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The Queen and
the Olders
――
CHAPTER ONE ――
The Assassin
Evan Gonzalez
That was the subject line of an email that Bob
Robertson had just received. Bob was the Chief
Superintendent of the federal police force, the
Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), which was
responsible for the nationwide undercover
operation known as Project D.
A 31-year veteran of the RCMP, Robertson was
born and raised in rural Quebec, the largest
province of Canada. He was a seasoned commander
in his fifties, muscular and with a strong
build, standing at five feet nine inches tall.
Robertson’s silvery blond hair added a touch of
reliability to his appearance, complemented by
his pair of metal round-shaped glasses. With an
air of intelligence, he always maintained a
solemn demeanour and was able to navigate the
complexities of his role effectively.
Every time Robertson received such an email
where the subject line contained only an
individual’s name, he knew that the person was a
target to be eliminated. That was how his
undercover officers relayed to him the
information regarding all potential upcoming
homicides they were aware of.
The bodies of those emails might contain other
information, such as aliases, nicknames, skin
colours, and ethnicities of the targets.
Sometimes, the email included photos, data about
height and weight, and even more information.
However, most times, the emails had nothing in
the body and merely contained a name in the
subject line.
Immediately, Robertson distributed Evan’s
details to senior police officers across various
law enforcement agencies in the country,
including the RCMP, provincial police, and
regional and municipal police forces responsible
for undercover operations. After confirming that
Evan was not an undercover officer in any police
force, Robertson replied to the email with only
one word: “Relax.”
That code word signalled to the undercover
officer who had emailed Robertson that they no
longer needed to take any action to prevent the
murder. Robertson had chosen the code word
‘Relax’ to mean, “It is not one of us so that
you may relax.”
Technology enabled undercover police officers to
communicate more easily and securely with
supervisors. The RCMP used the most popular
online shopping app, Mamason, as its
communication tool. With the assistance of the
tech company, the app included a hidden link on
its homepage.
When undercover officers clicked on the letter C
in the word ‘Copyright’ at the bottom of the
homepage, it would redirect them to an email
page. The email page was dedicated to sending
and receiving emails from the undercover
officers’ cell phones through the RCMP-secured
server. All other cell phones would not have
such a function, and the word ‘Copyright’ would
appear as just standard text. Robertson was the
only person granted access to edit the phone
numbers and email addresses associated with the
unique function of the app.
Having sent the message, Robertson took a sip of
tea, walked to his window and surveyed the
forest behind his building. He did not realize
this target was unusual, and the elimination
would set off a domino effect with future
repercussions.
* * * * *
That October in Toronto, Canada’s business and
financial capital, was exceptionally frigid. In
the second week of the month, an unexpected drop
in temperature ensued, swiftly accompanied by an
early onset of snow flurries. This sudden
temperature change contributed to the trees
changing colours, creating forests of vivid
hues. The leaves, varying in size, transformed
into shades of red, orange, and yellow, creating
a stunningly colourful forest. The scenery was
truly striking. However, amidst this beauty lay
an underlying ugliness, as the sinful metropolis
appeared somewhat incongruous among the
picturesque landscape.
The night was bitterly cold, accompanied by
relentless snowfall, with a frigidity that cut
right to one’s bones. People shivered in the
piercing wind in downtown Toronto. At two
o’clock in the middle of the night, the city
center streets lay deserted, almost as if
smothered by a thick silence. The majority of
shops in the area had already closed by nine
o’clock at night. The bars and restaurants had
also ceased operations, and nearly all personnel
had finished their shifts. A surprising change
occurred within a minute—the temperature spiked,
and the falling snowflakes quickly melted into
the rain.
The streets of Toronto were barren and lifeless
– with one exception: The Duke Nightclub
remained open in the entire district. This
infamous nightclub was the largest in the city
and resembled more of an upscale brothel than a
legitimate nightclub.
It seemed ironic and contradictory that the
selling of sex was legal in Canada, but the
purchasing of sex was illegal in all
circumstances. It was also forbidden to run a
brothel or live on the avails of prostitution of
another person. However, a mere change in name
from brothel to nightclub and not accepting sex
trades inside the merchant would make it a legal
operation.
For an entrance fee of only $10, you could watch
girls on the stage perform striptease for free.
There was always a big crowd in front of the
stage, and those who arrived late often could
not secure front seats. To ensure that a select
few – often the wealthy or high status in
Toronto’s underground society – would always be
guaranteed a top-notch view of the performances,
the club set up VIP rooms to welcome their most
prestigious guests.
In one of the VIP rooms, Evan Gonzalez was
waiting for a new dancer to perform for him.
