The Last Witness

Roman had told him what to listen out for: any tension or arguments, any sign of cracks on which he could build. And any calls from Donatiens to other girls which might be suspect. But Donatiens had made only three calls to women, all work related, no underlying sexual signals and, overall, his relationship with Simone Lacaille appeared rock solid. In fact all they seemed to do when Simone came over was cook, eat dinner and screw. Some inconsequential small talk interspersed before and during dinner, then within half-an-hour — you could almost set your watch buy it — the small talk would peter out and they’d head for the shower and bed.

That part had made it fun listening. Funicelli found himself unconsciously rubbing his crotch during their last heated session five hours ago. He wished now that they’d set up video as well; he might have been able to sell the tapes to some porn hack to put on the Internet along with Pamela and Tommy Lee.

Funicelli bristled, sitting up a bit sharper at Donatiens’ mention of a gun firing and Leduc’s blood being everywhere, then gradually settled back. Scuttlebutt was thick and fast with the increased RCMP heat, but Roman had given him the main bones of the incident: ‘Leduc got frisky, pulled a gun, so had to be taken out. And unfortunately Donatiens was there at the time. Too much for his delicate banker sensitivities.’

No fresh, startling revelations now that Funicelli could discern. Donatiens even paused at one point, as if undecided about talking about it at all. But still not the sort of tape to have fall into RCMP hands. He'd give it to Roman in the morning.

He reached out to the recorder, deciding to replay the section in case he’d missed something — then paused, his finger hovering over the STOP button as the next sounds came over: Simone Lacaille gently kissing down Donatiens’ body. Funicelli knew what was coming next. He pulled the hand back and braced it on his thigh. A faint film of perspiration glowed on his brow in the yellow light from a side-lamp. He’d wait out them finishing, then replay the section.

Michel hovered over the computer screen as the images came up: one face on, two side profiles, one full length showing height against a calibrated measuring strip.

‘Not sure,’ Michel said. ‘Go back to Venegas. Let’s have another look.’

The same format of four shots scrolled down for Enrique Venegas. Yves Denault had phoned through finally just after 11 pm that he had a reasonable lift — but give him till early morning and it would be in far better shape. Michel got in at 6am and within an hour they’d raised five possible matches. Now they’d worked it down to just two: Steve Turcotte and Enrique Venegas.

Michel’s money was on Venegas. Turcotte’s hair colour and the shape of his eyes more or less matched, but there was a broadness to the bridge of Turcotte’s nose that didn’t quite fit with the CCTV frame lift. Unless Yves had somehow narrowed the nose in filling in the grain and shadow.

Michel held up the 10 x 8 CCTV frame enlargement next to Venegas’ computer mug shots, his eyes jumping rapidly between the two, comparing.

‘I think it’s Venegas,’ he said on the back of an exhalation that carried finality. ‘The nose, the hairline, the eyes. Only the mouth and part of the jaw-line, where it starts losing definition, we can’t be sure of.’

Yves nodded. ‘I would concur. I myself thought it was Venegas, and we took a quick poll between us and forensics: five out of six thought it was Venegas too. The other reserved judgement, didn’t want to swear between the two.’

‘Okay. Okay.’ Michel lightly shook the 10 x 8 and flicked its top corner with the back of one finger. ‘Enrique Venegas it is.’

He thanked Yves and went back up to his office. He accessed the full file for Venegas from his computer and checked the date of last update: almost two years. He buzzed through to Christine Hebert, gave her Venegas’s file reference and Social Security number, and asked her to come back to him pronto with Venegas’s current address.

He drummed his fingers lightly on his desk top as he hung up, as if trying to catch the flow and rhythm with which everything should happen. Timing would be essential. They’d have to pull in Donatiens at practically the same time as Venegas for the plan to work. He picked up the phone again and buzzed Chac to prime him that they’d come up with an ID match. ‘Enrique Venegas.’

‘When do we roll?’

‘Soon. I’m waiting on current address confirmation for Venegas, then we’re all set.’ Michel checked his watch. ‘As long as Venegas hasn’t moved too far out of town, we should be on his doorstep not long after eight.’

‘What’s the team split?’ Chac enquired.

‘You take Phil Reeves and three armed Constables for back-up for Venegas. He could be armed, and we’ll need reasonable show. I’ll just go with Maury for Donatiens. We don’t expect any resistance or trouble there.’

‘Will you go to Donatiens’ apartment?’

‘No, we’ll head to the Lacaille offices on Cote du Beaver Hall, flash our badges as he approaches the door. He might already be there — a lot of mornings he makes an early start.’ Through his glass screen, Christine was deep into a phone conversation with one finger pointed towards her computer screen, as if checking a specific detail. She didn’t look towards him or acknowledge. ‘I’ll let you know the second we’ve got a green light on Venegas’s current address.’

In the lull after hanging up, Michel felt the tension of expectancy grip him again, so decided to kill time by scrolling down through the rest of Venegas’s file while keeping half an eye on Christine in the back-field of his vision.

One truck hi-jacking eleven years ago, Crown failed to prosecute. Attempted murder eight years ago, five years served by Venegas in Orsainville Prison. At least two other hits attributed to Venegas, neither of them pursued due to lack of evidence.

Michel scrolled down through the attempted murder case and double-clicked on the hyper-text heading: Trial Transcript. Eighty-four pages of it between the English and the French; Michel found himself rolling rapidly through the pages, skimming sentences, only half paying attention — until one paragraph caught his eye: ‘Four months before the alleged final shooting in which you attempted to take Gerard Fortin’s life, Mr Fortin claims that you and another man, Michael Trapani, abducted him. That you pulled up in a van with blacked-out windows, put a sack over his head, and drove off.’

‘That’s baloney.’

‘You deny it?’

‘Certainly.’

‘… A conversation then ensued between yourself and Mr Trapani as to which high building you intended to throw Mr Fortin from, clearly designed to frighten Mr Fortin in the extreme. Except that in the end, after you swung him several times and Mr Fortin was convinced he was about to die, you dropped him unharmed in a farmer’s field.’

‘Don’t recall it. Sorry.’

‘… Mr Fortin was then told — “That was a practice run. If Mr Cacchione doesn’t have his money by the end of the month, we do it for real.”’

‘Sorry, sorry. Still don’t strike no chord.’

‘And this apparently is a popular method used by the Cacchione’s — and others — to enforce payment from those who might have welched on drug or other debts. It leaves absolutely no marks on the body, no sign that they’ve been threatened or intimidated.’

‘Sounds good to me, and I’ll try to remember it for future reference. But you got the wrong man.’

The transcript simply related what was said, and Michel had to imagine the rest: the muted chuckle from the jury and gallery at Venegas’s jibes and protests, and the Crown Attorney holding firm to his ground as he steam-rollered over them.

‘And because Fortin was finally unable to pay, that is why you returned four months later with another accomplice, Anthony Orozco, to complete what you had previously threatened to carry out…’

Michel’s blood ran cold. The method was well known to him, popular four or five years back more than now — but seeing Venegas’s name linked directly to such an abduction completed the circle. If there was any remaining