chapter 17a 

(The Investigator) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

17a 
The Investigator 

Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Senior was supposed to meet with Burns Breton in Downtown Montreal around noon. The meeting was due to take place at the bistro-bar of the Fairmount Queen Elizabeth Hotel. The New York lawyer has been waiting for the elusive mortician since ten o'clock this morning. The delicate octogenarian is nervously flipping through a tourist brochure and sipping a martini, reassessing every detail of the elaborate plot he put up to neutralize the shady funeral home director for good. 

Deodas Demosthene Legitime's fishy representative is one hour late. P.H.O. Grosbois Senior believes it's done on purpose. That crook named Breton likes to infuse doubt and insecurity in the minds of the people he deals with, his friend and business partner, Amaury Quick, told Grosbois last night. The lawyer orders a third aperitif. He knows that without Breton, all his plans will go down the drain. 

The headwaiter of the establishment finally comes out to announce the arrival of the anticipated guest. The heart of the old man skips a beat. This is not the individual Hans-Orville Grosbois was expecting. The dude smiling at him from the reception area is certainly not the Black morose undertaker he met on two different occasions. That man is slimmer, in his forties, has frizzy auburn hair and a long unkempt beard. He is also a White guy, as in Caucasian. The strange gentleman has a bandage on his nose, wears leather gloves and sports a pair of sunglasses similar to Roy Orbison's famous spectacles. The odd fellow tries very hard to hide the handcuffs linking a portable Getac computer to his left wrist. Grosbois Senior waves at the weird character with a fake welcoming grin on his face. The eccentric chap approaches quickly, all smiles and waving back at him. 

“Who are you?” the seasoned lawyer spits with a lot of disrespect. 

“Rogatien Gingras, Sir. We've met before at a fundraising; it was, I believe, at the headquarter office of Quick Holdings in Boston. How have you been, my good man? Big fan of yours, right here. I am honored.” 

“Take a seat. Are you positive we've been introduced before?” 

“Well, I remember you. One of the greatest day of my not so exciting life. You do understand that it's not safe to show up here all alone, don't you, Mr. Grosbois? Burns Breton is a dangerous cutthroat. Back in Haiti, many people say that monster is not of the human race and drinks children's blood to stay young and alive.” 

“Don't worry about me, Mr. Gingras. As a fully shielded Christian, I am never alone. Now, justify your foolish disguise or get the hell away from me before I lose my religion all over you.” 

“Macular degeneration, Sir; my eyes can hardly tolerate natural light. Those cheap gloves hide my eczema. It's a habit. The funny beard is the result of a sports bet with an old acquaintance; a ZZ Top fan and jolly prankster. I have to keep this hairy face until Sunday for his pleasure if I want to remain a good player.”

“Ha! ha! ha! That's funny. I appreciate a man who keeps his word. What about your nose, who rebuilt this, a four fingers sculptor or what?” 

“That's a souvenir from Burns Breton's poisonous entourage. They were planning to execute me in cold blood, in a back alley near the Old Port. Lucky for me, a police car came out of nowhere. I communicated with the RCMP and told them about Breton's presence on Canadian soil. I am an economist, by the way, Duke University; a micro credit specialist. But nowadays, and it's all new to me, I'm more like a recycled-slash-reinvented bounty hunter. For my own personal reasons of course. I had no choice. I want payback from Burns Breton. You see, I've been tracking that swindler like a real sleuth for almost a year. My fees are paid by Alistair Stetson, a Chicago lawyer who got robbed by Burns Breton also. I have accumulated enough proof against that rat to get him sentenced in Quebec, the State of Illinois and in the District of Columbia. We're talking traffic of prohibited weapons, illegal drugs and human beings; also for a major Ponzi scheme and a long list of crime including attempted murder and aggravated assault.” 

“How can you be useful to me without Burns Breton in the picture, young man?” 

“I'm aware of the financial disaster undermining the achievements of the late Sixte Osmer Legitime in Haiti. It's a catastrophe I could have prevented. You see, the culprits used River of Hope, an NGO I was running with limited means, as a platform to test their embezzlement techniques. Once ready, they just replicated the experience on a global scale. Those wild boars ruined my reputation and drove me to the brink of bankruptcy. It took me a while, but I figured everything out; I understand how their stratagem works; the computer take-over, the induction and the management of general discord; just about all of it. Entrust me with the powers to investigate the case, I promise you results in less than a week. I'll have these crooks imprisoned before Christmas, starting with our common enemy: Moïse Berri.” 

“What happens if you find any dirty or compromising stuff on my partner or on myself, pal?” 

“I'll destroy anything that could harm you later in the inquiry, Sir.” 

“If I hear you well, Mister Gingras, you loan small amounts of money to poor people. We both know these tech-savvy heisters didn't pick you out randomly. Why was your organization targeted?” 

“Evelyne Laure Legitime is alive.” 

A long pause follows that revelation from Rogatien Gingras. The lawyer's jaw drops on the left side and stays there, paralyzed. 

“That's not amusing, young man. Do you have one shred of evidence to back up such a declaration?” 

