Twitchell slipped on a new pair of street clothes provided to him just as Detective Bill Clark walked in. He smiled at his murder suspect and offered his hand. “Do you remember me?”
Twitchell hesitated. “Yeah, I do.” He didn’t like Clark, but he still grabbed his palm and shook as the pair met in person for the first time since their overnight police interview.
“Listen, sorry, I wanted to call you, so you could turn yourself in, but you left the house and tactical jumped the gun.” Clark was lying, but he wanted to get Twitchell settled and in the right frame of mind.
“Oh, okay.”
“You talked to your lawyer yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well, follow me.”
For Twitchell’s arrest interview, Clark had spent hours preparing a PowerPoint presentation of all the gathered evidence in the hopes of overwhelming him. Clark knew he had messed up his first interrogation. Back then he thought he could prey on Twitchell’s emotions to elicit a confession. But the investigation had revealed much about Twitchell. Clark thought his suspect was intelligent, but heartless, lacking the typical feelings of remorse some killers express. The detective imagined a laptop loaded with the facts would be far more effective against such an emotionless opponent.
Clark sat Twitchell down and explained how the police team had come to its conclusions. One of the latest pieces of evidence was from the crime lab. Only hours earlier, preliminary results had come back, triggering the afternoon arrest: a DNA match had finally linked Johnny Altinger to a blood stain found in the trunk of Twitchell’s car. It was only a matter of time until all of the results came back with the same conclusion.
Clark moved the laptop closer to Twitchell’s face as he went through the pile of evidence, but his suspect hung his head low; Clark grabbed a paper copy of his presentation and placed it in Twitchell’s lap, where he couldn’t avoid seeing it.
“I won’t be saying anything.” It was Twitchell’s standard reply for hours.
Clark got him talking a bit about Dexter, but the arrest interview was achieving only short answers. He finally asked Twitchell bluntly: “Did you film it?”
Twitchell shook his head.
The detective watched him closely. His answer appeared unrehearsed and truthful, but he couldn’t be sure. Clark dug deeper and asked if the entire case was a hoax.
Twitchell finally responded with a question: “Just out of curiosity, does a person not get into trouble for the hoax as well?”
Meanwhile, a forensic examination of the clothes Twitchell had been wearing upon his arrest determined that his belt and sneakers were soaked or spattered in blood.
LEGS CROSSED AND FEELING anxious, Traci sat crying on a couch in one of the soft rooms down the hall from Twitchell’s interrogation. She was devastated that she had not only fallen for her old flame once again but had now been dragged into a homicide investigation.
A detective seated across from her read out a few passages from S. K. Confessions that mentioned “Laci.” Twitchell had written about their volatile relationship in great detail, from their meeting in college to the rekindling of their passion at the movies. Some of his words cut deep. Every flaw about Traci was exposed and criticized in the document, whether her religious beliefs, her past relationship decisions, or her personal health issues. It was deeply personal, brutally cruel.
Traci shook her head. “He’s such a conceited asshole.” She tugged on her hair and sighed in frustration. “I’m sorry, I’ve just, really, in the last three weeks, I’ve grown to hate him. I’ve never hated him until now.” She tugged again at the hair on the back of her head.
The detective looked up from his notes. He told her that for a man who had lied, it certainly seemed like he was being truthful in his writings. Traci had just confirmed it.
“But he’s not the same guy,” she said. She thought back to when they were first dating and compared it to his demeanour during their affair. “I don’t know how it’s different, but he’s just not the same guy I used to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, he seems less connected with the world. He just seems … meaner.” Traci didn’t know how to describe it. “I know what he’s doing to his wife, I know that I’m a part of that. And I know that’s mean. It’s cruel. And the fact that I’m a part of it … it’s just disgusting.” She raised a tissue to her eyes, tears streaming freely. “That’s how I feel,” she said. Her voice trembled. “I’m angry. I just hate him.”
