by Lori Shenher
Pickton went off on a long diatribe about how he helped people and, unfortunately, it often got him into trouble. He said Fordy would have to take him as he was, that he would be there to help the next person and repeated that he was just a poor, plain little farm boy, nailed to the cross. He said “I’m sorry” several times, but it was unclear what he was apologizing for other than who he was. All he tried to do was help people, he said.
Pickton spoke about the guns on his property, for which the original search warrant had been obtained. He told Fordy his lawyer would be angry with him for talking, but he didn’t care about being open. He said he used the Hilti gun and a .22 to kill the pigs before slaughter, that it would often require three or four shots from the Hilti to do the job. He told Fordy how he put plastic on the end of one of the guns to quiet it. Then, this speech ended as suddenly as it had begun.
One of the very few funny moments I had when working on this case was listening to the wire room monitors tell everyone in the morning meeting about how Pickton likened his own notoriety to that of “Bill Laden”—Pickton’s reference to Osama bin Laden. It had been clear from February 5 that Pickton was pretending to hate the publicity but obviously relished the attention the case was garnering in the international media. He would often tell whomever he was speaking to that his life was over and the attention would never end, but it was evident that this was an act and that he was getting off on the spotlight.
Fordy seized on this and began to tell Pickton how truly large this case was. He told Pickton he was bigger than the Pope, Princess Di, and bin Laden. He said Pickton was on the front page of the paper that morning, and Pickton seemed to fixate on this. Several times in the interview, just as it seemed Fordy was getting into some very deep and emotional territory, Pickton would look up and say, “Am I really in the paper?” or “Today’s paper? Really?” or “Front page, huh?” It must have been incredibly frustrating for Fordy to waste his time going over evidence, but his hard work would come to fruition later on.
Fordy narrowed in on the incriminating facts of the case and told Pickton he knew that he had killed these girls and that he was going to prison; the decision to talk was his. Fordy explained that investigators had found Mona Wilson’s blood in the Dodge motor home parked behind Pickton’s trailer—enough blood to be called a bloodletting, enough to at least have rendered her unconscious. From here, Fordy began to minimize the degree to which he viewed Pickton as a monster, to show Pickton that the world might see what he had done as horrific but that he, Bill Fordy, understood the real reasons behind the killings. He told Pickton he didn’t hate him; he merely wanted to understand him and understand his story.
Fordy slowly began to turn up the heat. He explained to Pickton that this was not going away, and the only matter left to deal with was stopping the lies—lies that were like a cancer that only Pickton had the power to cut out. Pickton made some weak denials at this point, saying two or three times, “I didn’t do anything.” But then he told Fordy that if he could show him how the evidence meant he did it, he would admit to the killings. Clearly, Fordy was getting to him. Fordy tried to give him palatable reasons for committing these murders, saying some people felt these women were the masters of their own destinies, out shooting drugs and selling their bodies. He told Pickton that he understood why he must be afraid right now, and he understood Pickton’s need to hang onto a lie—that it was normal.
Fordy played another videotape for Pickton, this one featuring a man unknown to me in an interview with police. Again, the tape was unintelligible, but Pickton was clearly bothered by it. Fordy told Pickton that several of his friends and associates were coming forward and filling in facts of the case. Did Pickton want to stick to his story that he hadn’t killed anyone when so many people had said he had? Did he want to look stupid, sticking to a lie when others were proving it to be untrue? Pickton said they were telling stories, and Fordy asked if they could all be telling stories. Could everyone be lying and he, Robert Pickton, be the only one telling the truth? No response.
They spoke at length about the mingling of Pickton’s and Wilson’s DNA on the end of the dildo and in the motor home. By now, it was after six in the evening; they had been talking for more than eight hours, and Fordy was understandably running out of gas. Pickton, however, seemed to be gaining energy and strength as the interrogation wore on, something I had never seen before.
