by Rick Mofina
Her heart pounding, Kayla closed the book and stretched the rubber band over it. The band snapped, the pieces shooting off. She couldn’t find them and had no time to look. She replaced the book then the panel, gripped the rug, dragged the trunk back into place, hurried from the bedroom and trotted down the stairs.
Forty-Five
Winnipeg, Manitoba
2012
She participated in the murders of four people.
Yet the twenty-six-year-old woman in the dark blazer, white top and dark pants, her hair styled in a long bob with side-swept bangs, looked like a young lawyer.
She stood in a Court of Queen’s Bench before Madam Justice Sue Crawford in the matter of Girl A, Girl B and Girl C.
“You’ve come a long way.” Justice Crawford looked over her bifocals at the woman.
The judge had read every report and had presided over every review in the case during the last several years, after Justice Claiborne died of heart failure while wintering in Florida. Today’s final review was the woman’s last court appearance for it marked the completion and final day of her sentence. She was supported by her lawyer, caseworkers and psychologists to attest to her conduct over the years.
Relatives and friends of the Tullocks were in the courtroom to bear witness to the next chapter, along with some of the investigators, members of the public and several journalists, including some who’d reported on the murders in Eternity from day one more than a decade earlier. But few details could be reported today as the case was still covered by laws protecting the identities and privacy of Girl A, Girl B and Girl C. Records concerning the woman standing before Justice Crawford that had been submitted to the court were sealed.
Today’s court matter would be replayed two weeks later when a second convicted killer, a woman, aged twenty-six, dressed in a short-sleeved knit blouse and pants, her hair in a side ponytail, appeared before Justice Crawford. Like the previous woman, she’d be accompanied by several people to see her through her last appearance.
Nearly three weeks later, the scenario would be repeated with the third woman convicted in the case. Also now twenty-six, she’d be wearing a white dress shirt and new stylish haircut when she made her final court appearance before Justice Crawford with her support team, while a similar group of people observed from the gallery.
In each instance, the caseworkers and psychologists reported the progress each woman had made on the long, difficult road to rehabilitation.
During their time, each woman, as a condition of their sentences, had been separated from the others, serving six years in federal institutions, including a year credit for time served before sentencing. They then served four years in different halfway houses in separate cities across the county, then they were released on their own but were required to report to police every month for two years—failure to do so meant a return to prison.
Throughout those years, each woman had undergone intensive therapy, which included keeping journals and diaries to demonstrate how they were maturing and making progress by facing the issues leading up to their crimes and the consequences. Each woman completed secondary school and had taken some university and college-level courses which could be applied in pursuit of any degrees or diplomas. Each had found jobs and had matured while coming to terms with the tragedy.
It was noted to the court how, after the crime, each woman, while still young, had suffered the death of a parent.
“While it does not excuse, or diminish their crimes,” one of the lawyers told the judge, “it presented additional challenges to be confronted at a young age while incarcerated as a consequence of the offence.”
In reports presented to the court, each woman was characterized as being a model inmate while serving their time, with no acts of violence or violations reported against them. Each woman, the court was told, was deemed a minimal risk to reoffend or become a threat to anyone.
At each final review, lawyers read statements from their client to the court.
“‘Prison can change you,’” the first woman’s statement began. “‘My mother died while I was in jail. I had no family. I had nobody, but I learned so much.’”
The lawyer for the second woman, in reading part of the statement, said: “‘Some people come out of prison hardened. Some people come out of prison ready to be a better person than they were when they went in. I know what I did. I know the pain I caused. I am now a changed person.’”
The lawyer for the third woman, in reading an excerpt, told the court: “‘I was fourteen, I was a stupid kid. I made a stupid mistake and each morning I wake up it’s the first thing that hits me—like a hammer.’”
Like Justice Claiborne before her, Justice Crawford had struggled with the horrible dimensions of the case and made similar final statements to each woman, evocative of the poet Omar Khayyám, and the futility of the moving finger of time.
“You will never be able to undo what you’ve done. No amount of words or tears will change the past. But you’ve served your sentence, met every requirement, and now this court can only hope that you’ve truly shed the skin of the vile, vindictive young person you were, to become a stable, functioning adult member of society and make a positive contribution to this world.”
In each case, court proceedings did not allow for statements from family, friends or supports of the victims. Their thoughts, if they wanted to voice them, were given outside the court to the news media.
“What they did to my brother and his family,” Paul Tullock told the cameras, “what they took from us, was too much. It can never be forgotten and will never be forgiven.”
The cameras had moved on but a reporter with an online news site returned to Paul because she’d noticed that with him and his wife was the woman in her late twenties who’d watched all the proceedings. The woman had shunned all attempts by reporters to question her. In fact, thinking she was Paul and Lynn’s daughter, few people knew who she actually was. But the national reporter had good sources. She’d learned that she was Victoria, the sole survivor of the Tullock family. The reporter approached Paul and Lynn, going directly to Victoria.