Evan, a street leader of the gang Firebird, was
a sturdy, robust man in his early thirties,
possessing a solid physique. His light skin tone
was often a clear giveaway of his Hispanic
heritage. Evan’s hair was brown, but his
baldness added a distinctive touch to his
appearance. Since one of the key members of the
Firebirds was the major shareholder of the Duke
Nightclub, Evan also had a part-time gig as the
head of bouncers there.
After waiting a short while, a red-haired girl,
around eighteen or nineteen, strolled in with a
small stool in her right hand and a portable
Bluetooth speaker in her left hand. She was
wearing a red bikini that was barely there – it
just covered her genitals but exposed most of
her plump, round breasts and long, lean legs.
“Hey there,” the dancer coyly flirted.
“C’mon, babe,” Evan could not wait.
The dancer stood on the stool and skillfully
took off her outfit along with the music. She
made various seductive poses and expressions as
her naked body swayed to the music.
The law stipulated that table dancers and
customers could not have any physical contact,
preventing dancers and customers from engaging
in any sexual acts in nightclubs. Despite Evan’s
status in the Firebird, he too was obliged to
follow the ‘no touch’ rule. Since it was taboo
for gangsters to cause trouble in their own
territory, members rarely broke this rule.
Unbeknownst to both members, a man was hidden in
a dark corner outside the Duke Nightclub,
scanning the faces of all who left, awaiting
Evan to appear.
The man wore a black military tactical face
mask, showing only a pair of bright eyes. The
hood of his overcoat was pulled up, hiding his
face gear to avoid attracting unwanted
attention. With the cold weather, the man’s
get-up did not stand out.
His hands were nestled deep in his coat pockets,
where his slightly trembling right hand tightly
gripped a dagger. The leather gloves on his
hands prevented any fingerprints or human
tissues from being left on the handle.
Everything was in position; all that needed to
happen was just for the target to appear.
After an indeterminate period, Evan emerged from
the Duke Nightclub, exuding the smell of
alcohol, a heavily made-up girl nestled in his
embrace. Little did Evan know that the Grim
Reaper was waiting patiently to take him from
this world.
Suddenly, a black figure rushed towards him from
the back and stabbed a sharp dagger into Evan’s
muscular body. Dark red blood—lots of it—gushed
heavily from Evan’s body, his shirt and coat
instantly and completely drenched by the sticky
fluid.
The sharp dagger pierced through Evan’s leather
jacket and went straight into his right lower
abdomen. The Firebird gang leader fell on the
street without any struggle, a painful
expression frozen on his stiff face. Before the
girl could scream, the black figure swiftly
disappeared into the darkness, with only the
cone-shaped dagger sticking out of Evan’s body
as proof of his presence.
* * * * *
Inspector Alan Smith of the Toronto Police
Service 52 Division was assigned to investigate
Evan’s case. An esteemed homicide detective with
a wealth of experience, Smith’s expertise was
specifically in investigating gang-related
cases. A black male in his forties, Smith was
tall but slightly overweight. He was known for
his signature pair of gold-rimmed glasses, which
added a touch of sophistication to his
appearance and seemed to convey his sharp
investigative skills.
The same afternoon after Evan was killed, Smith
had an ad-hoc meeting with his team at the
police station. He could not wait to ask his
subordinates: “Any clues?”
Powell, a veteran of more than 30 years in the
police force, was the detective in charge of
recording the witness statements. He had been
reviewing video clips captured by all the nearby
surveillance cameras for hours. Powell was a
stiff and uptight character; his controlled
personality was characterized by his neatly
pressed uniform and meticulously gelled hair
without a strand out of place. Powell planned to
retire in twelve months and was unwilling to
work overnight. He replied to Smith in a tired
voice.
“We were able to get only minimal information
from the girl. She was shocked out of her
mind—still shaking when we went to document her
testimony. She said she only saw the killer’s
back so she couldn’t provide any information on
his age, appearance, or even skin colour.
However, she noted that the killer was slightly
shorter than the deceased—we suspect roughly
five feet ten inches tall—and that he was
wearing a military hood. She could not tell the
colour of his eyes nor his hair.
“We have asked every shop and restaurant in the
area. They were closed before the incident, and
their surveillance cameras captured no
suspicious person.”
At this time, the rookie Singh, who was beside
Powell, suddenly piped up, “Purely based on the
eyewitness testimony, the murderer could also be
a woman disguised as a man.”
Smith nodded his head slowly and seemed to agree
to the possibility.
“These assassination cases are the most
difficult to solve,” Powell grunted to himself.
Smith handed out a bunch of photos to his
subordinates, saying, “This is the murder
weapon. It looks quite new, so presumably, it
was bought or manufactured not long ago. Visit
all specialty shops selling military, hunting,
and martial arts products. The headgear worn by
the killer might also be purchased at the same
store.”
“Yes, sir!”
All the detectives quickly left with their
photos in hand, leaving Smith alone in the
office.
