Messenger of Death (18 page)

“Hold on, hold
on with the law—.” Monica stretched out her hand in an attempt to
stop him from speaking. “One thing at a time. You want more funds
from the government. Everyone wants that. Can’t you just improve
the quality of the police force first? Your achievements are not
very impressive.”

“We are trying
to. Mind you, dealing with bikers is a tiresome task that requires
special people. They have to have stamina, good intellectual
capacity, proper training, and thorough education. How can we get
such people?”

“Does our
province lack people with good intellectual capacity?” The
sarcastic remark came from a distant corner of the table. A brief
smile stretched over Bertrand’s lips.

“There are
plenty. But how many of the best dream about becoming a police
officer? Most, if not all of them, go where the money is. They want
to become doctors, dentists, lawyers, businesspeople, corporate
managers. Why? Because those occupations pay. Being a brilliant
detective doesn’t pay much. With the wages we have in the police
force, with the workload we have, only a few elect this troublesome
profession. You want to employ the best minds on a lean budget?
Good luck.”

After the short
pause that followed, Bertrand added, “There are some among us who
are proud of the jobs we do. But, we need more foot soldiers for
surveillance and policing.”

Monica could
not wait for him finish.

“I’ve seen many
gang members on the streets wearing biker outfits that distinctly
identify them. This makes your task of surveillance easier, doesn’t
it?”

“Not at all.
Most of them don’t commit crimes. They give orders to their armies
of subordinates who would do anything so they can grow in rank and
status, climbing the ladder to the level of their bosses. Very
often, the bosses convey their commands, not personally, but via a
third person. The best we could normally expect to achieve is to
capture the small fish.”

Robert Corby
raised his pen.

“In a nutshell,
Bertrand, what do you propose?”

“We need more
funds. We need simplified procedures for obtaining search warrants,
tapping phone conversations, and accessing financial and personal
information collected by other institutions and organizations. And
last, but not least, we need a tough law against the bikers.”

“. . . ‘A tough
law’ . . . ,” Robert repeated, pursing his lips in a small, mocking
smile. “What does that mean?” With false compassion and patience,
he rested his chin on his left hand, elbow leaning on the table,
ready to ridicule any stupid or weakly worded response.

Bernard did not
blink.

“A law that
would permit us to detain anyone who belongs to a criminal
organization, such as the Devil’s Knights or the Iron Ghosts, the
prime troublemakers in the province. A law that imposes harsh
sentences against organized crime bosses. A law . . .”

The rest of his
answer was drowned out by several agitated arguments from all
around the table. Some talked to him, some to each other.
Simultaneous talk made further business-like discussion impossible
until Robert tapped the table with his pen in a much more
pronounced manner.

“Please, ladies
and gentlemen.” His voice, irritated, piercing, and demanding, had
a calming effect. When the last arguments died under his
disapproving glare, he said, “Let’s express our views in an orderly
manner. You want to say something, Mr. RCMP?” He smiled to a fat,
balding man sitting at his left. “Please, Brian.”

“I can
understand the request for increased funds,” the man said. “But to
single out ‘biker clubs’ as criminal organizations is not
constitutional. There are many motorcycle clubs. You have to prove
which ones are the criminal organizations. Besides, even a group
name, like ‘Devil’s Knights,’ cannot be the foundation for
declaring an organization criminal.”

“I agree,”
Monica interfered. “There are many other biker clubs. Which ones
are criminal organizations? And, I’m against increasing funds, as
well. Better to clean up your house. The recent case of the police
officer who was bribed by bikers is very disturbing. I don’t
believe that all depends on money. Morality—that is what should be
watched in the security forces.”

“We’re now in
very dangerous waters,” Bertrand admitted, “and I’ll be frank with
you: There are corrupt officers cooperating with bikers and the
mafia. We’ve already discovered one, but he managed to escape. I am
pretty sure there are others. Leaks of information, failures to
ambush large drug deliveries, and other illegal activities are
vivid demonstrations of that. Somebody tips off the criminals and
helps them escape our major actions, sometimes after months of
work.”

