Invisible darkness : the strange case of Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka

by Williams, Stephen, 1949-

  Paul Bernardo was a walking testament to the idea that peo—

  pie become what they behold. He walked exactly like his stepfather, and by the way Paul was walking on this fine summer afternoon it was obvious that he was on a mission.

  By June 14, 1991, Paul Bernardo had acheived one of his goals: he had fully affected that “Baywatch” look: six feet tall, athletic, Hthe, well muscled, tanned, with the boyish, open face and blond hair buzzed on the sides, a bit longish up top; what was euphemistically called, in hairstyling circles, feathered.

  He had parked the gold Nissan 240SX in Market Square, and was headed toward the courthouse to retrieve a marriage license. Since Karla worked and he was now “self-employed”— and forms and figures were his metier, anyway—obtaining the marriage license was the least he could do.

  As usual. Market Square, in the heart of beautiful downtown St. Catharines, was a hive of activity. A large area with a few hundred metered parking spots, the square was bound by the municipal buildings and the mayor’s office, the library and a burger-and-beer joint called Gord’s Place.

  Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning, a few dozen vendors took over fifty or sixty parking spaces and set up booths from which they sold fi-esh produce, meat and flowers.

  Directly behind the library was the Niagara Regional Police headquarters where Paul and Karla had been questioned the night Tammy Lyn died. Paul was parked directly in front of the Blue Mermaid, a velour-upholstered restaurant, which was patronized by lawyers and judges. Paul crossed Church Street and disappeared through the courthouse door.

  St. Catharines sits on a level plateau surrounded by what an early pioneer described as “a country which for beauty and fertility cannot be surpassed on the continent.” That country, which IS known as the Niagara Peninsula, produces some of the finest wines, produce and flowers in the civilized world.

  There are dozens of successful vineyards and vintners, market gardeners with massive greenhouses, wealthy farmers and a multimillion-dollar perennial-bulb and cut-flower industry that

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  exports a billion dollars’ worth of tulips, geraniums and lilies annually to the United States.

  Characteristic of the atmosphere of anomaly that has always defined the Niagara Region, the peninsula is not, in fact, a peninsula but a narrow bridge of land between Canada and the United States bound by Lake Ontario on the north and Lake Erie to the south. All that separates St. Catharines and the Niagara Region from the United States is twelve miles and a devastating waterfall.

  The peninsula lies further south than most people imagine and is relatively sheltered from climatic extremes. There is more chance of frost damage in the Georgian peach orchards and the vineyards of the Napa Valley than on the peninsula.

  But agriculture alone could not sustain St. Catharines. Not with so much cheap hydroelectric power so nearby, it had become a blue-collar factory town, whose main employer was General Motors. The population of St. Catharmes was comprised of hardworking people who had come under siege as the economy forced the closure of hundreds of North American plants and factories. St. Catharines had the second highest rate of unemployment in Canada. There was an atmosphere of dissonance, quiet hysteria and chaos, from which Paul Bernardo derived sustenance. He also liked the small city’s proximity and the ease of access to the United States. That and a daughter of the city’ —his beautiful, blushing bride-to-be, Karla Leanne Homolka, whose name he dutifully printed on the requisite forms.

  “When was the bitch born?” Paul often called Karla “the bitch,” quietly and in public; Mr. Homolka was always calling Mrs. Homolka “the old bitch.” It was really a term of endearment.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” said the clerk. Paul smiled and waved her off Concentrating on the forms: Karla was born on May 4, 1970. That would make her twenty-one already; perhaps he should call off the wedding; she was getting a bit long in the tooth and did not even act like a virgin anymore.

  He and Karla were to be married in two short weeks on Saturday, June 29, at St. Mark’s Anglican Church in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Reverend Ian Grieve presiding. Paul dutifully filled in all the blanks.

  Their wedding was going to be the best. Mazy Jackson, the big Irish woman at the Queen’s Landing who organized weddings for the hotel, told them that their wedding v/as almost the largest and most lavish she had planned in her twenty years as a professional wedding planner.

