The trial’s biggest impact was on those who had followed the case, especially those closest to Twitchell. It exposed his secret life and his elaborate lies, his bizarre descent into the gruesome and the wicked, and his exploitation of those around him to achieve his dark plan. Friends who had given him the benefit of the doubt saw their faith in him crumble. “I thought he had the perfect family, but he had this whole other life going on that I didn’t know about,” said Rebecca. “He would always talk about making it big. I never imagined it would be like this.”
Twitchell’s former roommate Jason Fritz felt he had lost a friend but regained faith in the justice system. “Before there was a police investigation or a global news report, before there was CNN calling our houses, it was just a bunch of guys coming together, making movies with this awesome dude,” he said. “He was a charming and persuasive guy.” But after the trial, everything changed. “Nothing can excuse what he did. When I heard what actually happened, I had no idea who that guy was. That’s a guy I never met.”
Twitchell’s friends had trusted him, been led to believe it was a horrible mistake, perhaps a hoax fuelled by corrupt detectives. But even in the best-case scenario, Twitchell had openly admitted to dismembering and burning the body of a stranger before discarding his remains in a city sewer. Such admissions did not evoke a sense of compassion for Twitchell’s predicament. Whether it was a planned and deliberate murder became almost secondary for some of his acquaintances; at the very least, he had committed one of the most disgraceful acts imaginable against another human being. “Thinking about it actually makes me feel uncomfortable,” said one member of his film crew. “Mark knew where I lived. He was in my house. That’s a strange thing looking back on it now. Imagine finding out Ted Bundy visited you regularly.”
The brutality of Twitchell’s misdeeds also elevated the city’s already notorious crime status. Edmonton had always been a blue-collar city with blue-collar problems, but its reputation as a crime capital tended to be exaggerated by media coverage. Then the Twitchell case happened. It was the stuff of nightmares, a bizarre crime that only seemed imaginable in a Hollywood horror film. And the Twitchell case was the third serial killer investigation in the region within four years. For a city region of only a million people, it was an extraordinary figure that drew sustained interest in the press. Civic boosters could only shake their heads.
Local columnists began calling “Deadmonton” a term of “ironic endearment.” In an effort to take back the nickname, Deadmonton also became the name of a city Halloween festival. A new art gallery was built, public transit was rapidly expanded. Plans were finalized for a downtown arena district and a potential new museum. The city looked toward the future with pride. Fingers crossed.
In St. Albert, Twitchell’s home changed owners three times between his arrest and trial. Johnny’s condo in south Edmonton was purchased by an oil worker who moved in with his girlfriend. They had no idea their home had once belonged to a man whose brutal murder had transfixed the city. Mail addressed to Johnny continued to arrive at the condo for several years.
In Edmonton, Twitchell was one of the last inmates to await a murder trial entirely within the cell blocks of downtown remand. The thirty-year-old building was scheduled for decommission. The long underground tunnels leading to the courthouse would soon be emptied and inmates transferred to a brand-new facility on the northern outskirts of town. Inmates would be housed in smaller buildings or pods. Court appearances would occur via video-link or see inmates driven in big vans that parked in the courthouse basement. It was an end to the plastic beds, double or triple bunking, and a view of the city skyline. Girlfriends would no longer leave chalk or spray-painted messages of love on the sidewalk outside. But some things never change. Shit bombs would remain a popular prison prank no matter where its concrete walls were raised.
Mark Twitchell’s kill room continued to be a morbid draw well after the slaying. Neighbours such as Lynda Warren would sometimes look out their front window and see a driver slowly pass by, locate 5712 40th Avenue, and pull in to the nearest parking spot. She’d then stroll to her kitchen window and see them standing in the back alley. There’d be whispered talk and pointing. Some would just stare at where Johnny had taken his last steps, where Gilles had fought and escaped. “It just doesn’t leave your mind. I think of Johnny every day,” she said. “I don’t even know him, but he’s certainly not forgotten. We think of him more than of who did it.”