* * * * *
The following Monday, Smith had to meet with the
coroner who handled the case. The coroner
meeting was the one thing he dreaded the most,
as he hated having to enter the coroner’s
examination room. The room was perpetually
permeated with the suffocating scent of
antiseptic solution, which occasionally mingled
with the unpleasant odour of decaying bodies.
Upon entering the bright and sterile room, Smith
did not see Dr. Garcia, with whom he had worked
for more than ten years. Instead, he saw a
Southeast Asian woman, presumably in her
mid-thirties. Yet, her youthful appearance could
easily pass her off as a college girl in her
early twenties. Her skin was flawlessly
maintained, her make-up almost professionally
done, and her outfit was minimalistic yet chic.
“You must be Inspector Smith. I am Dr.
Fernandez, newly assigned to the downtown
Toronto office.” The coroner introduced herself.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Fernandez,” Smith greeted
politely with a little bow, partly due to their
significant height gap.
“See the shape of that dagger?” Fernandez
skipped the unnecessary small talk and went
straight to business, pointing to the weapon
used to kill Evan. Smith did not mind her
directness; he was also a no-nonsense type who
preferred to get straight to the point.
Smith examined the dagger enclosed within a
plastic bag, stained with patches of brownish
red. It was a sharp, one-foot-long dagger with a
cone-shaped body featuring three blades.
Notably, deep grooves were present between the
blades, making the dagger a triangular cone
instead of a flat blade.
“The grooves on the dagger help not only release
blood but also facilitate air entry into the
blood vessels. The deceased likely met almost
instant death when the air was drawn into the
heart from the dagger. Even if he didn’t die
immediately, the severe liver damage from the
wound would’ve been enough to kill him
eventually.” Fernandez continued.
“Not to mention that the heavy rain served to
create an osmotic effect and, combined with the
cold weather, hastened the loss of blood and his
death,” Smith added.
“It appears that our inspector’s common sense is
passable.” A little smile, almost imperceptible,
appeared on Fernandez’s beautiful face.
Smith did not perceive her words as a
compliment; he felt strongly that such knowledge
should be standard for every homicide detective.
“Can we obtain any information about the
murderer from the wounds? For example, height,
dominant hand, anything like that?”
“Judging from the direction and depth of the
dagger’s penetration, the murderer should be
right-handed. He was slightly shorter than the
deceased, perhaps about five feet ten or eleven.
A young man ..., I believe.” Fernandez replied.
Smith kept a mental note of how her observations
corroborated with the witness statements.
“Could the assassin be a woman disguised as a
man?” Smith remembered what Singh suggested.
“Hm… I don’t think so. Since the entire blade
penetrated the deceased’s body, even passing
through his thick leather coat, the assassin
should be a muscular figure weighing at least
180 pounds. Just curious, have you ever seen any
female assassin in your career?” Fernandez’s
question seemed sarcastic.
Damn it, Singh! Smith thought to himself. He
could not understand why he would raise such a
silly question in front of Fernandez.
“Any other findings of clothing fibres or human
tissue? Perhaps under his nails?” Smith swiftly
changed the topic, latching on the first thing
on his mind upon seeing the laboratory report on
the table. Moreover, he wanted to talk about new
topics to show his professionalism.
“You came at a good time—the lab just issued its
report. No fibres were detected under his nails.
In fact, nothing was detected—apart from some
diluted soap. It appears he visited the bathroom
before leaving the nightclub. The lack of
residue under the nails also indicated that the
deceased had no time to struggle after being
stabbed and just fell on the ground.” Fernandez
pointed to the report on her desk.
Smith perused the report apprehensively, almost
as if concerned that Fernandez may have
overlooked some crucial details since it was
their first time working together.
“Some fibres were caught on the handle of the
dagger; these fibres, according to forensics,
are leather fibres. It seems that the murderer
was wearing gloves, so no fingerprints were left
on the handle. I’ll send the report to your
office shortly.” Fernandez aptly noted Smith’s
concern from his body language.
“Just curious, as this thought has crossed my
mind – why do you think a gun wasn’t used? It
would be a more effective and efficient killing
weapon, wouldn’t it?” Fernandez asked Smith,
partly out of curiosity and partly to test his
expertise.
“A gun can be more easily identified and traced.
By examining the unique ridges – striations –
impressed into a bullet from the barrel of a
gun, we can link it back to the gun used. Since
most of the guns in Toronto’s black market are
from the States, it is easier to trace the
history of that weapon than a new dagger like
this.” Smith had a hunch that Fernandez was
testing his knowledge and was more than happy to
show off his capability.
“The murderer was very clever. He left the
dagger on the body, allowing air to flood the
blood vessels. He also avoided leaving any hair
and fibres from fighting with the deceased or
getting his clothing contaminated by the
deceased’s blood, which would be firm evidence
to prosecute him.” Smith mused to himself.
