. A kick to his abdomen yielded absolutely no reaction, confirming I didn’t need to worry about any retaliation for a while, which was more that I needed.

Crouching down, I glanced up and down the alley one more time but we were alone, just me and my attacker.

“I’m sorry it had to end this way but you brought it on to yourself,” I said before easily slicing his throat. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas.”

#2 - Chester Jackson - Monday, January 22, 1996

Almost a month to the day had gone by since that unfortunate incident on December 23rd. There had been no hemming and hawing, I had told my wife exactly what had happened as soon as I had gotten home and her reaction had been tears of joy and relief because I had not been harmed. The story of a young man, known to the police and found dead in an alley in St-Henri had been a passing blip on the news at the time, soon to be forgotten. By the way, my mother loved the cane.

Anyhow, earlier on, I had mentioned finding my first full time job in the computer industry and this had quickly become my career field of choice, mainly because I enjoyed the logical and analytical challenges it presented. I apparently had a knack with zeroes and ones and bits and bytes and had turned out to be very good at what I did. I bring this up, not to boast in any fashion but rather, to segue to the subject of my employer, or more specifically, its clientele.

Amongst a number of high profile clients the company I worked for had secured, one was the Montreal police department, for which we had completely revamped its computer systems security, including all databank management processes. I don’t need to tell you that this opened a door to countless opportunities, if I were inclined to ensure some nasty individuals out there got what they justly deserved. After what had happened to Donna, and my recent foray with a lowly mugger just before Christmas, I was so inclined.

I knew that I would eventually branch out but, for nostalgic reasons, my first database searches led me to Chester Jackson. Chet, as his many drinking buddies called him, had been accused of molesting his daughter years earlier. However, laws and regulations being what they are, Chet’s lawyers had succeeded in convincing the court that statutes of limitations, as they were, made the case against their client ‘past due’ if, of course, there ever had been a case to begin with. Subsequently, his daughter, Janie, had taken her life.

Chet might have even passed unnoticed under my newly activated radar, if I hadn’t seen him shrug at a TV camera in a ten second late night news clip saying, “That little girl of mine should’ve checked out her time limits if she wanted to nail me. All she managed to do was make life difficult for us and then killed herself in the end. She shouldn’t have tried to make a story about nothing.”

That, in itself, was an admission of guilt. However, I took the required time to dig into the case further – I did have access to a lot of confidential information – and came to the conclusion that Chet Jackson was guilty as charged though, unfortunately, that had not been the official verdict – he would have lasted longer in prison.

With all the data I had on the man literally at my fingertips, tracking him down had been a no-brainer and I had quickly been able to determine his comings and goings. Divorced a number of years earlier and without a current partner, Chet’s pastime most evenings was knocking back a few cold ones at a local sports bar in the West Island sector where he lived. The place was close enough that he probably walked when the weather was milder and, by the same token, he ran little risk of any DUI consequences by taking the car on colder or inclement evenings.

He worked the day shift starting at seven on weekdays at some manufacturing firm so he generally called it quits at the bar around ten or so weeknights, headed home, had a nightcap or two then hit the sack. I knew because I had been watching him for over a week. As it turned out, that was exactly what he was planning that night as well, which is what I expected.

At about ten-fifteen, I saw his big Chrysler Newport turn into the driveway and roll out of sight as he parked in the carport on the far side of the house. I moved away from the front bedroom window and crossed the bungalow’s hallway into the rear bedroom. Chet apparently used it mostly for storage so I had little concern of him walking in there and finding me. The muffled rumble of the car’s engine ceased and, a moment later, I heard the side door opening and Chet entered, closing and locking the door behind him. So far, so good.

Light filtered down the hallway as he flicked a switch in the kitchen and, seconds later, more light shone, followed by the sound of him urinating in the home’s sole bathroom. The toilet flushed and I heard him returning to the kitchen, his vinyl slippers sliding against the linoleum floor. The rattling of condiment jars and such told me he was into the refrigerator which was soon confirmed by the snapping pop of a beer can tab. A few more sliding, shuffling steps ensued, their sound ending as he entered the carpeted living room off the hallway opposite from the kitchen. The television came on and I heard Chet grunt, belch and sigh as he dropped his overweight form into his recliner. Show time.

Soundlessly, I made my way down the hallway and entered the living room behind him, the back of his recliner conveniently facing me. He was seated in a semi-reclined position, his legs sprawled apart on the raised footrest, his opened can of beer in one hand as he fondled himself through his opened fly with the other. I stared in disgust at the television screen which displayed the images of a man well into his forties or more engaging in sexual activity with a girl of no more than ten.

Pressing the end of the steel pipe I held against the back of Chet’s head, I said, “If you move, you’re dead, understand?”

Chet stiffened in his seat but, believing my steel pipe was actually the muzzle of a large bore gun, he nodded and remained perfectly still.

“Good man, Chester,” I said. “As long as you behave yourself, you and I are going to get along just fine. Now, take your hand out of your pants and reach over slowly to that VCR remote.  I want you to turn that crap off because it’s making me sick.”

He did exactly as I asked, the only part of him moving being his right arm as he reached over to the side table and located the remote. To his credit, he didn’t even turn his head but rather found the device by feel. Seconds later, the television screen turned blue as he powered off the VCR.

“Atta boy,” I told him. “Stick with that attitude and I’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“Who are you?” he rasped. “What do you want from me?”

“I want some answers, Chet,” I replied. “I want to ask you some questions and I want some honest answers from you.”

“What’s this about?” Chet insisted. “I’m nobody important. I’m just a shop worker making a living. What questions could you want to ask me?”

“Aw, Chet, you’re underestimating yourself,” I said. “You’re far from nobody. I saw you on television. You’re practically a celebrity.”

“This is about Janie, isn’t it?” Chet muttered. “Did the little bitch’s friends put you up to this?”

“That’s no way to talk about your daughter,” I said, jabbing him on the back of the head with the pipe. “She’s dead because of you. What kind of a father are you?”

“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Chet replied, apparently gaining some courage but remaining smart enough to stay still, “But she put me through hell with her damned accusations and taking me to court like a damned pervert. Nearly cost me my job and I could’ve ended up in prison if the law wasn’t like it is. If you knew the half of what she put me through, you’d call her a hell of a lot worse, mister, whether she’s dead or not.”

Visions of my sister, Donna, flashed through my mind and I had to make a conscious effort to not bash his skull to a pulp with the pipe in my hands.

“We’re getting off the subject, Chester,” I said, keeping my tone relaxed and calm. “Like I said before, I want to ask you some questions and I want you to answer them. No bullshit, no pretending anything was other than what it was. We need to do this to clear both our consciences. Okay?”

Chet huffed. “Whatever, asshole. Ask me your damned questions. I have to work in the morning.”

Clearly, Chet had reached a point of overconfidence with the given situation. I brought the pipe back and smashed him in the left temple with it, knocking him out. He slumped over to the right, completely limp and I had to check his pulse and breathing to confirm I hadn’t killed him. His heart was still beating, his breathing steady enough. Good, because I wasn’t done.

With a roll of duct tape I’d brought along for the occasion, I bound each of his calves to the steel footrest supports then secured his wrists together, leaving his hands resting over his limp, exposed penis which still protruded from his opened fly. I finished the roll of tape by wrapping its contents across his torso, just below the rib cage, his arms across the lower biceps and around the back of the recliner several times, effectively pinning him into place.

I checked his vitals again and determined he was still alive and kicking, just taking a nap from the tap I had given him. Confident he wasn’t going anywhere, I headed into the kitchen and found a large plastic pitcher then went to the sink and turned the cold water on. I knew it would get really cold pretty quickly at this time of the year but I let it run for a full two minutes before filling the pitcher to the brim.

Heading back into the living room, I walked around to the front of the recliner and gazed at Chester for moment. He was still out, his head lolling to one side, but breathing steadily, slightly snoring, in fact. I shook my head in disgust then heaved the contents of the pitcher in his face.

It revived him instantly and he immediately began to splutter and cough, likely because he had snorted some of the water as he inhaled.

“What the hell?” he stammered, trying to move but unable to do so. He raised his head up and stared at me, his expression a mix of anger and fear. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m not a friend,” I replied, my expression supporting my statement, “And, for the record, I had nothing to do with Janie, per se, because she didn’t even know I existed. I’m here on my own accord and I want some answers to my questions.”

Chet’s demeanor changed at that moment. He seemed to understand that something he had no control over was going on, as if fate had finally caught up with him, which it basically had.

“Ask me your questions,” he said, his tone resigned.

“Did you sexually abuse your daughter, Chet?” I asked. “Did you take advantage of your own child to satisfy yourself, just like that animal in the film you were watching?”

“What do you want from me?” Chet whispered. “She’s gone. It’s over. What damned difference does it make to you?”

“Do you realize that Janie is dead because of what you did to her, Chester?” I went on. “Do you understand that you murdered your daughter, slowly, painfully over almost three decades?”

“You’re crazy, mister,” Chet tried to argue. “She killed herself and that was her own damned decision. She could’ve just let go of the past and moved ahead but she was weak and gave up. She was a coward right to the end.”

“Do you hear what you’re saying?” I asked. “You forced yourself onto a defenseless, innocent child, over and over, you refuse to admit it and now you have the gall to call her a coward? Is that your story?”

“It is what it is,” Chet replied, apparently regaining some of his earlier confidence as he gazed at me. “Now, I don’t know who you are or what you want from me but if you’re trying to get me to make some confession so you can feel better somehow, you’re wasting your time. Maybe you’d just better cut me loose and get the hell outta here and we can pretend this never happened.”

I stared at a spot behind him, despair and failure obvious in my expression. “So, that’s it? You’re not even going to admit feeling bad about anything? About what happened and what you did?”

Chet studied my expression and even had a slight smile as he replied. “That’s it, mister. I can’t change anything with what happened so there’s no use making a big deal about it. Life goes on. Now, cut this damned tape off of me and, you have my word, I’ll let you go without any trouble. I won’t even call the cops once you’re gone.”

I nodded absently as I pulled a knife out of my jeans pocket, the five inch locking blade my first victim had left with me. I stepped forward toward Chet and he actually grinned as I approached, but only for a few seconds.

#3 - Mathieu Masson - Tuesday, February 20, 1996

In the early evening of August 17, 1995, twenty-three year old Sylvie Theriault had been sitting on the rocking chair they kept on the front balcony of their first floor apartment, enjoying the late summer warmth. While waiting for her husband to come home from work, Sylvie had been in a lovely world of her own, gently rubbing her extended tummy as she cooed softly to the twins she was expecting at the end of September.

Boulevard St-Michel, on which their apartment was located, had been fairly busy as usual with both vehicle and pedestrian traffic but Sylvie was used to the noise and was easily able to block it out for the most part. Paying no attention to her surroundings, she hadn’t really noticed the four young men coming along the sidewalk, members of a local street gang, which was unfortunately a fact of life in the area.

By sheer coincidence, just as the foursome happened to walk past the building which housed Sylvie’s apartment, a car had approached heading northward. As it had neared the four gang bangers, it had slowed for a moment and the occupant seated on the passenger side had raised a semi-automatic rifle though the open window and quickly fired nine shots, the last few while the car accelerated and sped away.

Miraculously, only two of the four intended victims had been hit and both had sustained relatively minor wounds. Sadly however, two of the nine shots had hit Sylvie, one in the throat and the other in the forehead, killing her, and consequently, her unborn twins.

A witness, as surprising at it may seem, had noted the plate number of the car and reported it to the police. The vehicle in question had turned out to be registered to a member of a rival gang but further investigation had revealed that the owner had a solid alibi at the time of the shooting. He had been serving a thirty day jail term for some probation violation. Though a number of other gang members had been suspected of using the automobile, none had been identified as the actual offenders and the case had gone cold… with three innocent lives lost for naught.

I had the advantage of operating on a different set of rules so when I reviewed the police case files, I was confident I could get to the bottom of this and find out who had been responsible for Sylvie Theriault’s death. The car’s owner at the time had a younger brother who had also been affiliated with the same gang. Considering the connection and that the vehicle had been parked at the family home during the owner’s thirty day incarceration, it made sense that the younger brother might have been involved or, at the very least, knew something about the incident. In fact, the car had since changed hands and was now registered to the very same younger brother.

The police are not idiots and they had investigated the same avenue I was looking at. However, as I mentioned, they worked with a different rule book. The police interview reports I reviewed made it clear that the younger brother, Mathieu Masson, had no clear alibi at the time of the shooting. His prints had been found in his brother’s, now his car, following the incident but that had been far from definite proof. Masson had stated he had been sleeping at home when the shooting had taken place, his mother had backed up his statement, and the cops had been up against a wall.

Since the time of the unsolved drive-by shooting, Mathieu Masson had left home and moved into his own place, a ground floor apartment on Chambord Street in one of the countless duplex and triplex row houses which made up most of the residential property in the Rosemont district. Though parking in the area could be difficult at times, Masson had no such problems as his apartment included an unattached one car garage which was accessed by the back alley.

Humans are creatures of habit, which allowed me to establish Masson’s usual evening routine without too much effort. Between eight and nine most evenings, he’d go out to his car with his ever-present Adidas gym bag loaded up with a variety of pre-packaged dope for sale, and drive to Chez Pitt, a local drinking dive heavily frequented by drug users.

On this particular evening, when Masson entered the standalone garage, I was waiting in a back corner, shielded from view by a pile of boxes and other junk. He went right by me as he walked around the rear end of his car, on his way to toss the gym bag in from the passenger side. Moving in behind him, I raised the tire iron I was holding and brought it down on his head, effectively knocking him unconscious. A bit of duct tape later, I had him trussed up nicely, hands behind his back, ankles bound and lying face down in the trunk with a strip or two of tape across his mouth, just in case he woke up along the way.

I found his car keys in his jeans pocket and, after a quick look outside to make sure nobody was around, I opened up the garage’s gate-style doors and drove the car out. I didn’t bother with closing the doors behind us. I didn’t think too many people would be walking out in a back alley in the middle of winter to notice and my main priority was to get away from there as quickly as possible.

I was still kind of new to this self-prescribed vigilante therapy program and had a lot to learn but driving around in some gang banger’s gold and silver 1987 Chevy Caprice, in his neighbourhood, I might add, wasn’t something I felt I should do for long. However, I didn’t want to deal with him at his place, not knowing if somebody might show up, so I had to get him out of there. Six or seven blocks southwest was an industrial area along the railroad tracks where I had identified an abandoned warehouse as an appropriate location at which I doubted we would be disturbed.