And then, something even more extraordinary happened. Staff Sergeant Don Adam, the lead investigator of the entire case, stepped into the interview room. Phil, Randy, and I all jumped into the air, since we had been standing close to the monitor, straining to hear Pickton’s every word. Like Gretzky the coach suddenly lacing on skates and taking to the ice in overtime, Adam the star interrogator could no longer watch from the sidelines. In what could have been the ultimate in self-indulgence and arrogance, Adam came in for the kill, and it would prove to be the perfect decision at the perfect time. Fordy remained for a few minutes, but, clearly, Adam was now in control.
Adam explained who he was and said that he was there to clear up some misunderstandings Pickton may have picked up over the past eight hours. This is where Adam shone, cutting to the chase and distilling the entire case into one succinct point—that Pickton was done, plain and simple. Even more fascinating than this turn of events was Pickton’s change in demeanor the moment Adam entered and began speaking,
Pickton metamorphosed, puffing up in his chair and turning to face Adam squarely, feet firmly planted on the floor, as if to say, Finally, you’ve brought me my equal. It was chilling. As Pickton hunkered down to go toe-to-toe with Adam, I realized that Pickton had heard every single word that had been said in those eight hours, that he recalled everything, and that he most definitely was not the thick hayseed he had tried to portray. He was a calculating and cagey manipulator and a hard-nosed negotiator. His ego was almost visible.
Adam reviewed each piece of evidence and each lie that Pickton had been caught in, delivering them like staccato blows from a machine gun. Blam blam blam: Abotsway’s inhalers found in layers in Pickton’s garbage; her blood on needles, not in some scrapped car as Pickton tried to explain; the black tote bag with Sereena’s clothing in it that Pickton and Dinah Taylor tried to say had come from the Cobalt Hotel; Mona Wilson’s blood on the mattress and the bloody drag marks on the floor, showing how she was carried out after the murder; the dildo on the end of the gun with Mona and Pickton’s DNA on it, Heather Bottomley’s identification found on the farm; the syringes of windshield washing fluid found in Pickton’s trailer.
Adam went on to talk about the women in Pickton’s life—Dinah Taylor, Lisa Yelds, Lynn Ellingsen. He took the approach that Pickton should tell the truth so that none of them could hurt or blackmail Pickton anymore. Adam told Pickton he knew these women steered many of the girls out to the farm and quite possibly took part in the killings. He portrayed Pickton as someone who had been used and blackmailed by these women for so long that now was the time for him to fight back, to take away their power over him by telling the truth. But Pickton wouldn’t budge other than to say he needed to talk with Dinah before saying anything. Adam went on to say that deals were being made with Ellingsen and Yelds, that they were preparing through lawyers to give up this information, and if Pickton told the truth, those deals would be off.
Pickton insisted he couldn’t say anything without speaking with Taylor first, and Adam told him that would not be possible—what kind of police officer would let two witnesses or two suspects talk to each other. Adam continued, telling Pickton about how large scale the investigation was, how many investigators he had out there right now, taking statements from people, how long they would be on the farm, digging, because Dave Pickton had told them there were bodies to be found. Then Adam changed his tack slightly and began to work on the reasons Pickton had killed these women: he blamed them for giving him hepatitis C, for stealing from him, and for taking advantage of his generosity. This line of disc
ussion didn’t seem to move Pickton, so Adam changed course.
Clearly, Pickton had some type of psychiatric diagnosis. He was not entirely devoid of emotion, but he’d gone off the rails emotionally a long time ago. Adam began to play to Pickton’s ego, which was exactly what was needed to bring Pickton out. He talked about Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, and told Pickton he didn’t know which of the two of them was the bigger serial killer. Pickton laughed at this, clearly enjoying Adam’s acknowledgment of his abilities. Adam asked Pickton how many he had killed, if he knew the number. Pickton said he didn’t know. Adam asked whether we should keep looking for other killers or was it all him, and Pickton nodded, then said he shouldn’t say anything more without his lawyer present.
Adam began to thank Pickton for some of the good things he had done, such as not killing children and letting many of the women who had visited the farm return to the Downtown Eastside after their dates. There was a tone of admiration in Adam’s voice and Pickton reveled in the attention of this man who was overseeing the entire investigation. Adam spoke of the people who had told investigators how Pickton could slaughter pigs all day long, longer than any other man in the area. He told Pickton he thought there was a part of him that liked killing and that because he felt trapped by the farm, anger and sex had become mixed up with killing and disease, and the whole thing caused Pickton to slip, to cross that line from slaughtering pigs to killing women.