The property lived on. Half of the old maroon fence was replaced. The back door to the garage was given a new lock, but the wood door remained with the holes once drilled for Twitchell’s padlock still visible. The old couch was removed. For years after the murder, pencil sketches made by the blood spatter expert could be seen on the white door frame.
A new tenant was found for the garage too. He was a construction worker based out of the city. He used the garage as a storage space for his machinery and tools. He had barricaded the back door with his gear. A firm body check could not open it.
The two owners, a young married couple running a property investment company, held on to the land after the murder trial, but the house continued its revolving door of tenants. In the basement suite, a father and his young daughter were never told what had happened in the garage prior to signing a lease, though the owners had no legal obligation to do so. When they did discover the property’s deep secret on their own, one of the owners became quite furious. He had previously been debating the impact such widely publicized news could have on his property value. The startled tenants, however, did not share these same concerns.
The house was listed for rent a few weeks later.
CHANGES AND CONSTANTS
DETECTIVE BILL CLARK HAD less than a day to bask in the joy of his biggest case victory. About twenty hours after the verdict, a man driving in the city’s western outskirts made a discovery on the side of a dirt road. Clark was called in. At the scene, the bodies of an elderly couple had clearly been dumped among melting snowdrifts and piles of exposed earth. Dale Johnson, promoted to detective and now a permanent member of homicide, was assigned as the primary investigator. The couple had been missing for three months.
For a brief moment, the case was a media sensation. Then the killing in the city continued at an alarming rate. While none were connected, the trend triggered more stories. Clark, Johnson, and the rest of the team worked double or triple shifts. By June 2011, there were twenty-five homicides in Edmonton – one a week, or by far the highest in the nation. By comparison, three hours south in the larger city of Calgary, there were only two. The 2005 homicide record was shattered by October, prompting gripping front-page headlines such as MURDER CITY in the local tabloid. Politicians, nearly breathless at the awful statistics coming back yet again, could only call the city’s skyrocketing homicide rate truly “horrifying.”
It was Deadmonton, after all.
And this was Clark’s city. He didn’t plan on leaving the homicide unit any time soon. In fact, he was later promoted to co-head of the squad. He thrived in the pressure-cooker environment, loved grilling the bad guys, getting that confession. And by the look of it, there’d be no shortage of opportunities in the future. When the oil boomed, so did the violence. But the question remained: would either of them ever stop?
RETIRED DETECTIVE MARK ANSTEY was relieved to have left such a bull pen and found a far less stressful job in the building next door. Not far from the Crown Prosecutor’s Office, Anstey became an investigator who audited the province’s peace officer program. He considered it a great career move, one toward semi-retirement.
Brad Mandrusiak moved on to investigate homicide cold cases after being praised for his efforts on the case from arrest to prison interview; Brian Murphy, the first detective to hear Twitchell’s forty-dollar car story, was transferred into the arson unit; Jeff Kerr was promoted one rank to staff sergeant in crime prevention programming; the head of homicide retired from the squad in mid-2011.
And then there was Paul Link, one of the city’s best interrogators, who, like Clark, had failed to draw out a confession from Twitchell. Link knew he had initially got it wrong. He had been convinced of Twitchell’s guilt once he saw all the evidence, but the team never forgot about his doubts in the case – and made sure it didn’t slip his mind either. Shortly after the trial, with a murder conviction secured, an email arrived in Link’s inbox. “Still fifty-fifty?” the sender had teased.
THE COURTS CLOSED THEIR records on the Twitchell trial with a few parting words for the detectives. It was an unusual move. The judicial system typically looked down on the police force, but the response this time was far more eloquent. “You should be very proud of a job exceptionally well done,” Justice Clackson wrote in a letter to the entire team after the trial. “The time and effort expended was obvious. The result of the trial was determined by the excellent work that you did or directed to be done. I wanted to acknowledge your exceptional efforts.” Such praise was a thrill for every detective. The letter found its way into personal scrapbooks.