We made it there without issue and I was pleased to see the fence gate remained opened as I had left it earlier. I drove the Caprice around the back and out of sight from the street, stopping by the roll-up door I had unlocked on my previous visit. Hurrying to the door, I heaved it upward, raising it just high enough to allow the car to pass. Within a minute, I’d driven inside and cut the engine, the door was lowered again and it was time to deal with Mathieu Masson.

I turned on a battery-powered lamp which I had left at the warehouse then moved around to the rear of the car, popping the trunk while being mindful that my captive might have rolled over and be in position to kick out. However, he wasn’t, though he had started to come to. I rolled him onto one side and shifted him into a sitting position with his back to me then slid my hands under his armpits and dragged him out of the trunk and onto the concrete floor.

“Time to wake up, buddy,” I said as I ripped the tape from his mouth.

“Oww, hostie,” he cursed in French. “What the hell is going on?”

“I needed to speak to you in private,” I replied, “So I brought you to this place I found where I’m pretty sure we won’t be disturbed.”

“Why am I tied up?” he demanded as his thoughts became more lucid. “Who the hell are you?”

“Who I am isn’t important,” I said. “What’s important is that you answer my questions.”

“What questions?” Masson asked, trying unsuccessfully to get into a sitting position. “What’s this all about?”

“Here, let me help you,” I said.

Bending over him, I grabbed the front of the leather jacket he wore and dragged him back a couple of feet before pulling him up to a seated position and leaning him against a support post.

“There,” I said with a smile. “Now you’ll be more comfortable while you answer my questions.”

“What questions?” he repeated. “Are you ripping me off here?”

“Not at all,” I assured him. “I have no use for that crap you have in your bag. Now, stop interrupting me so I can ask my questions.”

“What damned questions?” he snarled in frustration. “What’s this about?”

“Were you driving this car during the shooting on August seventeenth last summer?” I asked. “That’s what this is about.”

“I already told the cops everything I had to say about that,” Masson replied.

“Well, there are a couple of problems with that,” I said. “For one, I’m not the cops and secondly, you lied to them and so did your mother. You weren’t sleeping when that shooting took place because you were driving this car right here. I want you to admit that to me.”

“It’s like I told the cops,” Masson insisted. “This was my brother’s car then. I don’t know who was driving it but it wasn’t me.”

“The police found your prints and your brother’s on the steering wheel, Mathieu,” I said. “That’s it, nobody else’s. Since bro was in jail, you had to be the driver.”

“Somebody coulda been wearing gloves,” Masson argued.

I went to the car and returned with the tire iron I had used on him back at his place.

“You know as well as I do that the glove theory is bullshit,” I said as I examined the tire iron.

“What are you going to do with that?” Masson asked, eyeing me with suspicion and fear.

“Who was driving the car that night, Matty?” I asked, slapping the tire iron in the palm of my hand. “Things will get painful if you don’t tell me.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Because an innocent mother and her unborn children are dead,” I replied. “Admit that you were driving.”

“Was she your sister or something?” Masson enquired, going with the psychological approach by trying to keep me talking.

In response to his question, I swung the tire iron down and smashed his left kneecap.

I waited for his shrieking howl to subside before answering, “No, I didn’t know the woman. Were you driving the car?”

“What are you gonna do if I say I was?” Masson cried.

The tire iron swung again, its victim this time, Masson’s right ankle.

“Why make it difficult for yourself, Matt?” I asked and waited.

“Yeah,” Masson whimpered. “I was driving.”

“There. Wasn’t that easier?” I said. “Now, who was the shooter?”

“Aw, Jesus,” Masson sobbed. “You’re asking me to sign my death warrant.”

“It’s a question of deciding whether it will be sooner versus later,” I replied. “Think about it before making any final decisions. Who was the shooter?”

Masson closed his eyes and sighed as he slowly shook his head. “Rick Bourque. He’s known as Birks on the street.”

“Very good, Mathieu,” I said. “It’s so much easier when one cooperates, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, right,” Masson replied. “I’m serious when I tell you I’m as good as dead now.”

I nodded in agreement as I pulled out my knife and locked the blade in place. “I never doubted that, Matty. Not for a minute.”

#4 - Maxime Leclerc - Friday, February 23, 1996

In no particular order, Gaston Verville had been a lover and teacher of the arts, a dedicated husband and father, a keen environmentalist and an avid health and fitness buff. Though he enjoyed a variety of sports activities, his favourite was cycling which served both as physical training and a means of transportation.

One evening in September 1995, Gaston had been biking home after having taught his first oil painting class of the autumn session at one of Montreal’s finer art schools near the downtown area. He had been making his way through La Fontaine Park when he had been literally batted off his bicycle into a tree sheltered clearing where a couple of young men had greeted him with a volley of punches and kicks as he crashed to the ground. Seconds later, the third assailant, the one with the baseball bat, had joined in the beating, swinging his weapon at Gaston with zeal as the others continued their kicking frenzy.

The attack, which had ceased after another moment or two, had been followed by a rapid but thorough search of Gaston’s motionless body during which he had been relieved of any property of value including his wallet, keys and backpack. His bike had been taken as well.

Gaston had been found a couple of hours later by a local German shepherd taking his people out for their late evening walk. Emergency services had been called and Gaston had been taken to the hospital where he had remained in a coma for the next four days before slowly beginning to return to a state of consciousness.

Though initially plagued by some memory loss, he had progressively recovered and was eventually able to recount what had happened to the police with a high degree of certainty. However, some of the blows he had received, particularly those to the head, had unfortunately left what doctors feared would be permanent consequences.

Months later, Gaston’s vision remained sufficiently blurred for him to qualify as legally blind. In addition, his speech was now somewhat slurred and he had yet to regain the coordination and dexterity he had lost in his right arm and hand. His wife hoped, for the sake of the family, that Gaston would soon pull out of his depressive state enough to begin exploring replacement possibilities for the cycling, painting and teaching which he had so loved and enjoyed.

Police had immediately suspected an informal gang of young hoodlums known for their shady activities in the neighbourhood to be behind Gaston’s attack. In fact, they had apprehended the gang’s unofficial leader in possession of Gaston’s stolen bicycle though the young man had sworn he had found it abandoned in the alley behind a local supermarket. However, though the police had narrowed down the probable perpetrators to three specific individuals, they had been unsuccessful in obtaining any concrete evidence. The only witness to the attack had been Gaston and his vision remained sufficiently affected to render identification of his attackers impossible.

I had done some investigating of my own on the three alleged attackers and had selected Maxime Leclerc, one of the leader’s regular sidekicks, as my first point of contact. Leclerc lived near the north-west side of the park where the attack had taken place and regularly cut through it on his way to his part time job as a busboy in a bistro near the eastern tip of the downtown area.

I had parked the minivan on Calixa Lavalee Avenue, right where it ends inside the park, knowing that Leclerc would come strolling along soon enough to take the path which cut through  a wooded area toward his place of work. Luck was on my side as he was working the seven to three shift – few if any people were around in the park in the evening with the cold and dark of February in Montreal.

Though the trees bore no foliage this time of year, they were dense enough and intermixed with enough conifers to provide me with sufficient concealment. I saw Maxime approach, recognizing his gait as he drew nearer, and waited, remaining motionless and being careful to avoid producing any noticeable steam clouds as I exhaled.

He plodded by me, perhaps a half dozen feet away from where I waited amidst the trees, singing softly off-key as he went, clearly intent on the tune blasting out of the earphones hidden by his parka hood. Thank you, Sony, for the Walkman.

As he moved past me, I took a quick look around to make sure nobody else was coming along in either direction. Not a soul in sight.

I stepped out from amongst the trees, glancing behind me one last time before moving in on him. I had found a twenty-four inch, wooden tee-ball bat for the occasion which I had felt was fitting, given the baseball bat attack on Gaston Verville several months earlier. One swing and Leclerc was going down, clearly not simply knocked off balance but, more precisely, knocked unconscious, or worse.

I caught him before he hit the ground and laid him down, just long enough to check if he was still alive. He was. Following another quick glance around, I pulled him back up and slung him over my shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry, he thankfully wasn’t a big man, then hustled over to the minivan parked about fifteen feet away. I raised the back hatch, dropped him inside, yanked the earphones off of him, and duct taped his wrists, ankles and mouth before closing the hatch. Seconds later, I was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine and pulling a U-turn to get the hell out of there.

As I headed out of the dead-end where Calixa Lavalee ended in the park, I saw a car turning in from Rachel Street and heading toward me. We approached each other and, to my dismay, the other car’s light bar blipped for a second or two, a brief flash of red and blue to get my attention.

I slowed and so did the cop car, until we came to a stop, driver window to driver window in opposite directions. I lowered my window and the officer at the wheel did likewise. I noted he was alone on duty, presumably a good thing. On the flip side, I had an unconscious man whom I’d just kidnapped a minute earlier stored in the back of my vehicle. Even an encounter with a lone cop was likely not a good thing.

“Bonsoir,” I said through the open window.

“Bonsoir,” the officer replied then continued in French. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” I said with a smile. “I’m heading downtown to meet some friends and turned down here not realizing the street doesn’t cut through the park to Sherbrooke.”

“No, you’re best to stick to the main streets on either side of the park,” the cop replied as he smiled back. “You’re going downtown?”

“Yes, Crescent Street,” I confirmed.

“Hang a left at the corner,” the officer suggested. “Left again when the park ends at Avenue du Parc La Fontaine. That will take you to Sherbrooke Street where you’ll turn right.”

I nodded. “Got it. Thanks.”

“No problem,” the cop replied. “Have a nice evening.”

“You too,” I said with a wave.

The cop laughed. “Yeah, right. I’m on until midnight. Have a good one.”

I laughed back and drove off, turning left on Rachel as he had suggested and then right on Bréboeuf to get away and out of sight just in case he had turned around more quickly than expected. I certainly didn’t want to attract his attention any further and I had some business to deal with before going home for the weekend.

#5 - Gary O’Connor - Wednesday, February 28, 1996

I was starting to attract some attention, however minor, at this point. Ron Henderson, a crime reporter with the Montreal Gazette, had noticed that four men with ties to criminal activities had succumbed to similar yet unnatural causes in the last two months. Police had not confirmed any belief that the deaths might be linked but Henderson had suggested the four killings were being looked into by the city’s recently formed Special Homicide Task Force headed by a Lieutenant Dave McCall. I had looked into the lieutenant’s records and he seemed like a sharp and bright investigator so I knew I’d have to continue honing my skills if I intended to stay a couple of steps ahead of the man.

My encounter with the cop at La Fontaine Park had been my warning, my one ‘stay out of jail’ card. Though I doubted any link had or would be made between my chance meeting with the cop and Leclerc’s subsequent death elsewhere later that night, it had certainly been a lesson to me about needing to be one hundred percent accurate in my planning going forward.

My lesson learned, I was extra careful as the time came to dealing with Gary O’Connor, an ex-accountant with a mid-sized distribution company in east-end Montreal. O’Connor, single and in his mid-forties, was a fairly likeable fellow and had been an adequate enough bookkeeper to hang onto his job until his legal issues had surfaced. As it turned out, O’Connor had a penchant for drinking somewhat excessively.

If that had been the extent of his faux-pas, with tying one on too many on occasion, everyone might have looked the other way. However, O’Connor tended to lose all reason when he got to drinking, the worst consequence of which was his firm belief that he was fully capable of driving. Such thinking had resulted in several prior arrests in the past which had led to driving permit suspensions, vehicle impoundment, jail time and, consequently, loss of employment.

A few months earlier, in an effort to raise his spirits during hard times, O’Connor had decided to treat himself to a Saturday night on the town. Permit suspension had never kept him from driving in the past and things had not been any different that evening. He no longer had owned a vehicle but that hadn’t been an issue since his sister, who lived close by, had gone out of town for the weekend with friends and left her car behind.

All had been fine until he had been driving back home. In his intoxicated state, O’Connor failed to notice a red light and unfortunately hit a teenager who had been crossing the street with friends. The young lady had died while O’Connor sped onward, intent on returning the car where he had taken it before staggering home.

None of the eight witnesses present had been able to supply any information about the driver of the killing machine which had sped by at two in the morning, not even if it was a male or female. Descriptions of the car had been varied and conflicting – a Toyota Corolla, Honda Civic or Nissan Sentra which was either blue, grey, green or black – though all had agreed it wasn’t a recent model, at least five or more years old. Only one had thought of trying to get the license plate number but, as the car had retreated in the night, all she was fairly sure she had seen was a partial 580.

With this limited information the police had gotten to work, slowly eliminating possibilities until they had looked into a Cheryl O’Connor who owned a ten year old, charcoal grey Honda Civic. Fully cooperating, O’Connor had quickly established her innocence, providing names of friends, receipts and even photos to show she had been out of town. However, through further questioning, the police had determined that Cheryl’s brother, Gary, who had keys to her home, might have used the car in her absence with a spare key she admitted keeping in a kitchen drawer.

When interviewed, one of Cheryl’s neighbours had stated noticing the car’s disappearance for a few hours that fateful evening though he had not seen it leave, return or who might have used it. A woman who lived in the same building as Gary O’Connor had stated seeing him stagger down the sidewalk at two-thirty in the morning on the same night when looking out the window after having used the bathroom. The investigation had led to O’Connor’s arrest with a promise of serious jail time, despite the fact he had vehemently denied responsibility, claiming he had been home for the night, reading and watching movies from his collection of video cassettes.

A court date had been set and O’Connor, unable to afford representation, had been provided with an attorney from the public defender’s office. Into the trial, the young, unknown defence lawyer had demonstrated how one should defend one’s client by ripping the prosecution’s case against O’Connor to shreds.

How many dark Civics, Sentras and Corollas aged five to ten years old actually existed in the city, the province, the country? How many license plate numbers included the 580 sequence the witness had fairly surely seen? It might have been 5B0, SBO, S8O, S80, etc. Had Cheryl’s car really disappeared that evening or was it parked elsewhere on the street? After all, she had no reserved parking spot. Did the woman who saw Gary staggering outside at two-thirty in the morning wear glasses? Yes. Was she wearing them when she had looked out the window for a few seconds that night? No.

And so on. Cheryl O’Connor’s Civic had been carefully examined for evidence of the hit and run. However, since automobiles tend to be more robust than one hundred pound teenagers, insufficient incriminating damage had been found to weigh in the prosecution’s favour, particularly off the ten year old dinged and scratched vehicle.

In the end, although everyone in the courtroom knew that Gary O’Connor had been responsible for the death of seventeen year old Amelie Toupin, a non-guilty verdict had been rendered due to insufficient proof. O’Connor had gone home, a free man, an unemployed drunk, a murderer who felt sorry for himself and blamed society for his misfortune while an innocent young woman, not even of legal drinking age, slowly rotted in her casket because of his actions.