“It’s
appalling,” Robert said in a loud, cracking voice. “I would never
have suspected that the Quebec police could be so corrupt.” His
eyes flashed in the righteous indignation of a superior judge.

“It seems that
you want to single out the Quebec police—,” Bertrand seemed to be
losing his patience. “What police force is better?”

“You don’t have
to go too far,” Monica cut in. “The Ontario police are impeccable.
Why don’t you consult them?”

She looked
around in search of admiring supporters. Whatever one might think,
her arguments could not be beaten, she thought.

Bertrand did
not respond right away. He stood in silence and smiled, observing
the audience.

“Ontario . . .
,” he said at last, as if talking to himself. And then, appealing
to Robert, he asked, “Do you know, sir, that Toronto ranks third in
North America in the number of narcotics sales?”

“I don’t,”
Robert said. “So what? What about it?”

“How come there
are no corrupt officers there? Can you explain it? Maybe you can,
Monica? Such a big volume of narcotics sales, but no significant
cases against the illegal drug trade, and no corrupt officers. . .
. What are the police doing in Toronto? Please explain, don’t be
shy—Even your weakest arguments should be accepted seriously.”

Nobody spoke.
Bertrand looked around and continued to present more evidence.

“As a matter of
fact, there have been a few police officers in Ontario charged for
their connections with bikers. These cases simply didn’t gain much
publicity. When it’s quiet, politicians, and I will admit, the
police, tend to do little to tackle a problem. Wait until the
bikers attain such financial power that we won’t be able to do
anything with them.”

“I suggest
adopting a more positive tone for our discussions.” Robert was
tapping his laptop. “Let’s put our heads together and come up with
something constructive.”

“I’d rather
listen, first, to the law enforcement people and how they intend to
finish the biker problem once and for all,” Monica said, staring at
Bertrand.

“If you’re
asking me for a solution, I don’t have an answer for you. We can
only try to stop the biker wars. We can only try to diminish their
power. I don’t see anything beyond that.”

Feeble sounds
of surprise flew from different corners of the table.

“Does that
mean,” Monica went on, “that the police force is helpless against
bikers? Then, what do you need additional funds for? I guess it’s
easy to spend the government’s money for nothing.”

In the silence
that followed, Bertrand examined everyone around the table. With a
feeling of contentment, Monica noticed anger in his eyes.

“Let me, for a
moment, get back to what I’ve already said,” Bertrand began. “The
drug market in Quebec is about a billion dollars a year, maybe
more. We don’t have exact statistics, as neither vendors nor
consumers are willing to participate in our survey.”

This remark
inspired a few relaxing chuckles.

“Do you think
this market will just vanish? Do you think it will ever disappear
from the radar screen of criminals? It attracts the most
sophisticated and powerful criminal minds. Suppose we put all known
drug dealers in our province in jail. Bingo! Do you think that the
illegal drug trade would cease to exist? It would be wishful
thinking to assume that it would disappear for any reason; the
supply side would just be left unattended. Groups of other
criminals, or non-criminals, would flood in, staging a chaotic and
brutal war to take over.

“The very idea
of punishing everyone in the criminal network is nothing more than
a utopian idea, either. Mind you, we don’t have a penitentiary
system large enough to accommodate them all. And, the system itself
is not much of a deterrent, as it was in the Middle Ages. For the
most dangerous criminals, our prisons are more of an inconvenience
than a punishment. They control the narcotics trade in the jails.
They have women in there as often as they want. Some of them even
have their own chefs to prepare delicious dishes. The list goes on
and on.

“We need more
money, that’s right, but I agree with my opponents that money is
not a final solution. The more liberal our policies become toward
our criminals, the more money the police forces need.” He threw a
look at Monica. She understood its meaning and hardened her
face.

“Now, suppose
we did magic and gathered good evidence against all the bikers and
their associates,” he continued. “Do you know how many people we
would have to prosecute? Many thousands. We don’t have enough
courts, judges, juries, or lawyers to process them quickly. It
would take years. I think that if this happened, we would create
more problems than we solved.”