CLARK SQUINTED AT TWITCHELL, who was still sulking and refusing comment. After more than two hours of interrogation, Clark had finally given up on his presentation. All that work for nothing. It was time to bring in Detective Paul Link. Clark introduced him as the big-shot “Inspector” as they had planned. But the impact was minimal.
It would take Link several hours before he achieved even a small victory in the interview room. He asked Twitchell how he thought it would look if he continued refusing to speak, considering everything he did could be used in court as evidence.
Twitchell thought back to Clark’s PowerPoint presentation and turned to Link. “I’m not denying what he just showed me,” he said plainly. “Just … not able to talk about it.”
About an hour and a half later, as late evening approached, Link was giving up too. He was running out of questions. He decided to give Twitchell two options. He shoved a piece of paper in the suspect’s hands that laid them out clearly:
OPTION ONE:
- Say nothing
- Look like a fool
- Put your family through continued aggravation
- Show no remorse
- How will others view that?
OPTION TWO:
- Explain
- Not look like a fool
- Closure for your family
- Being accountable
- Salvage your own dignity
Twitchell was tired. The interrogation was draining. He started to beg for a night to sleep on it. “Option two is what I’m leaning to, but I just can’t do anything ’til tomorrow.”
It was late anyway. He was led out of the room and taken to the holding cells in the basement of police headquarters. He’d spend the night in isolation. Detectives were left to contemplate how best to crack his hardened exterior.
BACK AT THE HOME of Twitchell’s parents, the forensics team was photographing every room and gathering potential exhibits. In the basement, scraps of foam plastic Twitchell had used to build his Iron Man costume were scattered about, stuck into the shag carpet. In their search, police found a pair of black leather gloves; blood was caked into the stitching around the wrist of one of them. Outside, they spotted a curved mark of scorched grass in the middle of the backyard. It was the same dimensions as Twitchell’s oil drum. Above, a clothesline was coated in black soot.
Twitchell’s parents were waiting at his sister’s place while the police made these discoveries. They had been driven there earlier by a detective tasked with executing the search warrant, which included their vehicles, as soon as they arrived home from work.
The sight of forensic investigators descending on the normally quiet neighbourhood had enraged Twitchell’s mother. But Twitchell’s father was far more subdued, even pausing to express his sympathies for the victim’s family as the pair were escorted from the property. Then, later that night, he made a rare unsolicited comment, catching the detective completely off-guard. “Officer, can I offer you some advice?” Twitchell’s father had said. “Have a vasectomy.”
A DRIVE INTO THE STORM
THE MORNING AFTER THE interrogation, Twitchell sat in an office chair at police headquarters once again, digging his fingers into a fast-food paper bag. He pulled out a warm Egg McMuffin, peeled back the greasy yellow wrapper, and took a big bite, breathing in through his nose as he chewed. His leg started bouncing as he sucked back on a drink.
Detective Link walked in, closed the door, and took a seat across from him. It was a different intervi
ew room from the night before, in the polygraph wing down the hall from homicide. There was a particle-board wood desk crushed into the corner. Link gave Twitchell a moment to finish eating and then stuffed back into his hands the piece of paper with his two options written on it.
Twitchell sat in silence for nearly an hour, pulling his head deeper between his shoulders, thumbing the paper between his fingertips. A grey long-sleeved shirt the cops had given him stretched tight, his belly spilling over his pants, and he pulled a neon pink and blue ski jacket closer around his chest. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, he told Link that nothing had changed.
“And why is that?” Link was hunched low across his knees, looking at Twitchell.
“Because I just need to see the lawyer first and then I’m sure the statement will come after.”
It was like Link had made a breakthrough. “Have I got your word on that?” He shot out his hand, but Twitchell just stared at him. “Give me your word on that,” Link repeated. “That’s all you’ve got left is your word, Mark.”
“Well …” He lifted his fingers a moment, hesitated, then curled them back into his palm.