“Evelyne sent me a framed picture of herself, holding a real New South Wales daily newspaper, with a phone number on its back. It was taken recently in front of the Sydney Opera. The people who know she is alive and well fear that she will reclaim what belongs to her: that is her fair share of the heritage and the chairmanship of the Legitime Funds. I called her, but I had no idea my phone was tapped. Burns Breton decided to get rid of me because I already knew too much. I'm the best candidate for the task, Mr. Grosbois. I'm fluent in Creole and I've worked with the good people of the region of Mizerikod for years. They trust me. What they'll hide to a stranger, they'll gladly reveal to me. I am an adopted Haitian, sort of. I know all their customs and traditions. I dance the Kompa pretty well, with the hips movements and all the attitude required. No one in Mizerikod can tell you what religion I defend, because I'm a chameleon when it comes to avoiding endless debates. I am cognizant of the Haitian Omertà; I know its rules and its codes. And when it comes to politics, I always agree with the person I'm arguing with to save my precious time. If there are two of them, I find an excuse to run away with the one who drinks more and speaks less. Missionary, that's how they nicknamed me. You won't find Kennedy Fleurinor anywhere, now that Burns Breton vanished into thin air. Name me your chief audit executive, comptroller, auditor general or financial fixer if such a position even exists and give me the latitude and all the privileges you gave to Kennedy Fleurinor. I won't disappoint you, Mr. Grosbois. Moïse Berri and his associates will be punished, Mr. Quick and you will be cleared and I will finally get my revenge.” 

“You are one convincing party, Gingras. But wait a minute, you, are you trying to hypnotize me, like, now, as we speak?” 

“It's the truth that enthralls you, Mr. Grosbois. Take me under your wings. You won't regret it.” 

“I admit that you inspire confidence, Gingras, but I'm not alone in this. I have to consult my business partner before taking that kind of decision. He is landing at Trudeau Airport at around six p.m. I invite you to join me in a meeting with him. Now, are you hungry, young man, you look frail? I recommend the fried calamari or the clam chowder. The halibut filet is not bad either.” 

“The situation is more critical then you imagine, Mr. Grosbois. My stomach can wait. Let me show you some images that my inside man filmed. That video dates from last night. It accurately describes the total confusion reigning in Mizerikod at this moment and time. If we wait another day, our efforts might be useless. The commune will cease to exist.” 

Rogatien Gingras turns his wrist and dials a numeric combination that unlocks the access to his sturdy computer, but he keeps the handcuffs on. He types a series of passwords in ASCII code with an astonishing speed, and then turns the screen towards the old lawyer. The silent scene is exactly twelve seconds long. It shows Leopold de Grâce, the head of the human resources department of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, running in his birthday suit, followed closely by a thousand rioters, charging an army of policemen and United Nations soldiers; all this in the middle of the street, more precisely on Capois-la-Mort Boulevard, back in Mizerikod. The vast majority of the revolters seem to take the situation very lightly. They look entertained by the nudity of their leader. On the other hand, sheer terror and real concern can be read on the faces of a small minority of bystanders. Strangely enough, the reactions and emotions on the side of the police forces are highly similar. 

“Do you understand why we need to act right now, Mr. Grosbois?” 

“That is extremely troubling. But explain one thing to me, Gingras. There is obviously a mobile camera shooting that video. You mentioned having an inside man in Mizerikod. The person who filmed the disorder could not be driving the motorcycle or the bike moving away from the crowd at the same time. Two people had to work on this footage. I'm an aged man, but I'm not dumb.” 

“Nothing escapes your attention, Mr. Grosbois, but I must keep that information secret. A sleuthhound with good ethics must protect its sources. I can make an exception if you have something as awkward to feed me with in exchange.” 

“Go ahead, Gingras, you've got my word. Let's play that game.” 

“My spook is an itinerant patty vendor named, Ludovic. When I learned that Djon Djon, that's a reputed thief known by all in Mizerikod, had stolen his bicycle once again, I bought the kid a brand new one, but with a solid lock this time. I did however install two webcams on the thing; one in the front and one to the rear. The idea was to spy on the comings and goings of Moïse Berri, Burns Breton and the Human Resources Director at the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, Mr. Leopold de Grâce; that's the naked clown we just saw on the video. Ludovic works for me on his two-wheeler without realizing it, reporting live and collecting evidence for me twenty four seven.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughs the old lawman. “You little trickster! ha! ha! ha! son of a gun, that's hilarious. I hope that Gus will like you as much as I do, Gingras. I picture you with your gloves and your Viking beard under the Haitian sun. Ha! ha! ha! You're going to melt, Gingras, ha! ha! ha!” 

“Your turn now, Sir.” 

“My turn for what? Oooh, yes. Aaaah, did you notice the African giant sitting at the bar with the parachutist pants at three o'clock?” 

“I was going to ask you if you knew for sure that you were not being followed. That man seems lost. He has been sipping on the same Perrier for quite a while now. He reminds me of William, The Fridge, Perry. And have you seen his orthodontic retainers, they look handmade?” 

“Mr. Nji Mbonjo's job is to watch my back when he is not busy escorting ambassadors and foreign ministers between Ottawa and Montreal. He is a Cameroonian killing machine who has worked for private companies in Irak, Uganda, the Nigerian Delta and on the Congo River. Take a good look at the umbrella he has been pointing towards you since you entered the room. It's the latest toy from MI6. It shoots six 22 caliber bullets per second. And did I mention that Mr. Nji Mbonjo is under the cloak of diplomatic immunity?” 

“That is what I call efficient back up, Mr. Grosbois.” 

“Just like I told you, young man, I am never alone.”