“Excuse me, Torrie. I’m Allison Kessing with the Canadian National Times. Can I get your thoughts on today’s proceedings?”
Torrie shook her head slowly and her aunt put her arm around her shoulder.
“I understand.” Kessing smiled and before leaving said, “It’s just that they’re all free now and I thought you’d have some feelings about that.”
Torrie was well dressed and poised. She’d left the New Dawn Sunrise Wellness Retreat about a year after her family was slain, had gone to college and had been playing a role managing her father’s company and living a quiet life since. Reevaluating Kessing’s comment, she lifted her head. “Wait.”
Kessing returned.
“You know about all their conditions?” Torrie said.
“They’re now free to live as any other citizen, do whatever they like.”
“They cannot contact or communicate with each other. Ever. If they do so they go back to prison.”
“Yes, that was a condition given at sentencing, and I doubt they’ll violate it after all this time. It seems clear they’re each ready to move on.”
“Did you know that each of them have legally changed their names?”
“No. I didn’t know that, but it happens in notorious cases.”
“And did you know that after their release, if they do not break the law, their records are completely sealed, expunged after five years. So no one can ever know what they did?”
“Yes, I know. So what are your feelings on all of it, Torrie?”
She blinked several times, looked to the sky, then at Kessing.
“They can now disappear into the world as new people, as if the murder of my family never happened. That’s not justice—it’s a rebirth.”
Forty-Six
Cielo Valle, California, and Eternity, Manitoba
Present day
“Yes, please hold for Chief Jurek. He won’t be too long.”
Ben switched his phone to speaker and “Let It Be” played while he went through his checklist at his desk.
In the past two days he’d read every news article he could find on the murders in Eternity. With the help of an FBI friend with contacts in Canada, he’d already located some of the people involved in the case, conducted brief, preliminary interviews and secured commitments from them to speak to him face-to-face when he traveled to Manitoba to research the book.
Bill Jurek was a key player, among the first on the scene and was a lead investigator. Ben still had other people to contact, but he needed Jurek and didn’t mind holding.
Ben was pleased at how things were unfolding. He’d completed a rough draft of an outline and felt positive about getting back to work, especially after all that had happened in the last few years.
While he was gearing up to throw himself into his book, he was looking forward to taking Kayla and Emma on that family adventure on the train through the Canadian Rockies, once he had things under control.
Tug padded into his office with his ball in his mouth.
“Not now, pal. I’m working. Maybe later.” Ben scratched the top of Tug’s head just as the Beatles stopped and the line clicked.
“This is Bill Jurek. Sorry for the wait, Mr. Grant.”
“Thanks for responding to my emails. I won’t take much of your time.”
“It’s okay. I’m curious—why are you writing a book about this case?”
“To be honest, there were complications with other cases I was considering, and I’ve had to set those aside. But this case was always a possibility, especially with all the elements it holds, even after all this time.”
“And what would those elements be?”
“The terrible magnitude, the enormous toll, the ages of the murderers. I think the tragedy needs to be studied and told. It warrants a record of understanding for history.”
After five or six seconds passed with Jurek not responding, Ben continued.
“Will you agree to talk to me on the record for the book?”
Jurek took in a long breath, let it out slowly, then answered. “What happened here wounded everyone in town. What those girls did—” He paused to collect his thoughts.
It was Ben’s turn to be silent, sensing that Jurek was still grappling with whatever he carried, that he needed to say whatever it was he needed to say.
“What those girls did cut deep into our community and left a scar. Some of the guys on the investigation, because of the things they saw, had trouble for years with nightmares, PTSD. No different from what I saw when I was a soldier in Africa and Bosnia.”
Ben remained silent, letting Jurek go on.
“I’ve read some of your books, Mr. Grant. I thought they were good. I thought you did a good job.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Yes, I’ll talk to you and I’ll help you as best I can when you come.”
“Thank you, Chief Jurek.”
“Bill.”
“Thank you, Bill, and it’s Ben for me. While I have you, can I ask a few more questions?”
“Go ahead.”
“How often do you think about the case?”
“Every day. Because for one reason or another I have to drive by the house on Old Pioneer Road.”
“And what goes through your mind?”
“I’m pulled right back into it like it was yesterday. The scene, the horror of it. I went to the hospital and was there when Connie Tullock breathed her last words. You never forget something like that. Ever.”
Ben let a respectful moment pass.
“Can I ask your help on something?”
“You can ask.”
“I’m going to need to speak to the girls. Well, they’re women now, but with all the restrictions on their identities at the time, I may have trouble finding them. Would you be able to help me on that?”
Ben heard Jurek make a low whistling sound.