Adam sensed Pickton was closer to a confession than at any other time in the interrogation, and he began giving him alternatives—two reasons for committing a heinous act where one is particularly distasteful and the other is less so and, therefore, more understandable or palatable to the accused. Agreeing to either the greater or lesser offense is an admission of guilt. Anything short of a strong denial of either is a good indication of guilt. An innocent person would vigorously deny either alternative. Adam began peppering Pickton with such alternatives.
Was there any killing before the attack on Ms. Anderson, or was she the first one? Pickton said there “shouldn’t be” any women killed before her. Did the killings start by accident or were they planned? I don’t know. Do you really not know or do you just not want to say? Don’t know. Did you catch some of the first ones stealing? Was that it, or was it purely rage and anger? I don’t know. Did it start out hard and get easier for you? Did you feel bad after? I don’t know. Pickton’s “I don’t knows” were barely audible, and he looked down at the floor as he spoke. Were you angry that they had infected your body, given you hep C? You felt anger, didn’t you? Pickton nodded silently. How come you spared some of them? They were nice people. Was anger all it was? I shouldn’t be talking to you. It doesn’t matter what I say. It’s all over for me, anyways.
Phil and Randy and I stood stunned, two feet from the huge video monitor, mouths agape. We had each witnessed dozens of interrogations, and this was textbook—rarely does anyone sit there and say, “This is what I did and this is how I did it.” They are prompted and encouraged to let little bits of the truth sneak out through nods and uh-huhs, but that requires a great deal of trust and a feeling of safety with the interviewer, because often what they are admitting to is horrific, and they know the world will view them as a monster. This will be the safest place they encounter for the rest of their lives, and they know it.
Adam began to talk about the numbers, and Pickton said he wasn’t the only guy, but he was the “head honcho.” Repeatedly throughout the interview he directly referred to other people’s involvement in the killings—Dinah Taylor, Lynn Ellingsen, and at least one man. For reasons unknown to me, Adam did not pursue this line, preferring to focus only on Pickton’s role. Adam asked him how many murders we could put him to, would it be twenty? I don’t know. Fifteen? Thirty? I don’t know. Adam told Pickton he could put him to twelve right now, and Pickton silently nodded his head again. Adam pressed him again on numbers until Pickton asked, “What’s in it for me?” Hardly the question an innocent man would ask.
Watching the two of them sitting across from each other, sizing each other up, assessing and appraising each other was like observing a pair of tigers slowly pacing around a cage, stopping, changing direction, pacing again. Pickton had swung one leg up on the table beside him, assuming a very open and almost defiant posture—proud, cocksure, arrogant.
And then Pickton played his hand, asking Adam whether he would pull fences down on the property—presumably so that Dave Pickton could access the machinery and continue working—if he told him what Adam wanted to hear. Pickton wanted to deal. His confession in exchange for his family getting their livelihood back. Adam said no, no deals. Pickton told him to take his offer to the higher-ups. Adam said he was as high as it got and the answer was no. No deals. If Adam made a deal, everything in the statement to this point would be inadmissible, and Adam wasn’t prepared to take that chance when he hadn’t been able to test Pickton’s truthfulness. He wanted Pickton to tell him something Adam could send investigators out to confirm, but Pickton refused, saying again he was already nailed to the cross.
As cool and calculating as Pickton appeared, I got the impression that he wanted Adam’s people off his property more than he was trying to let on and not only to save his family’s money. He asked Adam again if his people would pull out if he told everything, and again, Adam refused to deal. Adam asked Pickton if he had ever killed and felt regret afterward, and Pickton asked Adam what he wanted him to say. Adam said all he wanted was the truth.
