Wrong Side of the Law (22 page)

Of course, Rivard’s letter was meant as much for the public’s eyes as for Tanguay’s. His claim that he “never took a cent from anyone poorer than myself” gave him the image of a French Canadian Robin Hood, and editorial cartoonists gleefully portrayed him as such. Some people were taken in by the folk-hero pose, overlooking the fact that Rivard was suspected of being a major drug dealer, whose wares caused violence, misery, and death.

A Toronto
Star
editorial published on March 5 responded to Rivard’s letter:

“There is little enough for Canada to be proud of in the great bail-and-bribe scandal, but it has at least produced something this country had rarely had before — a rogue with style. Lucien Rivard’s behaviour while breaking out of Bordeaux Jail was in the best tradition of gentleman highwaymen and pirates … It’s plain that Mr. Rivard (we can’t help calling him mister) differs from the ordinary run of shambling, mumbling thugs as Rex Harrison differs from John Wayne.

Newspaper readers of the time would have understood the sarcasm in the comparison with Harrison, a classically trained British actor; and Wayne, the rough-and-tough star of cowboy movies.

Guy Favreau announced on March 4 that the federal government was considering offering a reward for information leading to Rivard’s recapture in hope that it would attract underworld “stool pigeons” who might otherwise be afraid to inform on a “big fish” like Rivard. Director Josephat Brunet of the Quebec Provincial Police said a reward would bring in a lot more tips. Then he added, “But the reward would have to be very large to encourage them, considering the people that are mixed up with Rivard.” The government posted a $15,000 reward five days after the escape. Marie was indignant. “He is worth a lot more than that to me,” she said. “He is priceless.”

On the evening of March 4, Marie was interviewed by telephone on the CBC’s
Observer
, a program that was aired across Canada. “I am sure he is innocent,” she said. “I believe he escaped because justice was taking too long to reach him and because he hoped his escape would lead to a greater search for the truth of his guilt or innocence.”

Marie described Rivard as a hard-working man with a heart of gold who often did the menial “joe-jobs” around the resort. She said Rivard’s mother lived in the upstairs rooms of their Montreal townhouse and that the family had been trying to keep news of his troubles from her. Marie claimed she hadn’t heard anything from Rivard since the escape. “He knows my telephone is tapped and that all letters I receive are previously checked.”

Asked again about the $2,000 cheque, Marie said she’d put it in the bank because her house was surrounded by thieves. When she was told that a United States committee report on crime had identified Rivard as one of the “kings” of narcotics trafficking in North America, Marie impatiently responded, “They are completely nuts. My husband a king? He is a king, yes, but mine.” She scoffed at the notion that Rivard was wealthy and said the only property he owned was the house and some shares in the resort.

That same night, Max Ferguson, a satirist who was best known for his radio work, performed a comedic sketch on TV in which he was a bungling Mountie who was thwarted in all of his attempts to arrest Lucien Rivard. The hilarious sketch concluded with “Rivard” escaping in a yacht and telling another notorious fugitive, crooked union leader Hal Banks, “We’ve got the booze, the women, the heroin and the marijuana. Let’s get going.”

The Rivard Affair had gone beyond the perimeter of a news item about crime and political corruption. It was seeping into the fabric of everyday life in Canada. While opposition MPs repeatedly stung Pearson’s Liberals with barbed remarks about hockey rinks and pampered criminals, and more than three thousand police officers scoured Montreal, schoolchildren were discussing the Rivard case in Current Events period. Humorists like Toronto
Star
columnist Gary Lautens found the ongoing story to be a rich source of material. Another
Star
writer suggested that the weapons and gadget-packed Aston Martin driven by James Bond in the movie
Goldfinger
would be the perfect car for Lucien Rivard. Biff Rose, an American stand-up comic visiting Canada for the first time, told his audience in a Toronto nightclub that he’d like to meet Lucien Rivard because, “He can show me how to get out of Montreal.” Rhinoceros Party founder Dr. Jacques Ferron said his party would run several candidates named Lucien Rivard in the next federal election. “The telephone book is full of them,” he said.

Graffiti that said
RIVARD WAS HERE
was scrawled everywhere, especially in Montreal. Men checking into motels for extramarital trysts signed “Rivard” on the registers. Pranksters sent mocking postcards with Rivard’s name on them to Guy Favreau and the RCMP.