I had taken the afternoon off, I could afford to with the time I put in, and followed O’Connor through his usual ritual of going for a late breakfast at a small greasy spoon near the basement condominium he lived in, courtesy of his mother, deceased a year earlier. The remainder of the afternoon had dwindled away with O’Connor slowly sucking down his usual quota of four pints of beer on tap at a local pub, paid from his rapidly diminishing share of the inheritance his mother had left.

As expected, he had next visited the liquor store at the nearby shopping mall for a twenty-six ounce bottle of obscure brandy, his cheap evening companion of late then gone on to the supermarket to buy dinner, a can of no-name pasta in tomato sauce. Keeping with his schedule, he had headed home where he had dumped the contents of the pasta can into a dirty pot recouped from the sink and set it on the burner to heat while he knocked back two hefty shots of brandy – aperitifs before the evening meal.

I watched him as he went through the usual routine, first from a distance and as the evening wore on, from inside his basement dwelling, the lock on his patio door nowhere near a challenge for one intent on entering. He’d finished his dinner, slurping the soggy pasta right out of the pot with a soup spoon – bachelor-style, some might argue – before settling down on the couch, mumbling to himself in the diminishing light as he poured shot after shot of cheap brandy into the juice glass which served as his drinking vessel of choice.

“How’s it going, Gary?” I asked, stepping from the darkness of his bedroom and into the tiny living room/dining room adjacent to the even tinier kitchen.

“Who are you?” he slurred, the curiosity in his question a barely distinguishable factor.

“I’m here about Amelie,” I replied.

“Amelie?” O’Connor questioned before the synapses clicked into place. “Oh, the girl they say I ran down.”

“She’s the one,” I confirmed. “You hit her with your sister’s car.”

O’Connor shrugged, his look morose then nodded. “Yeah, whatever… but it all worked out for my sister and her car… and they said it was okay in court… now, I just have to find another job… I’m an accountant, you know.”

“Yes, I read about that, Gary,” I replied.

“Lost my job though,” O’Connor continued, adopting a depressed expression once more. “Wasn’t even drinking on the job, or barely. They fired me anyway. Said it was because of the legal problems I was having. Not sure they can do that but maybe they can. Big companies have lawyers to deal with that kind of thing. Make it difficult for little guys like me, just trying to do my job and earn a living.”

“Yeah, life’s a bitch, Gary,” I agreed, “But what about Amelie? Don’t you think that sucks? She was only seventeen. Never had a chance to live life and now she’s gone.”

O’Connor leaned over and carefully refilled his juice glass from the now nearly empty bottle. Once done, he placed the bottle back down and raised his glass to me.

“Here’s to Amelie,” he said with tears in his eyes. “Poor kid was at the wrong place at the wrong time… or I was.”

I sat where I was quietly for a while, watching Gary as he dozed off, drunk in his personal hell, perhaps oblivious of the life he had taken or maybe, just maybe, battling his demons for the pain he had caused and the sorrow he would have to deal with for the rest of his life. After some fifteen minutes or so, I got up, pulled out my knife and ended the sorrow which ravaged us both.

#6 - Pierre Brault - Friday, March 1, 1996

Well, I was starting to build a reputation for myself and, even if he remained relatively tight-lipped about it, Lieutenant Dave McCall was starting to let on that he and his team were dealing with a serial killer. I didn’t particularly enjoy or feel proud of categorizing myself as such but things were as they were and one must call things what they are. Regardless, I was doing what I was for a reason and nobody could argue that my targets deserved any less than what they got. If I ended up making a mistake and paying for my actions, I’d accept the consequences and do so with pride because what I was doing was what needed to be done, however theoretically. Anyhow, enough about me or why I was doing this because that really isn’t the point.

My next subject, and his story, are practically laughable, if we exclude the fact that an innocent man died in the whole sordid affair. I’ll try to make this as succinct as possible.

Pierre Brault had worked for Andre Beaudet in the agricultural field a few years earlier and two things had happened during that time. For one, Beaudet had been working on the development of some farming apparatus about which Brault, coming from a farming family, had made some minor but worthy suggestions. Secondly, Brault had begun having an affair with the very consenting Jocelyne Beaudet, Andre’s spouse.

Though Brault had ceased his employment with Beaudet a little over a year earlier, his relationship with Jocelyne had continued to flourish to the point that the illicit couple eventually decided that life would be much better if Andre was no longer in the picture. By then, Andre had obtained a patent on his invention and several manufacturers had expressed sufficient interest to allow one to determine that some serious money would likely result.

With the help of Brault’s sister, Carolyne, who happened to be a highly attractive stripper with few morals, they recruited the services of Gabriel Labrie, a naive, happy-go-lucky twenty-seven year old who had worked as a farmhand for Brault’s family in the last couple of years. It should be noted that Labrie had a penchant for brawling and had run into a few scuffles with the law in relation to bar fights and the like.

The plan was relatively simple. Labrie frequented a strip bar in the small rural town where he lived on Montreal’s south shore. Carolyne Brault, who danced there, easily seduced Labrie and, after a few days of seeing each other, she suggested he might have an opportunity to make some serious money if he was interested. Her brother, she explained, had invented something which was potentially worth millions but his ex-partner had taken the credit for all the work which had been done and was now looking to sell their invention for his own profit. Would he be willing to help her brother convince this shyster by helping with a bit of a scare?

Labrie was initially reticent but, a couple of drinks, a joint or two and some rather extraordinary sex later, he was starting to warm to the idea. All they would basically do was pay Andre Beaudet a visit, visually intimidate him, for Labrie was a rather solidly built man, and Beaudet would give in and agree to give Pierre Brault his rightfully deserved share. For his mere presence, Labrie would be paid fifty thousand dollars in cash – yes, the deal was potentially that big.

Labrie had agreed and, less than a week later, early one Friday evening, he and Brault had gone to Beaudet’s home in Hemmingford. They had been greeted at the door by Jocelyne Beaudet and shown to the dining room where Andre was just finishing dinner. Pierre Brault, without uttering a word, had pulled out a revolver and shot Andre Beaudet in the forehead. Shocked, Gabriel Labrie had started to ask what was going on but his question had been interrupted by a solid blow to the back of the head which had knocked him unconscious.

When he had come to, several hours later, he had been in the hospital with two police officers keeping an eye on him even though he had been securely handcuffed to the bed rails. He had soon learned that he was under arrest for the murder of Andre Beaudet and, despite protests to the police, his lawyer and the court, he had come to realize the case against him was solid. His arguments, that Pierre Brault had actually committed the murder, had been laughed out of court, particularly since Brault was a key eye-witness for the prosecution, his testimony having been fully and perfectly corroborated by Jocelyne Beaudet, the victim’s distraught widow.

Labrie’s prints on the murder weapon as well as gun powder residue on his skin had certainly not helped prove his innocence or support the suggestion he had been framed. In addition, a perfectly logical explanation had been supplied as to why he had been found unconscious when the police had arrived. Upon seeing Labrie shoot her husband as she returned to the dining room from the kitchen, Jocelyne Beaudet had grabbed a heavy glass vase on a corner table and smashed it on the back of his head.

The trial had not been a lengthy one and had ended as most expected it would – with a guilty verdict for Labrie for the murder of Andre Beaudet.

Though he had not testified or initially expressed any doubts, Roger Beaudet, the victim’s brother, had subsequently gone public with a statement regarding his scepticism of any business dealings between the victim and Pierre Brault. In fact, he was convinced that the animosity which existed between the two men in recent years made any such dealings ludicrously impossible. The fact that Brault now spend much of his free time consoling the widow and assisting her in the management of her deceased husband’s affairs was another indication that something was amiss.

However, this, as well as protests from Labrie’s family, remained insufficient for the system to reopen the case and Labrie would remain behind bars for a twenty-five year sentence with no possibility of parole for at least ten years. In the meantime, Jocelyne had sold her husband’s invention for a hefty sum with a lucrative subsequent royalty payment agreement and now spent much of her time at a property she had acquired in Turks and Caicos, usually with Brault at her side to comfort her.

Yes, as you may have guessed by now, Pierre Brault was in my crosshairs, so to speak. Perhaps Jocelyne should have been as well but I just believed she would pay somehow, in due time, that bad karma thing one hears about.

The whole ordeal had taken place a few months earlier and since, Brault had basically taken over the day to day management of Beaudet Industries, having been hired as President and COO by owner and CEO, Jocelyne Beaudet. Business and anything to do with farming having never been her forte, she was happy to let Brault handle things, though all major financial-impact decisions required her approval. The arrangement suited Brault who now ran a decently-sized business at his leisure for a handsome wage with additional perks as Jocelyne’s top man.

While Jocelyne did spend some time at the Hemmingford home during the milder seasons, she despised the cold and, as a result, she could usually be found at the Turks and Caicos property during the winter months. That said, when business called for executive presence in the Montreal area during that time of the year, Pierre generally represented the company solo. He was, after all, the chief operating officer and well trusted by his superior.

He had been required to attend a few meetings back home so Pierre had flown to Montreal on the Wednesday, dealt with what needed his attention on Thursday and Friday and planned to return to Jocelyne on the beach on the Saturday. As per his usual routine on such trips, his plans for the evening would consist of a quiet dinner at home, generally something from the gas grill in the four-season outdoor kitchen on the covered terrace and some fine wine, followed by a couple of snifters of cognac and some action flick on pay TV.

I watched him from the shadows as he came out onto the terrace and fired up the grill. He had changed into a sweat suit and wore running shoes but the radiant heating system under the stone floor made any winter clothing unnecessary. I wondered if he might actually choose to dine outside and hoped not, preferring the intimacy of closed doors, but figured the closest neighbour was far enough for any cries for help to serve much purpose.

He moved back inside and I watched him opening a bottle of wine, a Georges Duboeuf Brouilly, based on the shape of the bottle. He poured a bit into a glass, swirled it, inhaled the bouquet then tasted it. Apparently satisfied, he filled the glass, took another sip then set the glass down on the kitchen island and moved out of my view. He returned shortly with a head of lettuce, tomato, cucumber and a sweet yellow pepper and got busy preparing a salad, sipping his wine occasionally as he worked.

His salad ready, he quickly threw together a dressing with a few herbs and spices, some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. He disappeared from my sight once again but returned shortly with a placemat and utensils which he set on the island where stood a couple of swivel stools. Excellent, he would be dining inside after all. The dining room would have been more fitting, given the circumstances, but I couldn’t be too picky.

He vanished once more but quickly reappeared and came out onto the terrace, a plastic food container in hand, and headed to the grill. Selecting tongs which hung on a side-rack, he deftly extracted the piece of marinating meat, likely beef, based on his wine selection, and laid it on the hot grill. The dripping marinade sizzled and sent up a tantalizing puff of steam. The man knew how to treat himself, culinary-wise. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it forever.

He returned inside to turn on an outside spot strategically positioned to illuminate the grill, one does wish to see what one is cooking, and to fetch his wine glass, which he refilled, before returning outside to supervise his grilling activities. He sipped his wine, checking his watch and the temperature on the grill’s thermometer and, after several minutes, raised the grill’s lid, only long enough to turn his steak, nodding in satisfaction at the sear marks left on the underside.

A few minutes more and I had to suppress the urge to warn Pierre not to overcook his steak but it was not my place to do so. Anyhow, he removed it from the grill shortly after, avoiding to commit a grave cooking faux-pas. Depositing the meat on a heated plate, which I guessed from the oven mitt he used to carry it, he turned off the grill then returned inside to enjoy his meal, closing and locking the door to the terrace as I watched from the outside.

I wasn’t concerned about getting inside to deal with the man – I had arrived well ahead of him and had an unlocked door waiting for me. He pour himself yet another glass of wine and settled down to enjoy his dinner. I love to cook so I had no problem understanding where he was coming from after a hard day’s work.

I considered the situation – he, a fit man in his late thirties with a wine bottle, a fork and a steak knife at his immediate disposal – and decided there was no real advantage to offing him while he dined as he had done to Beaudet. After all, if I was looking to re-enact the crime in my execution, I should be simply blowing his brains out. I was in no rush, I’d had a good lunch and had no problem with eating later in the evening. Anyhow, I’d come prepared with a couple of scenarios to deal with him.

He eventually finished his dinner, he was a slow eater, and the bottle of wine then opened a bottle of cognac, poured himself a glass and moved into the den. Game time…

I retraced my steps to a side door which led into a combination laundry/mud room and let myself in. As I made my way down the hallway, I could hear the television on. I moved closer slowly, cautiously, past the dining room and kitchen, making sure both were empty as I passed. I reached the entrance to the den, which also opened onto the kitchen, and there sat Pierre Brault, his back to me, puffing on a cigar, his cognac snifter and bottle on the table to his side. Waterworld with Kevin Costner was Pierre’s choice of entertainment for the evening. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get to see the ending, or much more of the movie from then on, for that matter.

I moved in behind him, thankful that the television’s volume was up, though the thick pile carpet under my feet certainly helped make my approach quiet. With a heavy vase I had selected in the home prior to Pierre’s arrival, I tapped him on the side of the head, just enough to put him to sleep.

When Brault awoke about thirty minutes later, he was laying spread-eagled on the stylish brass bed in the master bedroom, his ankles and wrists securely cuffed to the bed frame to hold him in a position.

“Wake up, buddy,” I said in French, patting him on the cheek to help revive him. “I don’t have all night.”

“Wha’s going on?” he mumbled in his native tongue then started struggling against his restraints. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Hi, Pierre,” I replied in greeting. “Didn’t that knock on the head ring any bells?”

He shook his head and winced then did his best to glare at me. “Who the hell are you?”

“Bah, that’s not important,” I answered, “But, if you must know, I’m the guy who’s been killing deadbeats like you lately. Heartless bastards who think they can further themselves through violence and manage to sneak through the system.”

“What are you talking about?” Brault shrieked though his understanding showed in his eyes.

“Do I really need to refresh your memory?” I asked, my tone sincere but my question mocking. “Let’s start with Andre Beaudet who you shot in the head. Next we can move onto Gabriel Labrie who you and Jocelyne framed to take the fall. Did you know that he also woke up handcuffed to a bed after you knocked him out? Unfortunately for him, the cuffs belonged to the cops and he was under arrest for first degree murder.”

“Did that little bastard send you here?” Brault demanded. “Is that what this is about?”

“Explain something to me, shithead,” I retorted, a little annoyed. “How does your framing him for a murder you committed make him a little bastard?”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, contrite, changing tactics as he tried to hide his fear and find a way out of this predicament. “You’re right. Both Jocelyne and I feel bad about Gabriel but it’s just how things happened. If her husband hadn’t been such an asshole, nobody would have got hurt.”