  The only one larger was one she had done—at Queen’s Landing, as well—for a Bronfrnan sibling. Given the fact that the Bronfinans were among the richest people in the world, Paul and Karla were not doing half bad.

  Their wedding was going to be perfect. The historic church m Niagara-on-the-Lake with the white horses and the carriage, champagne, a sit-down dinner for one hundred and fifty guests with veal-stuffed pheasant at Queen’s Landing, no expense spared.

  He put the marriage license on the car seat and drove out of the parking lot. He must think of some special gift for his betrothed.

  At 4:30 P.M., Leshe Mahaff- got on the bus in front of M. M. Robinson High School and went to Harvey’s in the SuperCentre. Amanda was there with Angie, Frank Corda and Grant. She sat down and ordered a junior burger. Grant was being a grunt and Leshe’s silence was golden. As if Leslie were not even there. Grant kept asking everybody, “Why’s she mad at me? Why’s she mad at me?” over and over again.

  Leslie went home and changed: as she rummaged through her drawer she was troubled by her lack of choices. She put on her white Vogue bra. Leslie had managed to coerce her mother into letting her wear the white long-sleeved silk blouse with the short collar, but it had been a real hassle. She and her mother had to have what her mother called “a chat” about it. Leshe could wear it, but her mother wanted it back—without anything spilled on it.

  Leshe finally, reluctantly, selected her beige walking shorts with the pleats and slash pockets; they were knee length, so she

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  rolled them up to shorten them a bit. She chose her flat leather whites—accessorize and coordinate. She noticed that her imitation opal mood ring had turned black. There was certainly nothing she could think about that would turn the ring green or orange on her way to the fiineral home.

  It was around seven o’clock. They w^ere going to make a cigarette run. Karla always went with Paul whenever she could. The guards never bothered stopping a young, good-looking, well-groomed couple from St. Catharines. As in most things, the key to the sagacious management of contraband was appearance— no beards, no fidgeting with fingers, hands visible on the wheel. Looking the Customs agents in the eye, and willing their complicity, Paul and Karla had yet to be stopped.

  It took them about ten minutes to get to the Whirlpool Bridge—of three international bridges in Niagara Falls it was the least technologically sophisticated, the least busy and seemed to have the least stringent staff. Nevertheless, the adrenaline always pumped when Paul made a run.

  Paul felt good. He had succeeded in profoundly changing his life. Instead of $35,000 annually, taxed at source, he often made $15,000 a month, tax free. And what was the risk? Customs would confiscate the cigarettes, if they found them. Whether they would lay charges or not was a toss-up. Even if they did, the fines were minimal.

  “St. Catharines, sir, just over for dinner,” he would say, and Karla smiled demurely as they were waved through. The real rush was coming back. A convenient feature in this model Nissan: many concealed compartments built into the door panels. Paul could stuff up to sixty cartons of cigarettes and six forty-ounce bottles of liquor in the doors and behind the speakers. Karla’s used black pantyhose were fitted around the bottoms of the panels—if a Customs agent used mirrors or a flashlight, all he would see was black.

  Customs recorded the Bernardos crossing at 7:36 p.m. that night. They made the leisurely drive to Steve Smirnis’s garage in a matter of minutes. Passing by Van Smirnis’s gi
rlfriend’s

  parents’ house on the highway outside Youngstown, Paul could not remember what her father did. There was all this assemble-your-own patio flirniture out on their lawn.

  What else could one expect from the parents of a girl who would take up with Van? Her name was Fuller—Joann Fuller. She was younger than Karla by at least four years, which made her barely sixteen. Van was ten years older, but on a scale of maturity, he and Joann were about the same age.

  Karla disliked Van and Joann intensely. To her, they were both losers and it showed in their poor grammar. But they were convenient accompHces, living in the United States, with the video store and all that.

  The oldest Smirnis brother, Steve, who was always trying to hit on Karla, lived with his Texas bride, Bev, and their children, in a house in Youngstown. They stored the cigarettes in their garage. All Paul had to do was pull up into the garage—day or night—load up and drive out. Van told hmi he had even persuaded a couple of Indians to bring the cigarettes over to the house for him. Paul never had to touch the product out in the open.

