Their Last Secret

by Rick Mofina

  She sat in the room alone staring at nothing for nearly twenty minutes. Then Sloan entered.

  “Hi again, Janie.”

  She didn’t respond as Sloan placed folders and a canvas bag on the table between them, then proceeded to tell her that the room was making an audio-video recording of everything.

  Janie said nothing and Sloan glanced at her notes.

  “When we talked in your room, I clearly asked you when was the last time you had been in the Tullocks’ home, and you said it was when you sat for them, the Wednesday before the weekend, before they left for Regina. Remember?”

  No response.

  “You know that’s a lie, don’t you?”

  Still nothing.

  “We have your fingerprints on one of the knives, in the blood, everywhere in the house and on the vodka bottle. We have your shoe impressions in the blood. We have this.” Sloan reached into the canvas bag and retrieved Janie’s personal journal sealed in plastic. Then she opened a folder with photocopied pages in Janie’s handwriting and read excerpts.

  “‘The Tullocks think people like us are dirt, they think they’re better than us... Connie’s such a lying, cheating bitch who should just die...that bitch owes me money and Nikki and Marie are going to help me get it...’” Sloan looked up from the pages. “That’s some powerful anger you got boiling up inside.”

  A moment passed and Sloan slapped down the photo strips of the girls and the three rings, Janie’s sugar skull, Marie’s death’s head and Nikki’s raging ring.

  “We’ve arrested and charged the rest of your girl gang and they’ve told us everything.”

  Janie glanced at the photos but said nothing.

  “What we need is for you to tell us the truth, admit what you did.”

  Janie said nothing.

  “Maybe you didn’t expect the Tullocks to be home that night, maybe you were there to rehearse. But you fully intended to exact revenge and that’s what you did.”

  Janie remained quiet.

  “Roy Tullock had control over your mother’s job, her life. Connie Tullock owed you money and you hated her. You hated them both so much you wrote kill them all on the wall.”

  Sloan placed the photos of the dead Roy, Linda and Neal on the table.

  “Look at them,” Sloan said, standing, leaning closer to Janie.

  Janie turned briefly to the photos, tears rolling down her face before she looked away.

  “There’s no way out of this for you, Janie.”

  Janie’s eyes were now focused on something distant, something faraway and so terrifying she began shaking, fearing she was breaking apart. Slowly she shook her head. Her jaw began moving as if struggling to form words.

  “I want a lawyer but I have no money to pay for one.”

  Sloan leaned back in her chair, assessing Janie.

  “We can get you a free lawyer. You won’t have to pay.”

  Gasping and sobbing, Janie managed to say: “Thank you.”

  Thirty-Three

  Winkler, Manitoba

  2000

  Five steps forward.

  Turn.

  Five steps back.

  Turn.

  Nikki paced back and forth in her cell like a caged leopard.

  The Skull Sisters would survive this.

  The police had taken her ring but she wasn’t worried.

  We’re bound forever by our blood pact, protected by the incantation. No matter what they say or do to us we’ll never ever give up our secrets.

  Or each other.

  We’re sisters.

  Keys jingled.

  Nikki stopped.

  Someone was coming for her.

  * * *

  As Nikki paced in her cell, Sloan and Jurek drove the short distance on the four-lane highway connecting Morden with Winkler. The two towns were so close they were known as the province’s twin cities.

  They headed down Main Street stopping at Winkler Police headquarters, a stone and glass building with blue trim that could pass for a small high school.

  “Hey, Bill.” Lowell DeWitt, the commander on duty knew Jurek. Then to Sloan: “Welcome to Winkler, Sergeant Sloan.” Gold crowns flashed as he greeted them. “This is a god-awful case, all over the national news. Let me know if there’s anything else we can do to help. This way.”

  DeWitt then led them down a hallway, turning to Sloan. “As you requested before you left Morden, we put her in the interview room to let her wait there for you.”

  The three officers stepped into a darkened room with a one-way mirror. They observed Nikki through it, almost glowing in orange prison scrubs in the brightly lit, stark interview room. A fourteen-year-old multiple murderer, alone, head on the table, buried between her outstretched arms, handcuffed at the wrists.

  “Can I get you folks some coffee before I leave you to it?”

  Sloan shook her head, focused on Nikki as she organized her files.

  “We’re good, thanks, Lowell,” Jurek said.

  * * *

  The door opened.

  It took a few seconds for Nikki to drag herself up to a sitting position, her head lolling as she eyed Sloan, the cop who’d arrested and charged her.

  Her again, what now? Nikki released a bored sigh. Is she going to give me a futile lecture? Nikki’s focus then went to Sloan’s folders and stuff. It’s like she’s prepping for a test. This is useless.

  “Hello, Nikki.”

  Sloan stood at the opposite side of the table holding folders and a canvas bag.

  “You’ve been given your rights and you know this is all being recorded.”

  “I don’t care because I’m not talking to you.”