“But you killed him,” I stated, showing my exasperation. “You can’t deny that. How can you act like everything okay with Gabriel in prison while you’re eating filet mignon and spending most of your days on the beach in the Caribbean?”

“Listen,” Brault pleaded. “I’m sorry about Gabriel taking the fall for this but I can make it up to him. If he behaves inside, he can be out in less than ten years now. He’ll still be young. I know I can convince Jocelyne to put some money in an account for him, enough that he’ll never have to work for the rest of his life once he gets out. What do you say? I really am sorry about how this all turned out.”

“What do I say,” I rhetorically repeated his question. “I say you just openly confessed to killing Andre Beaudet. You confirmed everything which I suspected but didn’t know for a fact. I say you just put yourself in a very uncomfortable position, my friend.”

He blanched upon hearing my words. “Who are you? Are you a cop? A lawyer? Did you record what I was saying? I’ll just deny everything and say I was being threatened, under duress. You attacked me and have me handcuffed to my bed, goddamn it. You’re crazy and that little shit, Labrie, is crazy if you think this is going to work. I’ll have you locked up when I’m done with you.”

I gazed at him and shook my head, my sadness sincere. “I can’t believe how utterly stupid some truly intelligent people can be at times. You are amongst the dumbest smart people I’ve ever met, Pierre. I wish I could say it was nice to know you but I can’t.”

As he watched me, not knowing how to respond, I pulled out my knife.

#7 - Henri Castonguay - Monday, March 4, 1996

Just ten days earlier, I had spent part of my Friday evening dealing with Maxime Leclerc, one of the three muggers who had viciously attacked Gaston Verville in La Fontaine Park six months earlier. Over the weekend, I had learned that Verville had committed suicide the previous Thursday, unable to overcome the depression which had resulted from the physical and other consequences which had plagued him following his attack.

During our chat, Leclerc had readily confirmed what the police, and I, had suspected, that Gaston Verville’s two other attackers were Henri Castonguay, unofficial leader of this crew of misfits and Nicholas Bertrand, one of his closer lackeys. I had already pencilled Castonguay into my schedule but, with Gaston’s recent suicide weighing on me, I was driven to deal with him with extra zeal.

A bully since childhood, Castonguay had earned himself a number of run-ins with the law as early as the age of ten and, unfortunately, attaining adulthood had not changed his views of the world. He was a big man who likely had been solidly built even at a younger age and he worked hard to keep himself in a high muscle/low flab composition. He liked to train at home, which I had learned during a recent visit to his dingy, one bedroom basement apartment, where the small living room had been furnished with a workout bench, hundreds of pounds of free weights and bars and a stationary bike.

Though Castonguay was a mugger and small time pot/hash peddler, he wasn’t very big-time at either profession so he worked part time as a stock boy in a local grocery store. I knew he stocked shelves until nine or so Monday nights then generally went home for a late dinner, likely consisting of pilfered goods, so I was waiting for him in his apartment when he arrived.

As I mentioned, he was a big, strong guy so I knew I’d have to subdue him quickly once he came in or the situation might turn ugly for the wrong party. When he entered through the front door, I was waiting off to one side in the living room. In my martial arts training over the years, I had learned a thing or two about joints, how they bend normally and how they can bend otherwise though not specifically as designed to do.

Castonguay walked by me to my left and as he moved forward, I did as well, half a step behind him. I kicked at his right leg with my left foot, below the calf, just enough to extend his step a foot or so then spun to my right, dropping my butt and full weight onto his right knee while swinging my right elbow into his jaw.

A gut-wrenching crack and snap was heard as his knee took the impact and he shrieked. Instinctively, his left fist smashed into the back of my head – it hurt – but I delivered another solid elbow into his right temple and rolled off as he tumbled to his left, dazed and moaning. I went back at him, pummelling his face, his stomach, his ribs. His arms came up defensively for a few seconds then fell limp to his sides. He had passed out. Excellent, he was subdued… but I would need to refine my techniques.

When Castonguay regained consciousness, not too long later, he was saddled up on his stationary bike, so to speak. I had laid the bike sideways and positioned him appropriately then duct-taped his feet and ankles to the bottom, horizontal base. I had then solidly taped both his forearms to the handlebars before raising the bike back to a vertical position. Once I’d had him in balance, it had been no major feat to secure his trunk to the seat and support post beneath it. It should be noted that this field of endeavour can require a lot of duct tape on occasion.

As he came to, he was a bit wobbly but the forward leaning position encouraged by his forearms taped to the handlebars helped him stay up.

“Tabarnaque,” Castonguay cursed, shaking his head and wincing for his efforts.

“Don’t hurt yourself, my friend,” I replied in French. “We have some things to discuss.”

“Té qui toé?” he demanded.

I shrugged. “You wouldn’t know me even if I told you.”

“You broke my leg, you bastard,” he said. “It hurts like hell.”

“Actually, I kind of destroyed your knee,” I corrected, “But I doubt any bones are broken. It’s more a question of torn ligaments. Sorry but you’re bigger than me so I had to immobilize you as quickly as possible.”

“Huh,” he grunted, unimpressed. “What’s this shit with taping me onto this bike? Are you some weird faggot or what?”

“I don’t see how you come up with faggot,” I replied, “But let me reassure you I have no intention of taking advantage of you sexually. You just aren’t my type.”

“So what’s this all about?” he insisted. “What the hell are you up to, breaking in here, busting my leg, knocking me out and taping me up to a goddamned bike?”

“Gaston Verville is dead,” I replied in explanation. “He committed suicide a few days ago.”

“Who the hell are you talking about?” he asked, actually demonstrating annoyance. “Some shithead I don’t know kills himself and you come in here and attack me?”

“The name doesn’t mean anything to you?” I asked, staring at him, incredulous.

“No clue what you’re talking about,” he stared back in defiance, “But you’re going to regret having done this shit. You won’t have to kill yourself like your buddy cuz I’ll do it for you.”

“Gaston is the man you attacked in the park six months ago,” I said, remaining calm in appearance.

“Oh, shit man, that’s too bad,” he mocked but his eyes finally showed some unease. “Anyhow, nobody proved I had anything to do with that crap. That’s why I’m here, a free man, well, at least until you got here.”

“You’re a heartless son of a bitch, Henri,” I replied, “And that’s why I’m here. I know you did it because Maxime told me before I killed him.”

“You killed Max?” he asked, suddenly flustered.

“Yes, that was me,” I confirmed as I picked up a roll of duct tape, “But not before he sold you and your buddy, Nicky, out. He told me everything. I think he was hoping I’d let him go.”

“And now, you’re going to kill me?” he stammered.

“I knew you were a smart one,” I replied as I pulled a six inch length of tape off the roll.

“What’s that for?” he demanded in panic, the full realization of what was taking place finally catching up to him.

I responded by slapping the strip of tape across his mouth but he shook his head from side to side, hindering my efforts. I punched him in the kidney then wrapped another length of tape over the first one and completely around the back of his head.

“You see, Henri, going forward, you might be inclined to scream,” I explained, “And I certainly don’t want to bother your neighbours.”

I retrieved the baseball bat I had brought with me and returned to him.

“Remember when you batted Gaston Verville off his bike last September?” I asked, rhetorically, of course. “Let’s re-enact the scene, shall we?”

#8 - Etienne Jean - Wednesday, May 1, 1996

The Gazette’s top crime reporter, Ron Henderson, had earned himself an above the fold front page by-line following Henri Tousignant’s demise, creating a palpable buzz that a vigilante was taking care of justice in Montreal and that told me it was time to take a break. I wasn’t done yet, I had others already on my list but, if I intended to deal with them according to my rules, I needed to step back and plan my actions carefully or I could easily end up rubbing elbows with some similar sorry beings behind bars.

That said, I went into passive mode, still actively pursuing my research on potential prospects, planning how to go about settling their accounts and tentatively scheduling settlement appointments but all as part of a future business plan. This went on for almost two months, at which time, I knew I had to get back to business.

I abhor crime and believe that people who depend on it for their livelihood are lazy, gutless slugs who deserve every punishment they are awarded when the system catches up to them. I however despise violent crime with a passion and feel that those who partake in such action never get what they rightly merit, even when punished to the full extent of the law foreseen in the society we live in.

It’s fairly simple to state that murder and rape can be considered amongst the most heinous of violent crimes. However, it becomes more complex to qualify or grade the multitude of other violent crimes we are faced with daily in our supposedly civilized society. In my opinion, one of the worst is home invasion.

Imagine being in the safety and comfort of your home, be it the small apartment you rent as a roof over your head, the cottage you’ve obtained a mortgage for to call your abode or the mansion you’ve acquired with your hard earned capital. All is fine in your haven, the place where you rest after your day of toiling and occupy your time with your leisure activities when suddenly, your space is violated by evil.

This is not something you have brought on to yourself. This is not punishment you deserve for horrendous actions you have committed elsewhere. This is you being the victim of despicable souls who have selected you as their prey to satisfy their malicious desires. This is wanton abuse of your life, your dignity… of you.

Forty-two year old Leo Gingras and his wife, Isabelle, had been such victims. One warm Friday evening in July of the previous summer, someone had rang the doorbell at their comfortable riverside home in the Ahuntsic sector of Montreal. When Leo had opened the door to see who was calling on them, he had been met with a solid punch in the face followed by a kick in the groin from a well-muscled Haitian in his twenties.

Collapsing from the unexpected blows as his wife watched in horror, Leo had been kicked back into the home by his aggressor while an accomplice, another young man of Haitian origin, had closed and locked the door behind them before going after Isabelle. What had followed had been almost two complete days of hell on earth during which time the couple had been repeatedly beaten, tortured and sexually molested.

Following a particularly vicious pummelling in the late afternoon on Sunday, Leo had lost consciousness and his assailants had grown worried when their efforts to revive him failed. The two men had hurriedly ransacked the house for cash and items of value then left the premises aboard Leo’s 1994 Mustang. The couple had been discovered just over two hours later when Isabelle’s brother and wife had shown up, concerned because calls made over the weekend had gone unanswered. The victims had been rushed to the hospital where Leo had succumbed to his injuries.

The Mustang had been found abandoned less than twenty-four hours later and police had found the prints of Etienne and Emile Jean, two brothers who both happened to have criminal records. However, what should have been a slam-dunk case for the prosecution had turned into garbage when a traumatized and terrified Isabelle Gingras had refused to lay charges or testify against the two men after recounting the whole ordeal and identifying the attackers in photos and line-ups.

Enraged, the police and prosecution had tried to pressure Gingras but had given up when her brother, a successful attorney, had threatened legal action for harassment. The Jean brothers had been charged with breaking into a vehicle and released upon payment of minimal bail pending a future court hearing. The trial date had yet to be set but it soon wouldn’t really make any difference whatsoever.

I would have loved to give Etienne, the next on my list, a taste of his own medicine and attack him as he answered my knock on the door. However, he lived in a four storey, eight apartment building in Montreal North and punching him in the face from the second floor open landing as he greeted me seemed a little risky with residents of seven other dwellings as potential witnesses. I therefore had decided to wait for him inside his home while he was out, figuring I had invaded his home, in a sense.

Etienne, I had come to learn by keeping tabs on him, liked to dabble with heroin on occasion, particularly when he visited a female friend who lived a couple of blocks away from his place. A stripper by trade, she depended on the opiate to help her get through her night shifts at a local club with often less than desirable clientele and Etienne was more than happy to supply her with an occasional fix in exchange for a romp before she left for work.

On such evenings, Etienne generally walked her to the strip joint less than ten minutes away then headed back home to crash while watching some television. Tonight was such an evening and I was waiting patiently for his return though watching television was not quite what I had in mind.

From the sliding door in the living room, I saw Etienne approaching on the sidewalk and I took position in the corner by the entrance door. The door would hide me when he opened it and, once he was in, he wouldn’t have the reflexes to deal with me even if he saw me. As it turned out, he didn’t even see me.

The door swung open and he sauntered in, swinging it shut behind him and not even bothering to lock it as he moved further into the apartment.

“Salut, Etienne,” I said softly from behind him.

He turned, quickly by his drug-induced standards but slowly by mine, and I swung the baseball bat, satisfied to see the look of surprise and fear in his eyes immediately preceding impact. He plummeted to the cheap carpet and I let him go then watched him for a moment to make sure he was out. He was.

Taking no chances, as he might come to more quickly than I hoped, I duct taped his ankles and wrists together, slapping a strip across his mouth for good measure then pulled him up, slung him over my shoulder and headed to his bedroom. While I had been waiting for Etienne to return to his apartment, I had tied a length of yellow nylon rope to each of the four corner bed legs so, within minutes, I had him securely tied down in a spread eagled position. I considered cutting his clothes off to make him feel further violated, as he had done to his victims, but there were limits to what I was willing to do.

Since I didn’t have all night, I wanted to get things moving but I needed him to be awake before starting because, after all, the main purpose of the exercise was to make him realize he was being punished for his actions. Proceeding while he was unconscious would defeat the purpose so, using an already proven wake-up procedure, I went into the kitchen, found an empty pot in the sink, filled it up with water and returned to the bedroom where I dumped it in his face.

He spluttered and attempted to sit upright but my restraints did their job so he remained flat on the mattress. Opening his eyes, he stared at me in confusion, no doubt partly due to his drugged state but likely more so because he was wondering who the hell I was, why I was in his apartment and, perhaps his point of greatest concern, why he was tied down on his bed.

I smiled at him and said, “Bonsoir, Etienne.”

He responded with only a stare but I didn’t take it personally because, after all, I had duct taped his mouth.

Continuing in French, I said, “You don’t know who I am but I want to have a discussion with you. I can take that tape off your mouth but if I do, you have to promise to be quiet. Do you promise?”

He nodded blankly at me.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll remove it but remember, you promised. If you break your promise, there will be consequences. Do you understand?”

He nodded again and I proceeded to remove the tape, being careful to cause as little discomfort to him as possible. He remained quiet, eyeing me until I was done. Once I moved back, he screamed. However, it was a scream of short duration because I brought my doubled-up fists down in a solid jab to his solar plexus, effectively knocking the breath out of him. Obviously, he stopped screaming, concentrating on trying to breathe instead.

As he gasped for air, somewhat unsuccessfully, I said, “I asked you to stay quiet, Etienne, and you promised you would but you didn’t. Are you going to stay quiet now?”

He nodded once more and I said, “Answer me, tough guy. Otherwise I’ll just tape your damned mouth shut if all you can do is scream.”

“Oui,” he rasped, finally getting a bit of air into him.

“Good,” I replied as I picked up my baseball bat which I’d brought into the room after tying him up, “Because if you scream again, I’ll really hurt you.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked with sincerity, obviously concerned but also curious about the predicament he found himself in.