Adam switched directions again, telling Pickton he didn’t think that Dave was involved, and Pickton agreed, saying he’d swear to that, that Dave was protecting him. Adam asked Pickton if he was protecting Dinah in the same way, and Pickton said yes. Adam asked Pickton if it was true she helped him kill, and Pickton said he had to speak with her before saying anything more. He would bring everything out in the open, but he needed to speak to her first.
Adam pressed him, saying that if Dinah had killed, the police couldn’t let her go. Pickton said “No comment.” When Adam asked him if he was prepared to take the fall for all of them—Dinah Taylor, Lynn Ellingsen, this other unidentified man—Pickton just kept repeating that he had to talk to Dinah. Adam reiterated that if Pickton didn’t tell his side of the story, someone like Dinah or Lynn would, and they would get the reward money. Once again, Pickton would be the victim of their betrayal. All Pickton could say was he had to talk to Dinah. When Adam asked him whether Dinah was involved in the killing or steering women to the farm, Pickton answered “No comment” over and over again.
When Adam took Pickton out of the interview to allow him to use the washroom, he walked him through the large atrium of the Surrey RCMP detachment, past the room where Phil, Randy, and I were watching. We had the windows papered so that no one could see in, but the three of us peered through the cracks in the paper to watch this man, the focus of so much attention, walk by on his way to urinate. He seemed tiny, frail, and pathetic—hardly like the frightening serial killer we were learning he was. He shuffled like someone who had fallen off a horse one too many times. He was the personification of brown—a drab, dusty brown, a mixture of dirt and hopelessness and misery.
As he walked through the atrium, he seemed almost childlike, looking up at the architecture, mouth slightly open. It was clear he hadn’t seen much outside the farm. Many times in my career, I have been face-to-face with people accused of horrible things, and I am continually struck by the ordinariness of these people, by their lack of any remarkable feature or characteristic. As Pickton walked past us, unaware that he was being watched, he could have been just a small ineffectual man, who became so horribly misguided in his attempts to avoid living a small ineffectual life. He did not conjure up fear in any of us, merely pity and regret. What do monsters really look like?
Adam brought him back to the interview room, and Adam began to talk about other people who were involved in the murders, specifically one other man. Adam focused on Pickton’s carelessness thr
oughout the time he was killing women. Adam asked Pickton whether he thought they’d be charging Lynn Ellingsen. Pickton nodded yes. Adam asked him whether there would be aspects of torture in the killings and Pickton smiled slightly, shook his head, and said no. Adam asked whether he knew why he killed, if he understood that about himself, and Pickton said no, then quickly said he meant no comment, he had to speak to Dinah first. He reiterated that he was the “head honcho” several times but that he needed to speak with her before saying anything more.
They spoke for several more minutes along these lines. Then Adam tossed out a throwaway line, saying he thought Pickton didn’t do a very good job cleaning up the blood in the trailer in light of how much was found. Pickton quietly replied, “I was sloppy.” Adam seized on this, asking several more specific questions about what Pickton did to try to hide the blood of Ms. Anderson and Sereena Abotsway, but Pickton would say little more other than it was merely bad policing that made it possible for this investigation to go on for so long.
Adam agreed and asked whether Pickton had ever thought of quitting the killing. Pickton said “Yeah.” Was it anger that motivated him? Pickton wouldn’t say, but then he told Adam he had one more killing planned; that was going to be the last one, but he never got that far. Adam peppered him with questions about why he didn’t clean up better, why he hadn’t disposed of the bloody mattress after killing Mona Wilson, and Pickton kept repeating sloppiness, he was sloppy. A few moments later, Pickton laughed and told Adam he was making him out to be a much worse murderer than he really was.
They continued in this way: Adam asking specific questions and Pickton making vague admissions. Clearly, Pickton was enjoying the cat-and-mouse game with Adam and was well aware of what a direct confession would mean to the investigation. He took obvious pleasure in being in control, and I felt certain that he had lorded this sort of control over his victims, probably forcing them to do all sorts of depraved things for his own enjoyment. I tried to block these images from my mind, but they were streaming in, pictures of all the women I knew begging for their lives, for a chance to go home, and Pickton just laughing at them, telling them that would be impossible because he was the “head honcho.”