MIKE YOUNG, WHO REMAINED Twitchell’s friend and his power of attorney, emerged from the experience with his passion for the arts intact. He co-wrote several plays for the city’s theatre festival, which showed he had no fear in continuing to produce works of stylized violence and dark humour. One play featured hordes of zombies roaming the countryside and attacking Captain Hook and Peter Pan. He called it “Tarantino-esque.”
He continued to work in set design and construction, hoping one day to break into the film industry. It was a path forged from his days on Twitchell’s movie set, but Mike appeared hesitant to give him any credit in public. During a thirty-minute recorded interview about his play with a community website, Mike described beginning his new career because someone “tapped him on the shoulder” for help. The journalist had no idea that the shoulder tapper he was referring to was none other than convicted killer Mark Twitchell.
THE FILM CREW DRIFTED apart. David Puff never worked as a director of photography with the rest of the group again. Joss Hnatiuk remained distant but was still fascinated with the movies after working as a soundman on Twitchell’s projects. Mike continued his friendships with Jay Howatson and Scott Cooke. They were all upset at how their names had been forever associated with a horrible crime but most decided to stay silent. When reporters called, Scott started saying they had the wrong number before hanging up the phone and moving on with his life.
IN HOLLYWOOD, CHRIS HEWARD finally achieved his shot at fame. He landed a gig at The Laugh Factory – a performance that led to a sprinkling of bookings in comedy clubs across America. But within the celebration there was a tinge of loss. He remained confused about his surreal experience as the original movie victim, strapped to the metal chair in Twitchell’s House of Cards. “I’m not sure what to do with it,” he said. “It’s not funny. You can’t do anything to even try to make it funny.”
AFTER A COURT BATTLE stretching on for fifteen months, John Pinsent finally received his film investment money back, minus legal fees. It had been a straightforward case until his lawyer realized Twitchell’s brother-in-law was claiming the same funds simultaneously. A judge ruled in favour of John Pinsent’s company and a cheque was written for around $35,000, or every penny Xpress Entertainment still had to its name. Joss Hnatiuk and his family never sued, and Joss was left with a $30,000 hole in his pocket, most of his life savings.
In contrast to his early attentiveness to Twitchell’s affairs, Mike Young appeared to have quickly given up. He didn’t file a single piece of paper during the entire investment legal battle and rushed into one court hearing more than twenty minutes late. While the judge gave him a chance to speak, the court had already ruled against him. He didn’t fare much better with Twitchell’s personal finances. While he notified the court that he was Twitchell’s power of attorney, these same court documents reveal few other details. His friend’s house was repossessed, sold, and stuck with a $21,000 debt from the property loss, growing each day with interest.
JESS AND HER BABY had the city’s deepest sympathy, but she told a neighbour she was too mortified to continue calling Edmonton home. She moved away and adopted a different last name. Some of her family members weren’t even sure where she ended up. Jess also kept her lawyer in place after the trial. In seeking as much privacy for Jess and her daughter as possible, her attorney wouldn’t even offer the media a “no comment.”
TWITCHELL’S FIRST LOVE, TRACI Higgins, continued to suffer from personal hardships. She wanted to become a dental hygienist, but her grades were too low. Yet one bright spot in her life remained constant too. Long after Twitchell’s arrest, she still cuddled inside her trailer with her two little dogs, always a great comfort as unconditional companions.
THE POLICE TRIED TO shelter Gilles Tetreault from public view before, and even after, he testified at Twitchell’s murder trial on the off chance the attempted murder charge was ever pursued. But gradually he began telling his story beyond an inner circle of friends and granting interviews with the press. He even shared his feelings of guilt for not calling the police earlier, and of his surprise at unexpectedly meeting Johnny’s mother at the trial. “She grabbed my hand and said, ‘I’m so happy that you’re still with us.’ And that meant so much to me,” Gilles told Dateline NBC. “I didn’t know what she’d feel toward me, but when she did that, it was wonderful. It was almost another closing moment for me.” And life moved on.