“That could be a challenge. I’m bound by the law. Their records are sealed. Their fingerprints and DNA are in the databases but if they commit no crimes, they’ve essentially vanished. They really have no conditions. They don’t report to anyone, and they’ve all changed their names and we’ve got no reason and no authority to track them. They could be living anywhere under new identities without anyone knowing what they did.”
“What do you think of that?”
“It’s chilling.”
Forty-Seven
Toronto, Ontario
Present day
Torrie Tullock’s face glowed in the darkness, lit only by the light of the eighty-inch TV screen before her.
She was alone with her dead family, joining them in the moments of their lives, forever frozen in time.
Here we are in the pool. Me on Dad’s shoulders while he holds Linda and Neal in each arm as we yell: “Dad Statue!” before he dunks us in a big splash. Now here’s Mom waving at the camera with me, Linda and Neal looking out the gondola window ascending the mountains in Banff.
Torrie smiles at the screen’s next images.
All of us wearing mouse ears at Disney World.
Now here’s everyone in front of our Christmas tree tearing away wrapping paper. Then candles flickering on a cake, Mom smiling, laughing, Linda and Neal squealing, Dad leading everyone in song, the cake reading “Happy Birthday Torrie.”
Suddenly the screen goes white like a nuclear detonation.
They’re gone. All of them. Gone, gone, gone. I am alone.
I wish I died that day, too.
I’m not me anymore.
I’m not a daughter. I am not a big sister.
I am no one.
Her thoughts pulled her further into darkness to the last time she was alone, when she was sick and had to go to the Wellness Retreat. She hated being there, hated being away from her family.
The worst of it was when some of the staff, those with some connection to Eternity, gossiped. She’d overheard them saying things like they’d heard that her father had beat her, that’s what made her sick and dangerous.
Not true.
Some staff said Roy Tullock was not an upstanding man in Eternity but had had affairs that had produced other children and he’d sent Torrie to the Wellness Retreat because she’d discovered the truth.
Lies.
Why did people say things like that?
Torrie hated the gossipers—she reported them and they were reassigned. But Torrie liked her counselors and therapists. They were nice and had helped her to get better. So much better that they said she was well enough to go home just a few weeks before it happened.
I was going to be with them again. I yearned to go home. I was over the moon.
Then.
Torrie tapped out a few commands on her laptop and the TV screen came to life with old news reports.
“...we have breaking news of a multiple homicide in Manitoba...”
Then another news report with aerial footage of her home, over the graphic: Bloodbath in Eternity, Manitoba: Arrests Made in Mass Murder.
More commands on her laptop produced more reports.
The day the killers were set free.
Excerpts of their statements were seared in her soul, leaving her seething.
“I made a stupid mistake.”
Like spilling milk.
“Some people come out of prison hardened... I am now a changed person.”
WTF?
“My mother died while I was in jail. I had no family. I had nobody.”
You had nobody? Are you the victim?
Pursing her lips and entering more commands, Torrie cued up the new
s report of what her uncle Paul had said that day and absorbed his words, like a soothing prayer.
“What they took from us was too much. It can never be forgotten and will never be forgiven.”
Torrie closed her laptop, switched off the TV and sat in the darkness.
No, it will never be forgotten and it will never be forgiven.
Forty-Eight
New York City, New York
One year ago
Across the country, about the same time Emma had married Ben Grant, Lucy Lavenza stood amid the teetering supply crates and storage shelves in the staff locker room of The Neon Willow Diner.
Fingers working feverishly, she tied her apron, grabbed her order pad, then rushed out toward the dining room.
Diego, one of the owners, stopped her in the hallway.
“What’re you doing here, Lucy? We told you on Monday you were done.”
“Please, Diego, give me one more chance.”
“You’ve had chances. You missed too many shifts or you came in late and under the influence. You’re done.”
“Please, Diego, please. I’m sick.”
Diego looked into her glossy eyes then at the bruises on her jaw and neck, likely the work of her dealer. Her tattoos hid the needle tracks on her arms. Diego had lost a sister to drugs, but for Lucy, he had no sympathy.
“You’re an addict. You’re fired. Get your final pay from Isabel in the office, get out and get your shit together, Lucy, because if you don’t, you’re gonna die.”
Diego’s words held Lucy hostage for a stunned moment. Defeated, she untied her apron and walked past him to the office. The door was open and Isabel let on like she hadn’t overheard. She was at her desk talking on the phone. Lucy set her apron and order pad down on the desk. Glancing at Lucy, Isabel, still on the phone, used one hand to yank open a low desk drawer, pluck out an envelope and hand it to her before suddenly turning her back to stand at the file cabinet in the corner, phone to her ear.
“We have the inspector’s report, Gavin.” Isabel pulled open a top file drawer and searched folders. “I have it. I can get it to you.”