“The death of a criminal like Evan is not bad as
it ultimately contributes to a better community.
With limited leads, it’s just a hassle that I am
left to investigate this case.
“The murder must be gang-related. He could have
been killed by a rival gang member. But I’m not
ruling out the possibility that he could have
also potentially been killed by a fellow member
because of personal disputes ...”
Evan had had a history of multiple criminal
convictions and had been on the police’s radar
for over ten years. His position as a prominent
figure within the Firebird introduced several
potential motives for the killing.
Smith put the lab report aside after thinking
about it for a while. Murder cases involving
innocent individuals took precedence as the top
priority. In contrast, those solely involving
gang members ranked lowest in importance.
Effectively, it was not Smith’s priority as long
as no innocent people were involved. Moreover,
Smith was not optimistic about resolving the
case, given its limited clues at the present
stage.
Smith did not stay long in the coroner’s office.
He was slightly disappointed that nothing was
found on the body and the weapon and only hoped
that his fellow detectives would have some
clues.
* * * * *
A gangly teenager was browsing inside the knife
and sword section of a military and hunting
equipment store. The shop had a ghastly
appearance, eliciting an eerie atmosphere.
“Hey, I want this one,” he pointed to a dagger
with a price tag of fifty dollars.
It was a military-grade dagger made in Germany.
The whole dagger was made from stainless steel,
from the blade tip all the way to the handle.
The teenager calculated that, after buying the
knife, he would still have enough money
remaining to purchase a military tactical face
hood, plus a pair of nonskid leather gloves.
The shopkeeper entered the prices into the cash
register and said, “One hundred and one dollars
and seventy cents, please.”
Damn it, forgot about that damned thirteen
percent sales tax. I should have bought these
before getting the lottery tickets. The teenager
cursed inwardly. He had only one hundred dollars
in his pocket, including some coins.
“No tax for cash, right?” He knew this was a
common way of bargaining.
The shopkeeper briefly thought about it, then
said, “Okay, just ninety dollars if by cash.”
The shopkeeper agreed to a cash payment discount
because he would not report the sales to the
Revenue Canada Agency. As the government imposed
a greater variety of tax regulations, citizens
found themselves coming up with a broader array
of methods to evade them.
The shopkeeper was too busy counting the money
he collected from the teenager to pay any heed
to the motives for buying these items.
The teenager was an errand boy in a rival gang,
the Queens. He was asked to buy those items and
give them to Rudy McPherson, a junior member of
the Queens.
After making the requested purchase, the
teenager took the subway home. He was to wait
for Rudy at the subway station at two o’clock
that afternoon. When they met, both men
pretended not to know each other and separately
boarded the same subway train — there were
security cameras on the platform but not within
the trains so that they could be at ease once
inside.
The teenager handed the stuff to Rudy inside the
train and went home. Before leaving the station,
the teenager visited the Lost and Found office
to report that he had left a bag on the train
with items that were just bought from the shop.
That way, the police could never trace who used
the goods; the only clue they would have was
that these items were misplaced by the initial
owner.
Rudy was the man who killed Evan. Despite being
only nineteen, he had been a gang member for
five years. Rudy had multiple visible tattoos on
his arms and the back of his hands, all
displaying images of crowns, which was the
symbol of the Queens. He had an intimidating
presence with hair dyed in bright green colour
and arranged into a mohawk spike, tattoos beside
his eyes, carrying with him at all times an air
of aggression.
After killing Evan, Rudy hid in a townhouse by
Lake Ontario in the west end of Toronto. After
the murder, several Queens members took turns
bringing daily necessities and food to Rudy
regularly. During this time, Rudy wrestled with
an indescribable sensation deep within. If he
were asked to describe his feelings, it would be
a mix of fear, joy, a sense of accomplishment,
and a tinge of loss.
Rudy’s foremost priority was for the gang to
arrange for his swift departure from Toronto.
Seeking temporary refuge in the United States
would be optimal until the situation settled.
Upon his return, Rudy anticipated a promotion
within the gang’s ranks, which was the driving
force for him to volunteer to execute the
request to eliminate Evan.
“Why the hell am I stuck waiting cooped up for
so damn long? Didn’t they say I could leave the
next day?” Rudy impatiently asked his fellow
members during the daily delivery of
necessities.
“Dude, it looks like the Consultant is in some
serious talks with the Firebirds.”
“What kinda terms can they even hash out, man?”
Rudy had a faint sense that something was amiss.
“C’mon, you know our position in the ranks very
well – we’re just a bunch of nobodies. Don’t
sweat it, bro. The Consultant always knows how
to handle stuff.”
Rudy knew that the guy was telling the truth and
that excessive worry would be futile. With this
understanding and feeling a bit more comforted,
Rudy took a big swig of beer and downed it all,
allowing himself to rest peacefully throughout
the night.
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