Link kept his hand held out. “Give me your word. And we’ll make that happen. We’re trying right now. We’ve left messages. We’re trying to get him down here.”
“I know. I know. I’m just saying the last step is to talk to him, so …”
Link took a gamble and left the room to track down Twitchell’s lawyer. Twitchell had already been given his one phone call, but Link felt the goodwill could be returned as promised with a formal statement, handshake or not.
Twitchell had ten minutes on the phone with his legal counsel. Link returned to the interview room, sat down, and asked for the promised statement. But Twitchell stayed silent and barely moved from his chair, ignoring his presence in the room.
Link started shouting. “You went back on your word! I actually gave you, that’s the sad, despicable part of it, is I actually gave you the benefit of the doubt. And I actually believed you.”
Twitchell didn’t move.
“And I thought possibly this whole thing could be a hoax.” Link sounded defeated, like he was embarrassed about what he had confessed. “I was trying to take your side there, to write it off as just a bad, bad mistake and just a hoax. But it’s not even that.”
Twitchell continued to look down and away from Link.
“Do you have the energy to look me in the eye? Have you got it, Mark, or are you just going to cower some more? … Mark?”
Twitchell kept his chin down and never met his gaze. Link stared at him for minutes, but he eventually gave up and stormed out of the room. Throughout nearly fourteen hours of interrogation spread out over two days, not once had Twitchell denied killing Johnny. But he had also become a near-mute ever since being granted that second call with his lawyer.
Detective Clark walked in and threw some Halloween candy on the desk beside Twitchell’s chair. It would be his last meal before eating prison food for months. “Okay, Mark,” Clark said. “Grab your snacks. Let’s go.”
CLARK HIT THE GAS and pulled his sedan out of the parkade beneath headquarters. Twitchell sat in the backseat in handcuffs next to Link. Acting Detective Dale Johnson joined the three of them, riding up front with Clark. Twitchell had to be placed before a Justice of the Peace within twenty-four hours of his arrest. The four of them were going to drive around the city for the next three hours, the cops trying to pressure Twitchell into talking, until they ran out of time.
“I see it rained last night,” said Clark, wearing sunglasses, looking up at the sky from behind the wheel as they drove over the wet pavement. “Didn’t snow, eh? We’re lucky.” He flicked on the radio. “We’ll see if we’re on the news yet.” The radio buzzed low in the background. Clark tilted his head to see Twitchell in the rear-view mirror. “We’ll go where you took the oil drum and tried to burn the body. In your parents’ backyard.”
Twitchell peered down at his hands in cuffs.
They reached the house and Clark pulled over, turning up the radio as the sounds of trumpets signalled the start of the news hour. Good afternoon. It is twelve noon. The broadcaster’s voice was deep and campy.
From the 630 CHED twenty-four-hour news centre … A twenty-nine-year-old man is being charged with first-degree murder in the disappearance of another city man. Police say they will release more details this afternoon following the arrest of Mark Twitchell. He was taken into custody yesterday on the north side of town and charged in connection with the disappearance of John Brian Altinger. He has not been seen since October the 10th. Once again, news conference scheduled for three this afternoon. 630 CHED will be there.
Twitchell alternated his gaze between staring at the back of the driver’s seat and out the window, ignoring the radio. But then something caught his eye. A man was approaching the car from the passenger side with a big camera slung over his shoulder. Twitchell turned white and his eyes flared wide open.
Johnson turned to look. “Who is it? Is that the media?”
“Yeah!” Clark said, climbing out of the car. “I’ll go talk to them.”
Twitchell, stuck in the backseat, pulled his head way back and to the side, trying to hide his face. “Let’s go back to HQ,” he pleaded. He dropped his head down as the cameraman spun around to the other side. He hid his face with his hands. “Seriously, let’s just go back to the station.”
Clark shooed the cameraman away and jumped back into the car. “Where do you want us to head to, Mark?”
“Station.”
“Station? The body’s not at the station.”