“I want you to explain to me why you did what you did to Leo and Isabelle Gingras,” I answered because I really was intrigued by what made such an animal tick.

He looked at me with a calculating gaze, as if trying to determine what the correct response to my question might be. Finally, after a moment, he did his best to look dejected and said, “It was all Emile’s idea. I didn’t know what he was planning to do. I thought we were only going to steal money and stuff. I didn’t even know anyone was home.”

“So, this was all your brother’s idea?” I asked for confirmation.

“Yeah, it was,” Etienne reasserted. “Like I said, I thought it was just to steal stuff. I wasn’t expecting things to get rough. I don’t do that kinda crap. It kinda freaked me out.”

“I can imagine.” I replied then asked, “What was it that freaked you out? Was it seeing Emile beating on Leo when he opened the door or was it watching him simultaneously run after Isabelle?”

“Uh, yeah, when, uh, he went after the lady,” Etienne confirmed with uncertainty. “She was screaming and running and Emile went after her like crazy.”

“And what were you doing while he was running after her and beating her husband at the same time?” I questioned, purely out of curiosity.

“Well, I was, uh, I was –”

“You’re full of shit is what you are, Etienne,” I said as I slapped the tape back across his face before pulling out the roll for a fresh strip. “And to try to blame it on your little bro on top of it all? I’m very disappointed…

“Here’s what we’re going to do. First, I’m going to read you Isabelle Gingras’ statement which she made to the police a few hours after you left. I found it to be a clear, believable recounting of events and I’m sure you’ll agree with me once you’ve heard it, since you were there. Then, once we’ve agreed on what actually happened, we’ll deal with things accordingly…”

#9 - Rick Bourque - Thursday, May 9, 1996

Some of you may, or may not, remember Sylvie Theriault although I hope you do. I had mentioned her in some detail when describing my encounter with Mathieu Masson on February 20, 1996. Sylvie was the young mother-to-be of twins and the innocent victim who took two stray bullets in a failed drive-by shooting. Mathieu was the driver of the shooter’s car on that fateful day in August, 1995. A missing element remained to be dealt with in order to close the chapter on this atrocity. The shooter, as confirmed by my buddy, Matty, when we had discussed it less than three months ago, was Rick Bourque, aka Birks.

Birks headed a gang, albeit not a very big or highly organized one, but good enough to generate revenues sufficient to keep him in a decent apartment on the outskirts of Montreal’s St-Leonard district with a running car, food and so on. Unfortunately, unless something went wrong with my plans, all of that was going to end for him before the evening was over.

Considering the crime which Birks had gotten away with was shooting a semi-automatic weapon on a busy, public boulevard in broad daylight, I figured he was someone who might be armed and, maybe, dangerous. I would have to be even more cautious with this one because getting shot just didn’t sit well with me.

As with my other prospects, I had been keeping tabs on Birks and, like many of his kind, he wasn’t as bright or careful as he should have been. With relative ease, after a few surveillance outings, I had managed to establish enough of his routine, at least that which worked with my schedule, to fix a day and time for our encounter.

I had also had the opportunity to visit his apartment on a couple of occasions and had determined that he did not have a stash of firearms hidden away somewhere. In fact, he had nothing which could be considered an illegal weapon of any kind. Worst case scenario was that he carried a piece and it certainly wouldn’t be a semi-automatic rifle. I would deal with that as required because it was either him, or me.

Though I was taking no chances, I doubted Birks was packing lately, believing that he was being very careful with firearms since the Theriault killing. In addition, Thursday nights were poker nights with his top guys in a back room at Ti-Paul’s, a tavern-like affair with loose ties to Birks’ crew in the nearby Montreal North district. Any guns required in case of any sudden trouble would likely already be on location.

Time of year was on my side since the sun had set somewhere around a quarter after eight so it had been plenty dark at eight-forty when I had gained access to Birks’ car parked on the quiet, residential street. His ride was a 1993 Chrysler Concorde, which suited me fine with its large, roomy interior, particularly in the back where I was spending a bit of time waiting for him.

Luckily for me, he was rather punctual and at a couple of minutes past nine, Birks showed up, unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat, completely oblivious of my presence in the car. I used the instant when he pulled the door shut to sit upright, not worried that he’d see me because I had displaced the rear view mirror to reflect the ceiling.

“Thanks for your timeliness,” I said as he inserted the key in the ignition, pressing the muzzle of my revolver to the side of his neck. It was a Crosman CO2 .177 calibre pellet gun but he didn’t know that. Anyhow, it would hurt, maybe even kill him if I had to shoot. “Raise your hands up where I can see them.”

He stiffened and his eyes went to the rear view mirror by reflex which gave him, you guessed it, an eyeful of ceiling and maybe the dome light.

“What’s this about?” he asked, his tone surprisingly calm as he obeyed my command. In his defense, he did have a rather risky lifestyle.

“There will be plenty of time for explanations later,” I replied. “Right now, I want to get things set up to make sure nobody gets hurt, okay?”

He shrugged as he answered, “You’re the boss. What’s next?”

“Get over the console to the passenger seat, slowly, and keep your hands up.”

“How am I gonna do that?” he complained.

“Very carefully,” I replied. “Your life depends on it.”

He made his way over the console well enough and was soon on the passenger side. The gun’s muzzle maintained contact throughout his journey.

“Hands back behind the headrest, fingers intertwined,” I ordered, “And lean your head forward.”

I had to put the gun down because I needed both hands but I was confident he’d regret it if he tried anything stupid. As it was, he didn’t. With my friendly roll of duct tape, I did a good if unstylish job of binding his hands together from the wrists to his intertwined fingers. Next, I secured his whole hand assembly to the back of the headrest with several more feet of tape wrapped around over and under from front to back. Finally, after having him lean his head back again, I did a couple more rounds of tape around his head and the headrest. I wanted to make sure his movement was restricted.

“This isn’t very comfortable,” he commented when I was done.

“Sorry,” I replied. “It’s just a necessary precaution to avoid a car crash once we get moving.”

“Where are we going?” he asked, for the first time, a trace of fear in his tone.

“It’s a surprise,” I answered before affixing a strip of tape across his mouth. “Now, I’m going to get out, go on your side and open your door to secure your feet. Be stupid and you’ll be dead.”

I holstered the gun, got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side while casually looking around for any potential witnesses. The street and sidewalks remained deserted, one of the benefits of quiet residential neighbourhoods.

Opening the passenger door, I said, “Bend your knees and put your feet a foot apart.”

He stared at me but did what he was told and I got busy making duct tape shackles which is easier than one might think. I started by wrapping the tape around his right ankle two or three times then unrolled enough to get to his left ankle, wrapping it a few times as well before starting to alternate from one ankle to the other in a figure eight pattern. Within moments, his ankles were bound together but a foot apart with multiple tape strands crisscrossing from one ankle to the other. Crude but effective, this would allow for some limited mobility later but there was no way he could suddenly sprint away if he had the chance.

My shackles complete, I pulled his right foot close to the seat and taped it to a support bracket underneath. He wouldn’t be swinging his feet up to kick me while I’d be driving. After fastening his seatbelt around his waist, for safety’s sake, I reclined his seat as far as it would go and shut the door. Out of sight, out of mind.

Not wishing to overstay my welcome in the neighbourhood, I hurried to the driver’s seat, knowing the key awaited me in the ignition and, seconds later, we were off. I felt the ride would be a good time to chat so when I reached the first stop sign, I leaned over and yanked the tape from his mouth.

“Jesus, that hurt, you motherfucker,” Birks bellowed as we resumed our drive.

“Sorry,” I replied, “And watch your mouth, asshole. You don’t want to piss me off.”

“What the fuck is this all about?” he demanded.

I backhanded him with my right as I held the steering wheel with my left. “I told you to watch your mouth. Don’t make me warn you again.”

“Okay, okay,” he muttered, “But I’m kinda pissed off myself right now.”

“You brought it on to yourself,” I replied, “So deal with it.”

“What did I do to you?” he asked. “I don’t know you. I ain’t ever even seen you before.”

“It’s not anything you did to me,” I said, “But it’s certainly something you did.”

“You mind sharing what that was?” he asked, his tone mocking.

“You’re really not in a position to have an attitude, my friend,” I said. “That’s more annoying than you swearing at me.”

He sighed. “Alright, I’m sorry. I just want to know why you’re doing this.”

“August 17th last year,” I said. “An innocent woman died. She was twenty-three and about to give birth for the first time in her life. She, and her unborn twins, died because of you.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “You got the wrong man cuz that wasn’t me. No way.”

“You’re full of crap, Birks,” I said. “It was you.”

“H-how do you know my name?” he asked, surprised and concerned.

“A mutual acquaintance shared it with me,” I replied. “You remember Mathieu Masson, don’t you? He told me your name was Rick Bourque, known as Birks on the street.”

“Uh, Matty’s dead, man,” said Birks. “He couldn’t tell you nothing.”

I laughed. “Of course, Matty’s dead. I killed him, you moron. He told me about you before he died. He told me he had been driving the car and that you were the shooter. Why the hell do you think I’m here?”

“Y-you killed Matty?” he said. “Why?”

“Are you paying attention?” I asked. “He was driving, knowing full well you would be shooting a semi-automatic weapon out in public, putting the lives of countless innocent people at risk. Sylvie Theriault and her twins are gone because of Matty, and because of you, of course.”

“But –” he started to say.

“But nothing,” I interrupted. “Don’t try to deny it because Matty told me everything. Telling me you didn’t do it will piss me off even more than your swearing or your attitude.”

He was silent for a moment then said, “It was an accident, man. We weren’t gunning for her.”

“True,” I agreed, “But she’s still dead, right? You still shot her with an illegal weapon on a busy street in broad daylight, right?”

“Aw, fuck man,” he whined, “So now you’re gonna kill me?”

“Now, I want some information from you,” I replied.

“What kind of information?” he asked, a hint of hope in his tone.

“The gun you used,” I said, “Where is it?”

“I got rid of it,” Birks replied. “I couldn’t take no chance of the cops finding it. I didn’t think Matty would crack when they talked to him but, just in case, I tossed the gun in the river.”

“What river?” I asked, to see if he was lying.

“Saint-Lawrence,” he answered immediately, “From the Jacques-Cartier Bridge on the walking path at three in the morning same night I’d used it.”

“Where did you get it?” was my next question.

“I bought it off some guy,” he replied.

“Who, Birks?” I asked, showing some frustration. “Give me a damned name.”

“The guy could get in real trouble, man,” Birks argued. “I gave him my word.”

“How stupid are you?” I snapped. “I killed Matty over this and you know that because he’s dead and he was the only one who could tie you into this. Now, you’re concerned because some guy who sold you a gun could get in trouble? Look at yourself, you idiot. You are in trouble. Give me his damned name.”

“Aw, Jesus, man,” Birks whined again. “Alright, his name is Greg O’Shea. He works for some company that make guns and stuff for the army.”

“So, this gun you had,” I asked, “It was from where this Greg works?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Birks. “He’s a manager or something and he figured out some way to get guns out without nobody noticing. Some guy I know hooked me up with him and I bought a piece. That’s all. Just the one gun we talked about.”

“Does Greg sell a lot of guns like that?” I asked.

“I guess,” said Birks. “He had a bunch of different guns he showed me to choose from and he told me to let him know if I needed anything else.”

“Good to know,” I said, memorizing O’Shea’s name for later. “Thanks, Birks. You did good.”

We rode along in silence for a minute or two until Birks spoke up. “Where are you taking me?”

“Do you like golf?” I asked in response.

“Golf?” he repeated. “Like, the game?”

“Yes, golf,” I confirmed.

“I never played,” he said. “Only went to drive some balls a couple of times and, you know, mini-putt kinda thing.”

“I’m taking you to a golf course,” I said. “It’s not finished yet, still under construction. We’re almost there.”

“What are we going there for?” he asked.

“You ask a lot of questions,” I replied. “Just shut up, wait and you’ll see soon enough.”

We rode the short distance remaining in silence and were soon on the site of the future Montreal Island Golf Club near the eastern tip of the island. Construction had begun but was in the early stages with the opening of the first of two courses planned for 1998, in two years’ time. From a recent visit, I knew that security was non-existent which meant there would be nobody around for miles, barring traffic on Autoroute 40 some distance from the location I had selected. I parked the car facing north, away from the highway, and turned off the engine but left the headlights on because I needed to see and it was dark.

“We’re here,” I announced.

“Now what?” Birks asked, his tone shaky, not surprising considering he figured things weren’t looking up for him.

“Now, we’re going to get out,” I replied before opening the door and getting out.

I went around the car and opened the passenger side door then crouched down and sliced the tape which secured his right ankle to the seat brace.

“You can stretch your legs now,” I said as returned his seat to the upright position.

Moving to the rear door, I pulled it open and, with a couple more strategic cuts, the tape holding Birks head and arms to the head rest was no longer an issue.

“Okay, you can get out now,” I said as I slammed the rear door shut.

“No, I can’t, goddamn it,” he whined. “I’m still fucking taped.”

Reaching in behind the head rest, I got hold of one end of the cut tape and yanked it, taking some of his hair out as well.

“Jesus, are you crazy?” he shrieked as he struggled, successfully freeing himself. “You ripped my fucking hair out.”

I reached into the car, grabbed the front of his denim jacket, yanked him out and slammed his back against the closed rear door before slapping him on the side of the head.

“You have memory problems, buddy?” I asked as I stepped back. “Didn’t I tell you to watch your mouth when you’re talking to me?”

“Yeah, yeah you did,” he replied, whining again as he rubbed the side of his head on his shoulder, “But that hurt like a bitch.”

“I thought you were a tough guy,” I replied. “Big tough guy who goes around killing innocent, pregnant women.”

“Aw, come on, you said that already,” he argued, “And it only happened once.”

“That’s right,” I agreed, “But once too many.”

“Look, I’m sorry but it was an accident,” Birks replied. “What’s done is done. You can’t bring the lady back and, anyhow, they said on the news she died like, instantly, so she didn’t suffer or nothing.”

I stared at Birks for a moment then took another step back as I pulled out the revolver and aimed it at his face.

“Holy shit,” he exclaimed, raising his taped hands up in defense then relaxing a bit. “Aw, crap, that just a BB gun, you bastard.”

“Pellets, actually,” I replied. “Powered with compressed CO2.”

“You fucking kidnapped me with a pellet gun?” he stated more than asked.

I responded by pulling the trigger and shooting him in the face, just below the right cheekbone. He howled in pain as he grasped his face as best he could then stared at me with panic in his eyes as he noted he was bleeding.