Rivard had become a “celebrity criminal,” and the newspapers cashed in. Everything about the outlaw was considered newsworthy. The Toronto
Star
ran an article on a study of Rivard’s handwriting done by analyst Alf Hansen, who said the longhand, cursive script revealed him as impulsive, secretive, and fatalistic. “He’s vain and enjoys playing to the gallery … He’s mentally sharp and logical. He’s not easily fooled … He’s warm, friendly and outgoing, but he’s not a gregarious type. He picks his friends carefully. Rivard is not a fearful man, and he’ll take a chance. He’s not a vicious man … There are no conflicts here to indicate he would harm anyone. He likes people to think well of him.”

Reporters spoke to Rivard’s neighbours on Île Jésus, where he had a cottage on the resort property. The island had gained a reputation as a “haven for hoodlums” after Mayor Jean Drapeau launched a campaign to chase the gangsters out of Montreal. It had a history of violent crime, including the shooting death of a nightclub doorman. The accused killer, construction contractor Robert Gignac, who was now in Bordeaux Jail, had a villa just a few doors away from Rivard’s cottage. He’d bought it from Rivard’s brother, Paul. Gignac told the Dorion Inquest that he was a friend of Rivard’s and the two of them had dabbled in real estate. Gignac also said he had contributed to Marie’s bail fund for Rivard.

But not all of Rivard’s Île Jésus neighbours were shady characters. Dr. Wilfred LaPointe, who had the cottage next door, was a retired dentist. “He [Rivard] was a private man,” Dr. LaPointe told the press. “When he got drunk, he closed all his doors and windows and troubled no one. Me — I’m glad he escaped. Apart from the little mistake he made with narcotics he was a fine man and a good neighbour.”

Retired letter carrier Remi DeCalles also sang Rivard’s praises, calling him “a fine man, the best, the greatest.” He added, “I was the most surprised man in the world when he was arrested.”

But for all the good reports Rivard’s Île Jésus neighbours gave inquisitive reporters, there was something odd about Dr. LaPointe’s closing words. “I lived next to him for ten years, and I’m telling you he was a good fellow. Me — I’m just waiting to die. I’ve got arterial sclerosis and there’s no stopping that. So why should I tell you a lie? I’d like to tell you more, but I can’t. You mustn’t talk.”

Andre Durocher had his moment of national notoriety thanks to his part in the escape. As a criminal, Durocher wasn’t in Rivard’s league. Police believed Rivard had plotted the escape and recruited Durocher because he had been entrusted with the job of flooding Bordeaux’s ice rink. Rivard would also have needed help in getting over the wall. On March 6, the Toronto
Star
provided its readers with a brief article on the jail-breaker who had practically become the forgotten man in the Rivard Affair.

Durocher had been in trouble with the police since 1953 when, at the age of nineteen, he’d been sentenced to a month in jail for petty theft. After that, his record was like that of most small-time crooks: in and out of jail for theft and burglary. At the time he met Rivard in Bordeaux, Durocher was appealing a five-year sentence for a robbery conviction. On December 11, 1963, he and a partner had hijacked a truckload of cigarettes and tobacco valued at $10,000.The driver wasn’t harmed, but because Durocher’s partner had a blackjack, the crime went into the books as “robbery with violence.”

Durocher had never been known to carry a gun or any other weapon, but upon arrest he was labelled as “dangerous.” One Montreal police detective described him as
“Un maudit bon voleur … tout un moineau.”
(A damn good thief … quite a bird.) The police were certain that Rivard and Durocher had parted company soon after the escape. Rivard would have had no further use for someone he’d have considered a punk and might even have seen as a liability. The police had no more idea of where Durocher was than they did of Rivard.

Police received tips from far and wide. A gas-station attendant in Woodstock, Ontario, reported that he had filled up a car whose driver looked like Rivard and spoke with a French accent. The suspect turned out to be a Ukrainian-born scientist who lived in nearby London. A phone call from a concerned resident of Alexandria (in eastern Ontario) had the OPP on the lookout for a suspicious-looking car thought to be driven by Rivard. A Montreal businessman returning from a Florida vacation said he had seen Rivard in St. Petersburg. There were rumours that Rivard had been seen in the French islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon off the coast of Newfoundland. The government said it was investigating with the assistance of the French embassy in Ottawa. Rivard’s status as a criminal of international importance struck home with Canadians when Interpol announced it was sending an agent to Acapulco, Mexico, to begin an investigation into his drug-smuggling activities.