Twitchell frowned. The detectives explained what was about to occur. Link jumped in first. “This is just a sign of what’s gonna happen. You’ll be all over the media. This is the first taste of it. How do you feel about that? … You’re infamous now.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s just the start of the frenzy,” Clark added. “It’s going to continue on until the body surfaces.”
The four of them drove next to Twitchell’s sister’s place. Clark tried Susan’s apartment. Through her tears, she was in no condition to help the detective convince her brother to talk, even if she wanted to. The cops decided to head south instead, toward Twitchell’s rented garage. Everyone got out of the car and showed Twitchell the property, still surrounded with police tape. Another television camera crew was already there, waiting. Twitchell was led to the back door of the garage. Clark knew crime scene visits sometimes prompted murder suspects to finally open up, the heightened emotions tied to the place bringing back vivid memories. But Twitchell just stood there, looking bored, as he again turned his head away from the watching media.
Twitchell’s reaction was confusing for many of the detectives. They thought he would have been thrilled to see the cameras, considering how his filmmaking career depended on gaining publicity. He was rejecting the limelight after creating what detectives considered to be an elaborate crime designed, in part, with the objective of attracting attention. It didn’t make sense.
As detectives continued driving him around town, looking for the body, Twitchell would sometimes yawn. Other times, he appeared catatonic as they repeated the same questions. Which sewer? Where? Go ahead, Mark. End it now. He sucked his teeth, chewed on his lip, and closed his eyes when the sun struck his face. He refused to talk, no matter who was asking.
Driving back to headquarters, Clark knew they were running out of time. But he had one last trick – a prearranged call on his cell phone. Clark spoke to the caller for a moment, then passed the phone to the backseat. “Traci Higgins for you, Mark.”
Twitchell’s expression went blank as he clasped the phone between cuffed hands. They spoke for ten minutes, but Traci did all of the talking. She begged him to give up the body, telling him she didn’t understand why he wouldn’t cooperate.
“There’s a time and place for everything,” he replied. “I know what’s going on, b
ut you need to understand that I can’t talk.” Twitchell was infuriated. He thought the cops had gotten to her and fed her lies to get her on their side. “I wanna say something, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.” It was all Twitchell was willing to offer. His eyes started to tear up, but he fought hard and pushed his emotions down. He remained cold and distant until the phone call with the woman he would always love came to an end. It was the last time he would ever speak with Traci.
When they reached the station, Clark stopped the car for a second to lay down some harsh facts. “Tell your lawyer, when he decides – and it will come up – that if he wants to make the body deal for second degree? No deal.“
Clark knew that in light of the evidence they had, they probably only needed the body to bring closure for the family, not to prosecute for first-degree murder. And he was fed up after two days of dealing with Twitchell’s attitude. “I think he’s going to come up with that one. So, shut him down,” he spat. “No sense even making the call. No. Deal.”
THE BIG REVEAL
SQUINTING IN THE THREE o’clock sun, Detective Mark Anstey stood outside headquarters in a suit, burgundy shirt, and silver tie, announcing Twitchell’s arrest to a semicircle of reporters. But more to the point, he was using the media to help find the surviving victim. He was never much of a media performer, but he endured posing for cameras and holding up one of Short’s photos of the hockey mask in the hopes that the man would see it on the news and finally come forward. Anstey didn’t dare utter a word about S. K. Confessions, the blood trail, or any forensic evidence. But in explaining the first attack and how the police could charge someone with first-degree murder without a body, he had to reveal the basics of the case. It was a killing that mirrored Twitchell’s movie script, he explained. Both included luring a man through online dating, a vicious killing and dismemberment, and the use of the victim’s personal information to convince loved ones that he was still alive. And there was more: “We have a lot of information to suggest that he definitely idolizes Dexter.“ Anstey paused, swallowed, and bobbed his head, making sure he didn’t blurt out the “hold-back” details to the press. “And a lot of information that he tried to emulate him during this incident.”
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