“What’s the matter?” I asked as I shot him again, this time in the shoulder. “It’s just a pellet gun. You said so yourself though the manufacturer does specify that this is not a toy. Did you know that those pellets shoot out at four hundred thirty-five feet per second? That’s almost two hundred ninety-seven miles per hour. Pretty impressive if you ask me, even though it’s just a pellet gun.”

“You’re crazy, man,” he shrieked. “You broke some fucking teeth.”

“Aw, damn,” I replied as I shot him in the ribs, causing him to gasp, tense up then fall to the ground.

“So, not so cool to get shot at?” I asked as I yanked him back up to his feet and leaned him up against the car again. “Even with a pellet gun?”

“What do you want from me?” he sobbed. “Why are you doing this?”

“If you still don’t understand why I’m doing this, you’re a sadder bastard than I thought,” I said. “As for what I want from you, it’s simple… retribution, payback, the punishment to fit the crime.”

“So, you’re just gonna kill me?” he asked, his voice quavering in pain and fear. “You’re no better than I am.”

“Get out of here,” I said.

“W-what?” he asked, not comprehending.

I gestured to the north, away from the highway and said, “Go. Get away from me.”

“I’m all taped up, man,” he whined. “How can I go anywhere?”

I nudged his foot with mine and said, “You’ve got some loose there. You can’t run but you can certainly walk. Move.”

He glanced at me then started shuffling away, as quickly as his duct tape shackles allowed him to go. When he had gone about ten feet, I shot him in the back and he went down with a moan. I walked up closer and fired the two remaining pellets at him then holstered the gun and pulled out my knife.

#10 - Ghislain Blouin - Tuesday, May 14, 1996

My dealing with Birks the previous Thursday had gotten me another headline with Henderson at the Gazette, a front page spread in the Saturday edition, in fact, which covered what details were known, a recap of the Vigilante murders to date and the highlights of Lieutenant Dave McCall’s press conference held late Friday afternoon. Montreal’s top murder cop clearly recognized he had a serial killer on his hands, he obviously didn’t like it, even if the victims were all scum, and he promised the public that resolution in the ongoing case would soon be the final chapter.

I felt for the guy and wished I could help him. In fact, I was, in my own way, though he obviously didn’t share my opinion. I’m sure he would have preferred that I turn myself in or, at the very least, cease my activities but I had my things to do with an established schedule to respect. As they say, you can’t please everyone.

Next on my ‘to do’ list was Ghislain Blouin. I had mentioned earlier that among the more horrendous crimes was home invasion. However, there are few crimes, if any, more despicable than those which involve the abuse or exploitation of children. For an adult to take advantage or prey on others incapable of defending themselves because of their lesser size, physical and mental capabilities makes me sick to the core with anger. Anyone who seeks to personally benefit at the expense of children, for personal gratification or any type of gain, deserves a punishment more severe than death itself.

Succinctly stated, fifty-two year old Blouin was a pedophile, a child pornographer and a killer. Not only had he satisfied his sick thrills on countless occasions, he had also filmed some of these activities and subsequently distributed them for financial gain as technology had permitted him to do so. Though he had been arrested and even served six months of prison time for indecent exposure and soliciting juveniles, the authorities and the courts had never succeeded in proving his guilt for his more serious, hideous aberrations of human life.

The molestations he was responsible for which he himself had documented in video format, their distribution through illegal networks of child porn, the sickening harm and trauma he had instigated… he had never had to pay for. At least four of these children had gone missing, never found, which acquaintances had sworn had been videotaped in his home, based on decor, wall colors, furniture and so on… Walls had been repainted, even wallpapered, furniture changed, paintings discarded and replaced… Just to hide what had happened.

The court’s decision had been one of ‘not guilty’, due to lack of sufficient evidence. Some of his neighbours, seated in the courtroom audience, had screamed revolt… They had seen these children on several occasions, two girls and two boys, aged from seven to ten, at Blouin’s previous home in the North Shore town of Legardeur, before their disappearance. The judge, a man encompassed by the letter of the law, had threatened to clear the court and arrest all malfeasants at this outcry then dismissed the case.

I had seen those four children… countless times on milk cartons on our breakfast table every morning… My wife, bless her heart to this day, had even offered to empty the milk cartons into a plastic pitcher so I wouldn’t have to see them daily, but I had said no, those photos were there for a reason… She had understood and told me she agreed, then never brought it up again.

As a registered pedophile without employment, a bit of difficulty had ensued at first to find himself lodgings upon leaving prison for his lesser wrongdoings. However, with the help of the law and a government subsidy, Blouin had managed to rent himself living quarters in the form of an upper duplex townhouse in an east-end sector of Montreal, at the end of a cul-de-sac along the train tracks. It worked for him, a relatively comfortable apartment with government assistance, away from the limelight and the media. In terms of location, it definitely worked for me.

Access to information via computer systems, thanks to my day job, was a big help. Just as I could get into police and court records to conduct required research, I could also find other bits of useful information. For example, thanks to postal records, I knew that the lower level of the duplex Blouin lived in was currently unoccupied because all mail to its occupants was being forwarded to another address until early June. A couple of visits, for additional confirmation, had resulted in no answers to my calls and visual scans through windows had left me with the comfortable impression that nobody was currently living there.

A good old-fashion For Rent - Immediate Occupancy sign on the upper balcony of the neighbouring attached building told me nobody presently resided across the wall from Blouin’s apartment as well. With a bit of digging, I had discovered that the owner, who lived in the lower level, was an elderly widow who was brimming with health with the exception of a hearing deficiency. Things were definitely looking good from my perspective.

I’ve mentioned before that humans are creatures of habit and, though Blouin barely qualified as human in my book, he did share sufficient traits, including the habit thing. From observation, I had noted that his routine included going for a walk in the early evening, generally from about seven to eight, before settling in for whatever he occupied his time with in private. A visit or two to his apartment in his absence had made it clear to me that he had not lost his addiction to child pornography, unless he kept his collection of illicit video cassettes solely for nostalgic purposes. A little past surveillance from the outside once he returned had allowed me to see the familiar bluish-white glare televisions emit so my guess was the tube was his thing in the evening.

Shortly after he left for his evening stroll, I entered his home – people really should get better locks for their doors – and prepared for his return, which was really rather simple. First, I hammered a six inch nail, right behind the sliding door in the kitchen through the bottom track, leaving a couple of inches sticking out to serve as a stopper. No way he’d get out through there unless he smashed through the glass  Next, I went about the apartment, scattering my props as I went, on the kitchen table and counter, a couple on the bed and dresser, a few more in the living room, on the couch, the centre table and the recliner. “What are these props?” you ask? Let me tell you.

You may remember the milk cartons I mentioned earlier. Rather than discarding them once empty, I had rinsed and saved them, specifically the ones with the photos of those four missing children from Legardeur who had met their fate at the hand of Ghislain Blouin. I had ended up with about three dozen which I had preciously safeguarded for my moment with their killer. I had known I would eventually deal with him and wanted the faces of those children to be that last thing emblazoned in his mind before he went to hell. I admit that I can be a little twisted… Anyhow…

My stage set, I settled into a small room which Blouin had furnished as a reading spot or sitting area and waited for his return, keeping track of time as he usually didn’t deviate from his routine. Tonight was no exception. I heard the front door open and close, followed by his footsteps as he climbed the long staircase leading to his apartment. He wasn’t a big or heavy man, maybe five-seven and a hundred sixty pounds but he walked with a heavy step which made it easy for me to track his approach.

At the top of the stairs, he headed towards the back along the hallway to where the kitchen and bedroom were, walking right past the spare room where I was hiding in wait. A moment of silence ensued followed by an unintelligible muttering though the tone conveyed confusion and shock. Time to get busy…

I left the spare room and headed toward the back of the apartment, just catching a glimpse of him as he hurried out of the now lit bedroom and into the kitchen.

“What is this?” he questioned aloud in French, obviously referring to my milk cartons.

I reached the entrance to the kitchen to find him standing near the counter, a milk carton in each hand, staring at them, stupefied.

“You’re not saying you don’t remember them, right?” I asked softly.

He spun around toward me, dropping both cartons to the floor as he clutched his chest with one hand.

“W-what the… Who are you?” he gasped, staring at me with eyes wide open in fear.

“I’m your worst nightmare,” I replied then grinned. “Damn, I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“W-what are you doing in here?” he demanded, not catching my Rambo humour. “Y-you have no right to be here. This is my home.”

“Well, if you want to get down to business, fine,” I said with a frown. “Answer my damned question.”

“W-what question?” he asked in return, still frozen in shock.

“I asked you if you were saying you didn’t remember them,” I replied.

“Remember who?” he asked.

“The children on the milk cartons, Ghislain,” I almost whispered. “The four children who disappeared because of you.”

“W-what is this?” he repeated. “Why are you here? Who are you?”

“Answer my question,” I demanded. “Do you remember them or not? I suggest you give me the right answer.”

“Look, whoever you are, you just better get out of here,” he said, failing to get the shake out of his tone. As he spoke, he took a subtle step back and dropped his right arm, not only to the side but back a little, towards the countertop behind him.

“The knife block is empty,” I said conversationally. “Did you think I’d leave all those sharp blades around so you could attack me with them?”

He stared at me then turned to look at the knife block behind him. Empty, just like I’d said. He turned back and suddenly sprinted forward directly at me. In the time it took him to cover the six or so feet which separated us, I was able to note that he intended to try to head butt me in the chest or stomach area so I raised a knee at the appropriate moment and broke his nose, not to mention sent him flipping in the opposite direction to land flat on his back. He unfortunately also banged his head pretty hard on the floor when he landed. Fortunately, there currently were no neighbours downstairs.

I helped him up, whether he wanted me to or not, and guided/dragged him along the hallway to the living room. Once there, since it was his home, I let him have the recliner and dropped him into it. I didn’t care about him crumpling the milk cartons I’d left there. He had seen my props.

“Where are they?” I asked.

He tried to laugh in derision but it hurt because of the broken nose so he just kind of snorted then winced.

“Where are they?” I asked again.

“Who?” he asked in return, taking the dummy approach but only succeeding in annoying me.

I stared at him for a long moment then took a step toward the couch and picked up one of the cartons I’d left there. One of the girls, the youngest of his victims. I stepped back closer to him as I looked at the photo on the carton then leaned toward him, bringing the carton forward until it was six inches from his face.

“Let’s start with her,” I said. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” he answered softly as he gazed at the young girl’s face. “She sure was a cutie. Was she never found?”

I crushed the carton into his face, pretty hard, not really impressed by his gasp of pain, you know, because of the already broken nose then backhanded him, knocking him askew in the recliner. Grabbing the front of his shirt, I pulled him toward me then shoved him back, centred in his comfortable chair. I picked up another milk carton from the centre table by my side, one of the boys this time, and held it up for his viewing.

“Let’s try with another,” I suggested, “But I want you to keep in mind that you will tell me where they are, all of them.”

He looked at me, trying to gauge where this might end and finally sighed and said, “You’re going to kill me. We both know it and we both know I can’t stop you. If that’s the case, why should I tell you anything? It won’t change anything for me so why should I care?”

“Those four children will never get to experience life and its pleasures,” I replied, “Because you ended their lives to cover up your having abused them for your own sick pleasure. They deserve a proper resting place. Their families deserve, at the very least, some closure. That’s why you should tell me.”

He looked pensive for a moment then turned to me with a faint smile. “Very nicely said, touching, in fact, but, in the end, it still changes nothing for me. Sorry.”

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

#11 - Philippe Robitaille - Friday, May 17, 1996

Ghislain Blouin’s battered body had been found by the police on Wednesday morning, thanks to an anonymous call made at eight-seventeen in the morning from a pay phone at the Berri-UQAM Metro, likely Montreal’s busiest subway station. I confess, my prints would have been on that quarter if I hadn’t wiped it down and handled it with a bit of tissue paper; and thanks to the standard Bic pen, not only did it ‘Write first time, every time,’ it also worked wonderfully when I had used it to punch in the number on the dial pad.

This was the first time I had ever reported one of my events, deeds, therapy sessions… call them what you will, but there was a reason for my doing so. Before moving on to, uh, wherever I had sent the sick bastard, Ghislain Blouin, out of the goodness of his heart, and with my coaxing, had left a hand-written note with rather precise details of where he had disposed of the bodies of the milk carton children. I had felt this information warranted speedy discovery and acted accordingly. Thankfully, though sadly, the animal had provided accurate information… Closure for the bereaved… Moving along…

Philippe Robitaille was a firefighter, even a hero, or he had been. Over a period of three to four years, Robitaille’s name had frequently appeared in the pages of the city’s favourite daily tabloid, Le Journal de Montréal, where his life-saving efforts were exalted on numerous occasions thanks to his selfless efforts.

Men, women, children, even pets had been whisked to safety, away from the terrifying grips of destructive infernos, thanks to the devotion Robitaille had for his chosen profession. A few had not been as lucky and had succumbed to smoke or flames but, after all, Robitaille and his colleagues were not superheroes, they were only men and women doing the best they could to protect the public from one of the earth’s powerful elements.

However, following a number of investigations over time, people within the firefighting organization, and without, had begun to question Robitaille and his appearances at the fires, all deemed criminal and most, rather spectacular. The majority of these blazes had been determined to be the work of the same arsonist and investigators had zeroed in on Robitaille as a prime candidate.

Unfortunately, loose lips within the fire department and police force, combined with journalists looking for the next big story, had led a couple of over-zealous investigators to search for and seize evidence without the proper warrants. As it had turned out, it had been precisely the evidence which would have convicted Robitaille and put him behind bars for years. The case had fallen apart for the prosecution and a murderous arsonist, likely the worst in the city’s history, had gone free.

In the aftermath, several people with the fire department and police force had been terminated or demoted due to the outcome of the botched investigation. Ironically as it may seem, Robitaille, after receiving a union negotiated severance package, had gone on to find himself a senior management position with a rapidly growing firm specializing in fire security systems for large commercial and residential buildings. Go figure…

Issues in his relationship had come about during the turmoil surrounding his professional versus criminal activities and, as a result, Robitaille and his girlfriend had split up. She had kept the house, which had been hers to begin with, and he had found an apartment in a well-to-do high-rise in downtown Montreal within walking distance of his new job.

The building in question offered 24/7 security in the lobby which was a great selling point to potential renters. However, it also had an underground garage accessible through both drive-in and walk-through entrances where camera surveillance was non-existent, nor was any actual patrolling, mainly because only one security guard was present per eight hour shift.

Anyone who wanted to could easily slip in without being noticed when a car was entering or leaving. Another alternative was to use one of three walk-in accesses, two which didn’t always lock properly and all three which dog owning residents often propped open because using their key card was too much of a hassle. Obviously, un-propping the door upon their return was also a pain so many didn’t bother.