  “If that’s your wish. But before I leave, you should know what I have here.” Sloan opened a folder to let Nikki glimpse a photocopy of handwritten pages. “I can’t let you read them,” she said, “but let’s say we have statements from the other girls.”

  Nikki knew police could trick you and steeled herself.

  I know Janie and Marie would not betray me. I know they’re holding to our pact like me and told you nothing.

  “I’ll just read you a little excerpt,” Sloan said. “‘The Tullocks think people like us are dirt, they think they’re better than us... Connie’s such a lying, cheating bitch who should just die...that bitch owes me money and Nikki and Marie are going to help me get it...’”

  Nikki’s scalp began tingling. Those were Janie’s words, hitting her like a gut punch.

  If that’s Janie’s confession, then the cop must have Marie’s in her folder, too. I can’t believe this! Janie and Marie betrayed me. They broke our pact!

  Then, as Sloan had done with Marie and Janie, she set down crime scene photos on the table before Nikki until they formed a horseshoe pattern around her, like the onslaught of unyielding, unstoppable forces coming for her.

  Nikki’s stomach rose and fell, convulsing with such power she thought it would break through her skin. The room, her world, spinning like the day her father died. All she’d counted on, all she had left in this life had vanished.

  We made a pact. We swore we’d never, ever break it. You were my sisters in blood and you betrayed me!

  Sloan relayed to Nikki the overwhelming and damning evidence, the fingerprints, the shoe impressions, the message in blood, Nikki’s connections with Marie and Janie and the rings, the photo strips. Sloan said that forensic experts analyzed everything.

  “Before I leave, you need to understand something,” Sloan said. “You are charged with four counts of second-degree murder. The case against you is solid. Open and shut. You’ll be going to prison for a long time. And you know what happens in prison to people who have murdered children.”

  Nikki shot Sloan a look of unease.

  “Things might be easier for you if you coop
erate with us. The courts could be lenient. Think about it, Nikki. Think of your mother.”

  Nikki saw her mother in her memory of the arrest, rushing from the building to the police car, hysterical, screaming: “It’s all a mistake! Nikki didn’t do anything!”

  Sloan continued. “Think of the pain she carries and will forever carry for the things you did on Old Pioneer Road.”

  Her mother screamed like that the day they’d learned her dad had died. Then Nikki thought of that night in the Tullock home.

  The night of screams.

  “Nikki?” Sloan repeated. “Now is the time to help yourself.”

  Nikki blinked as if she’d returned from an absence.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Thirty-Four

  Cielo Valle, Orange County, California

  Present day

  I should’ve heard something by now.

  In line at his local SoCal Seaside Assurance bank to deposit royalty checks from his agents in London and Hamburg, Ben checked his phone, expecting a verdict on the new book. Nothing.

  Roz Rose, his primary agent, should’ve had answers by now.

  The line moved. His thoughts shifted to considering setting up direct deposit for Europe, as he’d done with his US and South American agents, when his phone rang.

  It was Roz. At last.

  “Is this a good time?” she asked.

  “Hang on.”

  Ben looked around. Too many people in the bank. The call was important. He gave up his place in line and stepped outside, finding privacy and shade near a palm tree adjacent to the parking lot.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  A woman transferring her toddler from her van’s car seat to a stroller looked at him and he pointed at his phone, then turned away.

  “Okay, go ahead, Roz. What did they say?”

  “All right. Sidney in legal has zero concerns because it’s an old case. It’s been prosecuted. There are few legal risks in that regard.”

  “I figured that.”

  “And Adam says the publisher likes this one, too, and the fact the case is all but unknown to US and international readers, and your books have a global audience.”

  “Canadians will know this case, even if it is twenty years old.”

  “Right, and that’s another advantage. Your numbers are strong in Canada and a book by you on the case would be well received.”

  “So it’s all good?”

  “Yes. You have a green light. And Adam said they’ll restart the clock on the deadline for the outline. It’ll be sixty days starting Monday. I’ll put it in the updated memo to you.”

  “I’ll have the outline done before sixty days, but thanks for that.”

  “And your Canadian editor wants you to call her ASAP to discuss it a little further. Everyone’s excited about this, Ben.”

  After the call, Ben got back in line. He was now fifth but it didn’t matter because he was relieved.

  Finally, he’d landed on a book.

  * * *

  At home Ben looked through his emails for one from Emily Moore in Toronto, found her signature box with her number and called it.

  They’d met a few times at BookExpo in New York and the International Festival of Authors in Toronto. She was among the most talented editors he’d worked with.

  “Hi, Ben, this is such good news. Everybody here’s so pleased.” Emily’s voice was warm and positive. “At the same time, it’s such a terrible case.”

  “I know. But everything I write is a terrible case.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “Listen, I wanted to have this call to let you know we’ll help you in any way we can.”

  “Thank you. I welcome it. I don’t know a lot about Canada. I’ve been to the big cities for book events—Vancouver, Montreal and, as you know, Toronto—but other than that, Canada’s a big, alien land to me.”

  “You’ll do fine. You always do. Look at the other books you did that were set outside of the United States. They’ve all been critical and commercial successes.”