“What do you
expect from the politicians, then?” Monica asked. Bertrand was
about to answer, but Robert spoke next.

“I agree with
Bertrand that the heart of the matter is not the bikers or any
other organized crime group. The problem lies with human nature in
general and our society in particular. Can we do something about
prostitution in our society? You could legalize it or prohibit it,
or whatever your imagination suggests. But you couldn’t wipe it
out.”

“Do you suggest
legalizing it?” Monica asked Robert.

“I will come to
that,” Robert replied. “Take, for instance, tobacco. We don’t have
criminals dealing in tobacco. Politicians can regulate that
industry anyway they want. Why don’t we do the same by legalizing
other activities, such as prostitution? Can you imagine how many
lives we could save, how many abuses and violent crimes against
women we could prevent?”

“This is too
much,” Monica interrupted. “Let’s stick to our mandate.”

“This is just a
thought,” Robert said with a smile. “But my point is, we’re a
society that desperately needs dreams. This is a paradox: Being the
wealthiest society in the world, we still need things to take us
away from reality and into the realm of dreams. These could be
drugs, alcohol—anything else. I believe that we can fight the
bikers and the other gangs. But we have no chance to win the war
against them. Not a damn chance.”

“That’s not a
very positive note,” commented Brian. “Let’s be realistic and use
some common sense in our discussions.”

“True,”
Bertrand agreed. “Let’s be realistic. So what if I offered to
discuss ways to change the evil habits of our society? To convince
people not to use drugs, prostitutes, and, well, even . . .
alcohol. What would you say about me? You’d say that the guy is
crazy. However, some of you probably think that ending drug
distribution is a realistic idea. I think it’s not. As far as
additional funds are concerned, let me say this: The illegal drug
trade makes its lords more powerful than ever. The money they have,
the number of soldiers they command, is always increasing. How on
Earth do you expect the police to fight this ever-expanding army
with a constant-size police force? We have to increase in numbers,
too! Moreover, with our lenient judges and a host of restrictions
and stupid regulations, criminals easily get away with serious
offenses every day. Do you want to be realistic? Let’s fight first
with our own restrictions. Let’s adopt and enforce some laws that
will make our jobs more productive.”

“What are your
concrete suggestions?” Monica asked. Bertrand was about to answer,
but Robert again demanded attention.

“I suggest we
take a break,” he announced. Everyone agreed. Monica stood up, and
Bertrand saw her looking at him as if she wanted to talk with him
privately. He accepted the silent invitation and walked over to
her; she took him by the sleeve to the doorway.

“I gather
you’re not receptive to the idea of passing a law against bikers,”
he said.

“Right you are.
Forgive me for making such a tactless remark, but your agency tends
to abuse the power it’s given by the government. That’s why it has
to be so strictly regulated and controlled.”

“Could you give
me an example?” asked Bertrand.

“Sure. The
latest case that comes to mind is when you planted evidence against
the Devil’s Knights. Such a scandal! Not only did the judge have to
dismiss the charges, which in itself was a huge setback for you,
but you also lost the public trust. Now you ask for a law that
would permit you to act with no control?”

“But it’s
against biker clubs.”

“So what?”
Monica shot back, heading toward the cafeteria that was located at
the corner of the floor. “There are many motorcycle clubs. Which
ones would you target? Would it be up to you to decide which one is
a criminal organization? Come on! What if you don’t like some other
minority group? Don’t you understand that such a law would be
unconstitutional?”

“I’m a police
officer, not a politician,” Bertrand pointed out proudly.
“Politicians create fertile ground for criminals. The more humanely
we treat them—which is a credit to you politicians, of course—the
more criminals we create. You only have to wait until they come to
your home. Then, I suspect you’d change your mind. I’d like to see
how you’d react in your moment of need when you heard that the
police couldn’t do much for you because of restrictions,
procedures, constitutional interpretation—whatever. I hope it
doesn’t happen, of course—don’t get me wrong.”