Gilles became a father with a long-time girlfriend, but the couple later drifted apart. He found himself drawn back into the world of online dating. Maybe he was playing with fire, but Gilles soon decided it was time, once again, to open another dating account on plentyoffish.com.
DEAREST DEXTER
THE CREATOR OF DEXTER eventually did speak publicly of the Mark Twitchell case, albeit indirectly and without acknowledging him by name. After another case of a killer infatuated with Dexter Morgan had emerged in the United States, author Jeff Lindsay finally felt a need to address the nagging concern.
Writing in The Huffington Post, he called accusations that he inspired criminals and murderers “stupid.”
“Reading Dexter will not make you a killer,” he wrote in his opinion piece. “If you are not already capable of killing another human being in a cold, cruel, deliberate way, no book ever written will make you capable of doing so. There are no magic words that will turn you into a psychopath.”
He was adamant that both the Dexter books and the TV show should be seen as a form of entertainment, not voodoo. “Don’t try to make it into some kind of Satanic incantation that creeps into your subconscious and transforms you into an avatar of evil,” he wrote. “It just can’t happen, and pretending that you think it might and I am therefore somehow guilty of conspiring to turn us all into killers is completely brainless and it makes me so angry.”
Obviously, he was hypersensitive to the question. His opinion piece, however, also revealed a trace of hurt feelings woven throughout the intensity of his argument. He was treating accusations that he inspired killers to mean he was to blame, even though the two concepts were markedly different.
When asked to elaborate on his comments, however, he refused.
As the end of 2011 approached, the opinion piece remained his first and final words on the issue.
TWITCH
JUST AFTER SUNRISE, THE clouds reflecting a golden hue, Mark Twitchell emerged from his remand cell to be crammed into the steel compartment of an enormous armoured van. His wrists were shackled to a chain belt, his body seated in his own private metal chair. He was on his way to a maximum-security prison and it was another Friday: April 15, 2011. Authorities had taken less than two days to sort out where he would be transferred to serve out his life sentence. And it was a surreal moment for the remand guards. They had come to know him over the past two and a half years. Despite the fact that he was a killer, he had been oddly charming, always good for a story and a quick laugh. “I
t was almost like it created a pause,” one guard said of Twitchell’s departure. “It didn’t feel like it was done, that it was really over.”
The city streets blurred past. Twitchell stared out for the last time at his hometown. He was heading out of the city – and not by choice. While the Edmonton Max was a few minutes away, Johnny’s friends still worked there and Corrections Canada had a mandate to restrict convicted murderers from having contact with anyone connected to their victims. Twitchell would have to be sent elsewhere.
The nearest maximum-security prison he could be sent to was an eight-hour drive straight east into the flatness of the central prairies. Constructed of red brick in the early 1900s, it also happened to have a reputation for housing the worst offenders in the nation: Saskatchewan Penitentiary. High-profile gang members and troublemakers made up the population of more than five hundred inmates. It was the dumping ground for the baddest of the bad in western Canada and for decades housed many of the country’s notorious “rats and skinners” – informants and rapists. They were prisoners with no hope of rehabilitation, the vile and the evil. Inmates were killed in frequent brawls. Even gang leaders weren’t safe. Yet, the selection of this location for Twitchell’s life sentence seemed almost fitting, considering the circumstances. The prison lay on the outskirts of Prince Albert, which had an unintended resonance with the filmmaker’s long-held view that he was the creator of an out-of-control idea. For the town was once home to Boris Karloff, an actor who played the original Frankenstein monster in the 1931 Hollywood classic. Twitchell was amused at his twist of fate.
Upon his arrival, he was locked up in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day until prison officials could decide what to do with him. He was allowed to shower every second day. His cell was no bigger than a small bedroom, and he had only the tiniest of windows to let in a stream of natural light. The walls were concrete blocks. His meals were slid through a slot in his metal cell door. His high-school pen pal stopped writing him while the frequency of William Strong’s letters slowed. He had no television, no radio, no magazines. Just a pen, some paper, and a hard bed.
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