  “That’s kind of you to say. Thanks.”

  “It’s true. You’re one of the best true crime writers in the business.” Ben heard the tapping of a keyboard on Emily’s end. “There were a couple of books written here in Canada back when the case came out but they’ve been largely forgotten. I’ll send them to you. Also, I had our staff here pull up all the recent news items on the anniversary of the Eternity case that they could find in the databases that we subscribe to,” she said. “I’m sending them to you now.”

  “That’s helpful. I’ve pulled up a few news stories, myself,” he said as his computer chimed. “I just got yours, thanks. I also have a few Canadian sources—Mounties, city cops, justice people—who’ve helped me when I was writing about fugitives who’ve fled to Canada, or vice versa.”

  “Sounds like you’re in good shape with this story. I’ll let you get to it.”

  * * *

  After the call, Ben made fresh coffee and got down to work, reading through the stories on the case. There were a lot and soon he had the basic facts committed to memory.

  In a small windswept prairie town, four people were killed: Royston Tullock; his wife, Connie; and two of their three children. The murders were pure evil, an act of unimaginable dimensions.

  As he read, Ben saw the framework emerging, not only would he provide a story of the Tullock family, he would profile the community and the impact the crimes had on it then and the legacy of the murders now.

  The most chilling and difficult aspect of the Eternity story was that the killers were children. Younger than Kayla when they committed the murders.

  The Skull Sisters.

  As he continued reading, he made notes.

  It won’t be easy but if I’m going to do this right, I’ll need to find them and talk to them.

  Thirty-Five

  Manitoba

  2000

  Ian Bristol parked his Harley-Davidson Road King in front of the Eternity police station, relieved no reporters were out front.

  He cut the engine, dropped the kickstand, removed his helmet, got his briefcase from the saddlebag and entered the building. He handed his ID to the officer at the counter, who nodded as he checked it.

  “Right, we’ve been expecting you. This way.”

  The officer took Bristol to a small room with a desk and two empty chairs. Bristol sat in one, opened his briefcase and reviewed the documents in his folders. Within hours of Marie’s, Janie’s and Nikki’s arrests, Legal Aid in Winnipeg had provided each of them with their own lawyer. Bristol’s client was Marie Louise Mitchell, aged fourteen, charged with four counts of second-degree murder.

  Bristol worked at one of Winnipeg’s top firms, had nine years of trial experience and had won 80 percent of his cases. He’d already gone through most of Marie’s files before leaving Winnipeg on his Harley. He had reread them when he stopped for coffee at Olek’s Diner, where a TV mounted on the wall was tuned to a national news network broadcasting updates over the breaking news graphic: Bloodbath In Eternity, Manitoba: Arrests Made in Mass Murder.

  Now, in Morden, Bristol looked up from his work when a police officer opened the door and Marie entered wearing an orange jumpsuit, handcuffs and an expression of fear.

  Bristol introduced himself, shook her hand and got on with business.

  “I’m going to represent you,” he said, nodding to the files. “I’ve read through everything and for me to help you, I need you to take me through that night, specifically what you did and what the others did. Can you do that?”

  Marie nodded and in a trembling voice began recounting everything, describing how they’d made their pact. Stopping occasionally to answer Bristol’s questions, Marie continued, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “My heart was pounding so hard. I’d n
ever been so scared in my life. There was blood everywhere.”

  As Marie spoke, Bristol had her go back over details and asked more questions until she ended by telling Bristol something he’d remember all of his life.

  “I’ll never forget the smell of the blood. It smelled like the slaughterhouse.”

  * * *

  About an hour east, lawyer Ed Tracy was at the RCMP detachment in Morden sitting across from his client, Jane Elizabeth Klassyn, in a chair that creaked.

  Tracy, a white-haired man with bearlike gruffness, had decades of courtroom experience. He exuded gentle confidence and wisdom. He was a partner of a respected firm who, unlike others of his stature, still did pro bono work through Legal Aid. After a brief introductory conversation, he unscrewed his fountain pen then gestured for his client to tell him about that night.

  “Go ahead, Janie.”

  Tracy had a soft but gravel-like voice and blue eyes that could see through her to the truth. After Janie recounted that night, she lowered her head and sobbed.

  “There was so much screaming, I thought the whole world could hear it. I couldn’t stand it. I had to do something to stop the screaming. Everything became a hazy blur.” Janie brushed at her tears.

  “So you did have a knife in your hand?”

  “Yes. Then we wrote on the wall so they’d think it was a serial killer. After that, we ran to the basement window. We swore to each other we’d keep the pact and never tell. We ran and ran and the whole time the screaming was ringing in my ears, like it was trapped there.”

  Tracy let a moment pass for Janie to recover before continuing.

  “You were involved and were a party to the plan to enter the house and steal money?”

  “Yes.”

  “As part of the plan you left a basement window unlocked?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you participated?”

  Janie didn’t say anything, but Tracy knew she held an answer because he had all the forensic and police reports.