To be frank, I had done a bit of my own surveillance and had noted that the security desk in the lobby was often deserted. Whoever the guard on duty was, he regularly went to the bathroom, took a break, went to visit a lonely tenant in some apartment… whatever, who knows where the heck he went? All I know is, strolling in through the lobby and accessing the elevators without being noticed was completely possible, which is what I did.

Robitaille was still in his infancy as a corporate executive and was taking the learning curve seriously, in the office early every morning and rarely out before seven in the evening, even on Fridays. Back home before seven-thirty, he usually just took the time to change before going to the gym made available to tenants. His workouts generally lasted no more than thirty minutes as he rotated muscle groups from one evening to the next, his goal being to stay in shape, not become Mister Universe or anything similar.

Most nights, he stayed in, unless some social event came up, but Friday nights seemed to be Robitaille’s time to let loose and release the pressure of a demanding week of work. Following his Friday workout, he rarely was in his apartment for more than twenty minutes, to shower and dress, before heading out for dinner and fun. Chosen locations were mostly singles’ bars which also served food, where he might hook up with someone for the evening and maybe more.

I had selected that twenty minute window between his workout and departure as the ideal time to meet Robitaille and was at his door ten minutes after he had returned to his apartment from the gym.

“Monsieur Robitaille,” I called as I knocked on his door. “Antoine, de la sécurité.”

I had no clue if there was a guard named Antoine but Robitaille had just moved in and I doubted he knew any of them on a first name basis.

I heard movement inside and a muffled enquiry. “Qui est-ce? Il y a un problème?”

“It is Antoine from security,” I repeated in French. “There is no problem but I do have a package for you which requires your signature, sir.”

“A package?” he replied. “Very well. Give me a minute.”

No more than a minute passed before the deadbolt slid back and the door opened.

He stood there, gazing at me expectantly, wearing only a towel around his waist. I stood there, wearing a dark suit, shirt and tie, holding a shoe-box sized package against my chest with one hand, my other hand behind my back encased in a black leather boxing-bag glove, the kind with a steel bar sewn into the palm to wrap your fingers around for some added oomph.

“You said I have to sign something?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, holding the package out to him.

As he took the box and looked at it, I swung my gloved fist up and around, connecting perfectly, a sold blow just above the nose, right between the eyes. He toppled backward, going completely limp as he dropped like a felled tree to the carpeted floor. I glanced quickly down the hallway to ensure nobody had suddenly appeared to witness my dastardly deed but life was treating me right. It was just me and Robitaille who was currently taking a nap of sorts.

He had been good enough to fall sufficiently far that I barely had to push his feet aside to close the door. After locking it, I wasted no time getting the box I’d brought open because I needed the roll of duct tape it contained to deal with Robitaille. Who knew when he might come to and, as I mentioned, he worked out and looked in pretty good shape. Mind you, I was in pretty good shape as well but, in this line of work, risk minimization is always the best policy.

I taped his ankles together then rolled him over and did his wrists behind his back. Once I had him secured, I picked him up in a fireman’s carry, no pun intended, and moved him to the bedroom where he would be more comfortable. As additional benefits, the room was the furthest from the apartment’s entrance and I could close the door for further sound insulation. I was thankful to Robitaille for having selected a corner unit with no neighbours on the other sides of the walls. His choice of a building with concrete floors for the tenants’ peace of mind was not to be neglected either.

While he finished his nap – I had checked and he was still alive with a strong pulse and steady breathing – I finished my preparations for his awakening with the remaining contents of the box I had delivered, namely three dozen tea lights and an aerosol can of WD40. Actually, the flammable lubricant would only be used later and would be solely for theatrical purposes, meaning to scare the bastard before the final act.

From his kitchen, I borrowed a stack of plates which served as impromptu candle holders. These, I placed here and there about the room, on the dressers, nightstands and the bed itself, each with two to four of the small, flat candles which I would light shortly, once I believed my host was on the verge of rejoining me. I sat and watched him as I waited, not too long, actually, and when he started stirring and moaning a bit, I lit the tea lights.

My timing could not have been more perfect and the lighting effect was better than I had imagined. With the vertical shades closed to block out the diminishing daylight, the room was cast aglow by the thirty-six tiny flames, a lovely, golden light which danced slightly as air currents caused the flames to waver. I had just managed to finish lighting the candles before settling back into the comfortable armchair in one corner of the room when Robitaille regained consciousness.

“What’s going on?” he mumbled as his eyes flickered open.

Becoming more alert, he tried to move to get more comfortable because, lying on one’s back with one’s wrists duct taped behind one isn’t necessarily a comfortable position, even when on a queen size mattress. Realizing that he was bound, his movements became more agitated, causing some of the tea lights to dance precariously on their plates.

“Careful, buddy,” I warned him. “If one of those tips onto the bedspread, you could turn yourself into a human barbecue really quick.”

He stiffened and froze then looked about him, taking in all the glowing flames before zeroing in on me.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

It dawned on me that a lot of these guys I had dealt with lately asked the same question. Maybe they all lacked imagination or, perhaps, it was a normal inquiry for someone who finds himself bound and at the mercy of some stranger. I selected the latter as the likely explanation and moved on to the subject at hand.

“You really don’t want to know,” I replied. “It will just freak you out.”

“I’m pretty freaked out as it is,” he shot back. “Are you one of the cops who screwed up and got fired?”

I shook my head. “Nah, anyone of those guys would probably just have nabbed you, brought you in the woods somewhere and blown your brains out with an untraceable piece.”

“Then who the hell are you?” he insisted.

“Okay, if you must know,” I gave in. “Do you read the papers? Or watch the news?”

“Well, uh, yeah,” he answered, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Have you heard about this guy going around taking care of assholes like you?” I asked. “Dealing with killers who snuck out of the system because of legalese bullshit? They’re calling him the Vigilante.”

His eyes grew wide as he stared at me. “You’re telling me you’re him?”

“The one and only,” I confirmed, “At your service.”

“I-I don’t believe you,” he stammered. “You’re just a copycat trying to freak me out to get some attention.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” I asked as I rose from my seat. “That’s rather inconsiderate, not to say stupid of you seeing as you’re lying there trussed up with just a damned towel to protect you.”

“No, no,” he backpedalled, or tried. “It’s just that this Vigilante you mentioned, he’s been going after punks from street gangs or, or child molesters like that last one he got, not people like me. You can’t be him. It makes no sense.”

“Philippe, it makes perfect sense,” I disagreed. “You burned people to death. That puts you right up there with the gang punks and the murdering child molester.”

“The case against me was thrown out of court,” he argued. “I was acquitted, for Chrissake. I’m nothing like those animals.”

“The case was thrown out of court,” I explained, “Because those cops screwed up. I can’t even say I blame them. The media tipped you off so these guys hustled to get the dirt on you before you cleaned it up. Unfortunately for them, the judge was ‘by the book’ instead of ‘by common sense’ so you won and they lost. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I won my case fair and square,” Robitaille insisted. “It was by the book. Nobody got paid off. The system did its job. Case closed. This is ridiculous.”

“Did you kill people?” I asked.

“I saved people,” he countered. “I put my life at risk, going into burning buildings and carrying people out who would have died otherwise. I saved their damned lives.”

I pulled the can of WD40 out of a side pocket of my jacket as I walked over to the nightstand to his left where three tea lights burned. Aiming just right, I had practised, I sent a burst of spray over the flames. The vapours ignited into a miniature ball of flame, over the bed and close enough to his head that he felt the heat.

“What are you doing?” he shrieked in fear. “Do you want to set this place on fire? Do you know how many people live in this building?”

“How many people lived in the buildings you torched, Philippe?” I asked. “In total, give me a ballpark.”

“Why are you doing this?” he pleaded, another common question from this lot.

“How many people did you kill?” I asked, sending another spurt of flame over his head.

“Stop that,” he sobbed. “I saved hundreds of lives from those fires. You can’t condemn me because a few died.”

I slipped the aerosol can back into my pocket and pulled out my knife before saying, “You’re useless…”

#12 - Emile Jean - Friday, May 24, 1996

Over three weeks earlier, on May 1st, to be precise, I had spent part of my evening with Etienne Jean, one of the two violent home invaders who had taken the life of Leo Gingras and ruined what remained of his wife, Isabelle’s life forever. Etienne’s brother, Emile, had yet to pay for his crimes and I honestly did not believe that grieving for his sibling’s passing was sufficient punishment for the horror he had brought on to a couple in their prime.

When thinking of street punks and gang members, one thing which had never come to mind for me was die-hard athlete. Sure, we can easily associate many of these people with pumping iron in the prison yard and huge tattooed biceps but devoted cyclist and disciplined runner just didn’t jive with gang banger, at least in my mind. Regardless of my misconceptions, that is exactly what Emile Jean was.

Most mornings, from early spring to late fall, this violent, thieving thug was on his bike by five-thirty, pedalling from the Rivière des Prairies sector where he lived, to the eastern tip of the island of Montreal, which remained a mostly undeveloped and wooded area, a bit of pristine nature unblemished by urban chaos.

Once there, Emile would park his bicycle, not even bothering to lock it, so few were the visitors in the area this early in the morning, and run his set course through the labyrinth of trails carved out through the foliage by nature lovers over time. I had followed him on several occasions, starting in late April just when the trails had become fairly usable, to learn the course he ran, and to see if he varied, which he generally didn’t.

I hadn’t tried to hide my presence, in fact, I had purposefully let him see me, my intent being that he become comfortable with my being around once in a while. There’s just something about familiarity which gets people to let their guard down. We had even ended up running the course together a couple of times, exchanging a smile and a nod when we encountered each other and a wave at the end as we went our separate ways. The earphones and Walkmans we both sported made conversation unnecessary and avoiding it easy.

The course he ran was a cross-country challenge of varying terrain which included flat, open areas, narrow, curving paths as well as upgrades and downgrades. Though sunrise by this date was just around five-fifteen, much of the run was through denser foliage amidst tall trees which reduced the natural light, even on a bright, cloudless day. As it was, variable skies were upon us that day, reducing the light that much more, which was fine by me.

I waited for him, well hidden behind a tall copse of bushes along the path, checking my watch, knowing at what time he would run by almost to the minute. As expected, he was on schedule. I gave him a fifteen second lead as he disappeared around a bend – I had chosen my spot along a zigzagging part of the trail – then sprinted off, as if I had been closing in behind him. He came into a straight section and, seconds later, glanced behind him, saw me appear and grinned, probably having heard my steps between two beats from his earphones.

Just ahead was a downslope, which happened to run through a particularly densely wooded area, one of those spots which never saw much sunlight. He raced about twenty feet downhill, the grade helping his acceleration then his feet seemed to catapult off the path. He continued downhill, literally flying through the air feet first for a few of seconds before crashing to the ground and tumbling into a shallow ravine to one side.

An explanation, if I may. Upon my arrival that morning, I had strung a length of quarter inch nylon rope, a taut clothesline, across the path from one tree to another, some twenty feet down the slope. Having soaked it in muddy water a few days earlier, the once white rope was barely visible in the dim light, even if one knew it was there. Emile didn’t and had raced right into it, catching it hard, right in the throat. I had correctly estimated we were of the same height.

I hurried down to join him and found him gasping for air but failing dismally, his neck a bloodied mess, his eyes already bulging somewhat as he choked. I guess he had crushed his larynx or something but, hey, I’m not a doctor. All I can say is he had certainly hurt himself pretty badly.

“Are you okay, Emile?” I asked, feigning concern.

He shook his head in panic, trying to breathe but not succeeding, at least not to his satisfaction. The fact that I knew his name didn’t seem to register.

“Damn, you can’t breathe, can you?” I enquired.

Again, a head shake in response as his skin took on a bluish tinge.

“I’ve never done this before but I’ve heard about it,” I said as I pulled out my knife and locked the blade open. “I’ll do a tracheotomy so you can breathe, okay?”

I saw doubt in his eyes but he nodded after a few seconds; he was running out of options.

“Close your eyes and try to relax,” I said, bringing the blade to his neck as I added, “And if I screw this up, tell Leo, that guy you and your brother killed, that Isabelle misses him.”

#13 - Nicholas Bertrand - Wednesday, May 29, 1996

Nicholas Bertrand’s number had come up. The third attacker of Gaston Verville, the life-loving art teacher whose only crime had been to cycle through a park one night, had overrun his time amongst the living and had to pay for his mistakes.

Over three months had gone by since I had dealt with Maxime Leclerc and just under three months since Henri Castonguay had paid his dues, Bertrand’s two partners in the horrendous crime. That Bertrand had been given an extra trimester or so to eat, breathe and sleep had not been a calculated move but rather, simply luck of the draw for him because of my busy schedule. However, all good things come to an end and that was a definite for Nicholas.

His two close buddies getting murdered within weeks from each other had certainly shaken Bertrand up and he had gone into overdrive to clean up his act and stay out of trouble. Through some connections with an uncle, he had managed to get himself a grounds keeping job at the Meadowbrook Golf Course in west-end Montreal.

The job consisted of a lot of manual work, prepping the fairways and greens as of five in the morning to satisfy the critical lot who played the course as of seven every day but, it was a paycheque, honestly earned without the fear of getting busted by the cops or confronted by some idiot from another wannabe gang.

Getting to work was something of a hassle since Nicholas lived near La Fontaine Park, just off Papineau, while the golf course was in Cote St-Luc, south-west of N.D.G, an area not easily accessible for one without a car. The commute, which lasted an hour twenty minutes when all was on schedule, consisted of an initial walk, two bus rides, the second lasting close to half an hour and a final foot trek of over twenty minutes.

As with all my prospects, I had been keeping an eye on Nicholas Bertrand so I was attuned to his timetable, even impressed by how well he had been sticking to it. I had even noted how, if he had the minute or two required to grab a cup of coffee at an early-bird corner store near his first bus stop, he went for it zealously, coming out with a large cup to spark him up. He was running a bit late this particular morning so he had to forego his cup of joe. My good, his bad…

He caught his bus, the 359 heading north on Papineau, a bit before four, right on schedule and I zoomed ahead in the barely existing traffic, knowing he would be getting off at Rosemont for his next connection with several minutes to wait. I got there first, obviously, and waited a few minutes until I saw the bus arrive, Nicholas get off and cross the street to wait for the 370, his next ride heading west.

I watched him from a block away, a lone figure in the dark of early morning then headed around the corner to where the minivan was waiting. A minute or so later, I approached the intersection on Rosemont with my bullshit all lined up, slowed and lowered the passenger window.

“Salut,” I called to him. “Nicholas?”

“Oui,” he replied with uncertainty, though he approached.

“You work at Meadowbrook?” I continued in French, a statement more than a question.

“Oui,” he replied, visibly relaxing. “Do I know you?”