Meanwhile, Quebec police were certain that Rivard was still in Montreal, even though they did investigate several tips claiming he was hiding in small Laurentian communities. Montreal police raided cafés, restaurants, and motels that were known criminal hangouts. Six people suspected of being connected to the escape were arrested. The idea was to shake up the underworld community and flush Rivard out. If nobody went for the reward, maybe someone would decide that Rivard was getting too hot to handle.

Île Jésus received special attention, since so many of Rivard’s friends and associates lived there. One was Adrien Dusault, mayor of the community of Ville d’Auteuil. When the police knocked on his door, Dusault’s son answered and said his father was away for the weekend.

The police also wanted to talk to Gilles Brochu, part owner of the Laval Service Club in Ville d’Auteuil. Detectives dropped in on him without warning and said, “You know what we’re looking for.” Brochu replied that he had a pretty good idea.

Brochu later boasted to reporters that he and Rivard were old friends. “We were arrested together once,” he said. It surprised him that the police should visit him a full four days after the escape. “My impression is that they want to show you reporters that they’re trying to find him,” Brochu said.

Four detectives showed up suddenly at the home of Jacques Bourgeois. Two stationed themselves at the back door while the others went to the front. The police searched the house and grilled the accountant for more than two hours, trying to find out if he had any connection to Rivard prior to the night of the escape. Bourgeois told the press, “The house was checked. That is the only thing I am going to tell you about the visit.”

Reporters later learned that the police had found a ring of fourteen keys belonging to Bordeaux on the floor of Bourgeois’s car.
Montréal-Matin
, a popular tabloid, claimed an anonymous guard identified the keys as “masters” that could open any lock in the jail. However, a jail official said the keys could only open locks in the boiler room area. It had simply been the unfortunate Mr. Bourgeois’s bad luck that the fugitives had dropped the keys in his car. The dramatic visit to his home was an indication of police desperation as days passed and they still didn’t know where Rivard was. They were frustrated, too, by pranks such as the one pulled by a Montreal resident who’d lost a dispute with his neighbour over a parking space on the street. In revenge, he phoned in a false tip that Rivard had been spotted at the neighbour’s house. “He figured we’d come charging up armed with machine guns and thought it a good way to get back at his neighbour,” a police spokesman said.

Oddly enough, the police didn’t search Rivard’s Montreal townhouse until four days after the escape. Four Quebec Provincial Police detectives found Marie there, alone except for her Doberman pinscher, Gingo. They told her to tie the dog up or they’d shoot him. The officers left after finding nothing of use to them, but a group of RCMP plainclothes detectives kept watch outside. According to one observer, they “sauntered about, as inconspicuous in that unassuming neighbourhood as a duke at a peasant’s ball.”

A few days later, Marie agreed to an interview with Toronto
Star
reporter Robert Reguly. He was surprised by the rather plain furnishings in the Rivard home. Marie told him that the rumours of wealth were untrue. She said that when Rivard heard about a witness at the Dorion Inquest who testified that he had bank accounts in Mexico and Switzerland, he phoned her from Bordeaux and said, “We’re supposed to be rich. Will you call that witness and get the number of my Swiss account so I could get at that money?”

Marie told Reguly she’d had no idea Rivard was going to escape, but she hoped he’d get away. She had her passport ready, she said, in case he phoned her to join him in some foreign country where Canadian and American authorities couldn’t touch him. When Reguly asked which countries Rivard might go to, she replied, “I know my husband has friends in Cuba,” and then would say no more on that matter.

Marie expressed fear that if Canadian police caught up with Rivard, they’d shoot him. “If he is cornered, he will surrender as, how do you say it in English, gallantly as he escaped. I know he is not armed. He never carries a gun.”

Toward the end of the interview, Gingo barked and Marie rushed to the front door. It was her newspaper boy. She came back with a copy of
La Presse
. “She laughed,” Reguly wrote, “on reading that the cops were stumped in the search for her husband.”