“We haven’t met,” I replied with a smile, “But I’ve seen you around. I’m Marcel Brisson, Tournaments Manager. Are you going to work?”

“Yessir,” said Nicholas. “Just waiting for my bus.”

“Well, that’s where I’m going,” I said. “Get in, unless you rather take the bus.”

“Non, monsieur,” he replied as he opened the door and slid in. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” I said, stepping on the accelerator while our light was still green. “Like I said, that’s where I’m going.”

“I’ve never seen you there,” said Nicholas, not questioning me but more so to make conversation.

“I’m mostly in my office on the phone,” I explained. “Dealing with corporate clients for company tournaments, that kind of thing. But, it’s part of my job to make sure the course stays in shape for the events I book so I like to keep an eye on things.”

“And you knew my name?” he asked, impressed and curious.

I laughed. “Nicholas, every year we get young people like you coming to work on the course to keep it in perfect condition. Within the first week, some stop showing up, because they just can’t handle the job. Others keep coming to work, arriving late, missing days, leaving early and smoking joints while they’re on the job. However, a few understand the importance of what they’re doing and they just do it. I remember the names of those few.”

He remained silent for a few seconds, digesting what I had just told him then said, “Merci. I have been doing my best but it’s nice to hear it, especially from someone like you.”

“You guys, the good ones, just don’t hear it enough,” I replied. “I think I need to have a chat with your boss.”

“Don’t get me in trouble,” he joked, though nervously.

“You have nothing to worry about, buddy,” I assured him as I pulled off to the curb in front of a tiny diner on the nearly deserted street. “I need my morning coffee and this place is the best in the city. How do you take yours?”

“M-my coffee?” he spluttered in surprise. “Uh, milk, one sugar.”

“Coming up,” I said as I climbed out of the minivan and slammed the door.

I returned within two, maybe three minutes with two small coffees, mine with just a bit of milk and his with milk, one sugar and… Okay, I need to tell you a bit of a story here…

In case you may have forgotten, back on February 20th, I had dealt with Mathieu Masson, the driver in the drive-by shooting which had taken the life of Sylvie Theriault and her unborn twins. Now, you may remember that when I hooked up with Masson, he had a gym bag loaded up with goodies he intended to sell that evening to anyone looking for a high, a buzz or a low. I had told him I had no use for the crap in his bag but I had gone through his inventory after the fact, just out of curiosity.

Within his portable drugstore, I had found several boxes of 20 mg Normison, a brand name for Temazepan, a potent drug used to treat insomnia… Yep, good old sleeping pills… Since Masson had been in no condition to ever sell drugs again once I was done with him, I had kept the Normison, along with other products which might prove useful at some point in the future. Always plan ahead… Now, back to our story.

After getting our coffees, I went into the tiny bathroom and took a moment to stir in three Normisons into Nicholas’ cup which I had crushed into powder beforehand. I was banking on the fact that he hadn’t had his caffeine fix yet so he’d hopefully slurp it down quickly enough. I doubted the drug would sufficiently distort the taste for him to notice and, as I mentioned, I had got us small coffees so he would likely ingest the whole dose within a short time.

“Here you go,” I said as returned to the minivan and handed him his coffee before sliding back into my seat.

“Thanks,” he replied, busying himself with the plastic lid separating him from his morning brew. “What do I owe you?”

I laughed. “Get outta here. A small token of appreciation for your hard work.”

“Cool. Thanks again,” he said before taking a healthy swallow.

“Whoa, it’s hot,” I cautioned. “Don’t burn yourself.”

He grinned and replied, “All I drink is restaurant coffee which is usually almost boiling. I’m used to it.”

To prove his point, he took another swig, reducing the cup’s content down to about half. You’ve got to like a cooperative victim.

“I should have bought you a big one,” I joked.

“That’s okay,” he replied. “Thanks to you, I’ll be there early enough to get myself another one and even drink it before I start working.”

“Well, good for you,” I said, adding nothing more.

We rode in silence for several minutes during which time Nicholas drained his cup then sat there, holding the empty container in one hand, the plastic lid in the other as he gazed out the windshield. After a moment or two, he looked down, noticed the cup and lid he was holding and decided to reassemble the two. Not as easy a task as he was expecting. He misaligned the cover before dropping the cup between his thighs. Fumbling to pick it up, it slipped from his fingers twice before he muttered and tried to get it a third time.

“Are you okay?” I questioned, noting his difficulties.

He shook his head, not in response but more in trying to shake the increasing effect of the triple dose of Normison.

“Ché pas, stie,” he mumbled, shaking his head again as the cup and lid slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Feelin’ dizzy an sleepy,” he slurred. “Was fine jus b’fore.”

“Did you do anything?” I enquired. “Any drugs, something like that?”

“No, no,” he replied, leaning back against the headrest and rocking his head back and forth. “Naw this morning.”

“Last night, maybe?” I persisted. “There must be something making you feel like this.”

“No, j-jus smoke a joint, mebbe two lass nigh,” he struggled to say. “I dunno wuz goin’ on. I’m fallin’ sleep, gonna pass out.”

“Maybe Henri gave you something?” I suggested, “Or perhaps Max put something in your coffee?”

“Masss?” he managed to get out, confusion adding to the somnolence. “E’s dead… Erhi too…”

“Oh, that’s right,” I replied. “Both Max and Henri are dead. They were killed, weren’t they?”

He rolled his head toward me and nodded, though rather awkwardly then mumbled, “Yethh.”

“You’re passing out on me, Nicky,” I said, reaching over and lightly slapping his cheek. “Stay with me for just another minute, will you? Make an effort for me, buddy.”

He nodded again and even struggled a bit to straighten himself in his seat as he forced his eyes open.

“So sleepy…” he whispered.

“That’s because I doped up your coffee, Nick,” I explained. “I needed to knock you out so I could take you somewhere without any trouble. Do you understand?”

He shook his head and slumped forward a bit though the shoulder strap of the seat belt held him up. “Wha-whaff for?”

“Because you’re going to hook up with Henri and Max, my friend,” I replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after everything and I promise I’ll let you wake up before I send you off. But take a nap now. You look like you need it.”

#14 - Edouard Racicot - Sunday, June 2, 1996

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.”

#15 - Jean-Jacques Lalonde - Thursday, June 6, 1996

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.”

“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.

#16 - Yvon Duhaime - Monday, June 10, 1996

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 12th Avenue, one block east of St-Michel and half a block south of Belanger. An alley ran parallel to Belanger between 12th and St-Michel and I knew Duhaime would either walk it on his way home or at least walk by it on 12th. 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.

Epilogue

So, there you have it, folks, the never-before-told story of the first sixteen. My intention was not to shock anyone by sharing this tale but rather to convey the information about my initial acts of vigilantism to those out there who know me or, at least know of me. I felt those people, many of whom I actually consider fans, were entitled to know about everything I’ve done and figured I was the best one to tell them.

Once again, I realize that not everyone agrees with what I did then, since or may do in the future. I am what I am just as you are what you are. Perhaps, you will never have to do the kind of things I’ve done because I, and others like me, will have done them for you.

Those of you who have read about me in other books know that there is much more to me and my story following these sixteen first, uh, victims. I’ll also mention that I have it on good authority that there will be more installments to come, one, in fact, in the near future. Stay tuned.

For those whose initiation to my world was this book, I invite you to delve into the other volumes of the Vigilante Series which are, at the very least, entertaining though, mind you, I may be biased.

A final word, if I may. Some past, and future, more astute readers may note a few slight discrepancies in the details relating to Sylvie Theriault, Greg O’Shea and Rick Bourque as discussed in this work versus what was presented in Vigilante, the first tome of the series penned by Bouchard. With all the credit due to Bouchard for his fine recounting of my story, allow me to state that I was present whereas he was not… Don’t worry, I’m just teasing the man – I know him well as he’s been a friend for the longest time.

Books by Claude Bouchard

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Vigilante

Book 1 of the Vigilante Series

Montreal . . . the long, hot summer of 1996. . . and in the dark of night, moving like a shadowy wraith, a vigilante prowls the city's streets. The targets of his bloody rampage: the worst of the worst. . . Murderers. Gangbangers. Rapists. Six months. Sixteen murders. The harried police are still without a clue . . . until the day they receive an email from the assassin himself. Lieutenant Dave McCall, head of Montreal's Special Homicide Task Force, needs help to crack the secrets of the killer's taunting message. He calls on an expert, Chris Barry, who runs a security firm specializing in computer communications. Together, McCall and Barry launch a grim quest to track down a man who preys on predators - an urgent quest to bring this remorseless killer to justice. But whose justice will prevail: theirs – or the vigilante's?

The Consultant

Book 2 of the Vigilante Series

The friendly takeover of CSS Inc. leaves computer executive Chris Barry unemployed, very wealthy and pleased with the situation. But the hiatus is short-lived. . . As a result of his involvement in the recent ‘Vigilante’ investigation, Barry is approached by Jonathan Addley and invited to join ‘Discreet Activities’, a government agency of the clandestine variety. Accepting, he promptly takes on his first assignment under the guise of an IT consultant, to investigate possible links between a local import business and the murder of its MIS director. As he discovers the firm is being used to import narcotics, his cover is blown and things get personal, spurring him to show that murderers, drug lords, biker gangs and kidnappers are no match for. . . The Consultant. . .

Mind Games

Book 3 of the Vigilante Series

Montreal is plagued by a string of vicious sex slayings. . . Captain Dave McCall and his Special Homicide Task Force are in a frustrated frenzy as they try to bring an end to the savage butchery. . . Assisting officially is noted psychiatrist, Doctor Samuel Bowman and unofficially, computer genius and multi-millionaire, Chris Barry. . . With each passing day, McCall works his way closer to the truth. . . Unaware that they are heading deep into the deadly core of. . . Mind Games. . .

The Homeless Killer

Book 4 of the Vigilante Series

The homeless of Montreal are dying at the hand of 'Allan', a serial killer set on ridding the city of street people. . . As the killer taunts the police about the increasing body count, Captain Dave McCall calls on the services Jonathan Addley and Chris Barry, both operatives with the government's clandestine 'Discreet Activities' team. . . All while fighting the city's proposed by-law banning the homeless from downtown parks, philanthropist and activist, William Enright, joins the law-enforcement crusade to capture the assassin. . . But will the combined efforts of the law and old money be sufficient to stop the Homeless Killer?

6 Hours 42 Minutes

Book 5 of the Vigilante Series

Though most of them dabbled in a variety of criminal activities, they weren't experienced in this particular field and had never been involved in a job like this before. However, with proper planning, careful organization and the inside information available to them, they were certain that this bank heist would be a piece of cake. Ten minutes, in and out, was all it would take and they'd be sharing 2.5 million dollars. Nothing could go wrong as they had thought of everything. . .How could they possibly know that a new member of the board was visiting the bank that morning? How could they know that the new board member was Chris Barry?

Discreet Activities

Book 6 of the Vigilante Series

As a result of information gathered via electronic surveillance by intelligence agencies in the U.S. and Canada, a budding terrorist organization, the Army for Islam or AFI, is suspected of planning an attack, its target possibly NYC, Burlington, Vermont or even Canada's famed Montreal. . . When four foreign students from Pakistan with known ties to the AFI's Montreal cell arrive in the area on New Year's Eve, Discreet Activities' head, Jonathan Addley, along with Chris Barry and other DA consultants are more than willing to take on the additional workload. . . After two of the DA team members die violently in an AFI related suicide-bombing, the job becomes getting revenge on those responsible for this Holy War...

Femme Fatale

Book 7 of the Vigilante Series

Less than two years earlier, Leslie Robb, an accountant in her late twenties working for the Imperial National Bank, had seen her life-partner and co-worker, Gina, shot to death during a bank heist subsequently foiled in part by Chris Barry, millionaire and clandestine operative of the government's 'Discreet Activities'. Taken as a hostage along with Chris by the remaining robbers onto a helicopter secretly piloted by two 'DA' operatives, including 'DA' head, Jonathan Addley, Leslie had played an integral role in helping bring the offenders down. As a result, thanks to her sang froid, sense of moral justice and martial arts affinities, Leslie left the world of finance to fight crime as a member of the 'DA' team. Now, Leslie has a new partner in life, Dominique Petit, a Canadian/French dual citizen who suggests Leslie visit Paris with her while she is in the City of Lights on business. Less than twenty-four hours after Leslie arrives, Dominique and her sister, Corinne, disappear, turning Leslie's vacation into her own business trip of justice and revenge...

Thirteen to None

Book 8 of the Vigilante Series

Born of a violent, criminal father, an alcoholic, promiscuous mother and left to fend for himself at an early age, Butch Kincaid was destined for a life on the darker side where he would live and lead by his own rules… Savvy, charismatic and narcissistic, Kincaid headed a handful of deviants involved in theft and drug distribution in small-town Ontario by his mid-teens and was running a prosperous organized crime crew of twelve in Toronto before the age of twenty… An iron-fist ruler, Kincaid demanded an intense, high-risk pace from his men throughout most of the year but rewarded them with a month or more of down time each summer during which the crew would go on a nomadic road trip geared toward relaxation, amusement and lessened criminal activity... Until the summer of 2012… With a penchant for violence and a desire for increased domination, Kincaid introduced a new activity at the end of that summer's vacation… A home invasion, the purpose being death and destruction for pleasure, at his command… Pleased with the enthusiastic participation of his crew, Butch promised them the following summer would be the vacation of a lifetime... Multiple invasions, an orgy of terror, rape and murder… Their first stop, the home of a retired couple in Brighton, Ontario, was a resounding success, as per their standards… Their next stop, several hundred miles away in Knowlton, Quebec, promised to be even more exciting… The home of an attractive and obviously affluent couple… The home of Sandy and Chris Barry…

The First Sixteen – The Prequel

Book 9 of the Vigilante Series

Once upon a time, there was Vigilante, the first volume of the Vigilante Series… but from its beginning, it was said that sixteen victims had already fallen prey to this self-appointed judge, jury and executioner… Who were these wrong-doers? What crimes had they committed to deserve to be chosen? What led this killer to deliver his own form of justice upon them to begin with? Join the Vigilante himself in this prequel novella as he tells you firsthand about…The First Sixteen…

ASYLUM

As Managing Director of the “Montreal Hospital for the Criminally Insane”, Doctor Matthew Russell has always put his professional responsibilities ahead of all else. That is, until he one day realizes he is losing his wife, Cassidy, and his two children, Stuart and Jennifer. . . With only his family in mind, Russell takes an adventure-filled, impromptu vacation of indefinite duration, leaving all else behind and stopping at nothing to show how much he cares for his loved ones in an effort to win them back. But, will he succeed… or, will it prove to be all too late in the end?

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