  He and Karla were home by ten. Paul would accumulate enough cartons of cigarettes—say four or five hundred cartons—and then meet Van in Oakville, transfer them to Van’s car and he would drive them up to Patrick Johnnie’s garage outside Sutton.

  At 10:45 P.M., Paul called Van from the house. They agreed to meet at the usual spot.

  The fashion magazmes all said accessorize. Leslie decided to wear her big gold hoop earrings. Her mother drove Leslie and her friend Angie to Smith’s Funeral Home. Leslie and Angie stayed for about an hour. Leslie left the funeral home and went to the SuperCentre, where she met Amanda. They walked over to the Rock with Hank Corda and Jim Mahon. Sometime between the time Leslie left the frineral home and arrived at the Rock her mood ring changed color. She did not know why, but she got happy.

  The Rock was like a magnet: by the time they got to it, there must have been two hundred people there. Somebody was playing the Doors, loud:

  “Blood speed the brain and chop off the fingers Blood in the bone in the death of a nation… .”

  There was cold beer. Leslie liked cold beer. She was “in the zone.” Amanda came over to say goodbye around 10:30 p.m. and Leslie hugged her. Leslie had never hugged Amanda before, but that was the kind of mood Leslie was in. Jason Booth was watching her: she was just a little social butterfly all night, flitting from one group to the next; sipping a beer here, a beer there.

  With her sisters, Christine and Brenda, Barbara Eady, a thirty-something divorced mother, decided to go to Jake’s Roadhouse around 9:30 or 10:00 p.m. Jake’s was a popular bar in Burlington. Barbara’s children, Brooke and Shea, were at the Rock; there was some kind of wake for those poor kids who were killed on Monday night, so Barbara pretty well had the evening to herself She was standing at the bar when a guy came up from behind her. “Do you believe in angels?” he asked.

  He was tall, good-looking, with feathered hair. He introduced the women to his friend Steve, a big, dark brown-haired guy who talked about golf

  “He appeared nervous, hke he didn’t want to talk to us,” Barbara recalled. “He sort of went back and forth all night, kind of upset or something. They had a couple of other girls in tow.”

  Sometimes the blond-haired guy did not make sense. “You come from a very powerful family,” he said, out of the blue. “Why are you here? Are you police? What are you drinking?”

  He was talking about reincarnation, too. “How could you not trust a face like mine?” he asked.

  Barbara’s sister Christine said she did not trust anybody with

  dimples. A very smooth talker, the young man had a big dimple on his right cheek. He said he was an accountant from Toronto.

  When Christme talked to hmi about Jesus and repenting, his demeanor changed. Barbara put her hand out to say goodbye and he shook it. and then used his other hand to hold over their clasped hands. She told him that whatever he was involved in, he was in over his head and she would pray for him.

  Martin McSweeney had been a good friend of Chris Evans. He pounded back eight or ten beers at the Rock that night in memory. Martin was a big lad and he had been so upset by his friend’s untimely death that the beers hardly touched him.

  Martin told Leslie Mahafty he would walk her home. On the way they stopped at the Mac’s Milk store, where Leslie always bought candy for her Httle brother, Ryan. Martin had called his home from the pay phone, but there was no answer.

  Walking up Duncaster to Barlow, Leslie and Martin dragged their heels, talking. The way Leslie looked at it, with her mother an inch was a mile. Since she had blown her curfew when she was not home at exactly 11:30 p.m., it did not matter what time she got home.

  She and Martin sat down on the bank of the hill behind Leslie’s house. They talked some more and kissed a bit. Then they went through the backyards to LesHe’s house. Leslie tried the side door of her house; it was locked. So were the windows. She had debated with her mother about curfew—her mother was adamant she should be in by 11:30 p.m. at the latest. Leslie had argued, saying that this was an unusual circumstance, to no avail. But she still could not believe that her mother had locked her out.

  She went to the front door. It was locked, too. Martin said he could not wait any longer, he had to get home. After he left, she walked around the back of the house again. Leslie watched Martin go down the hill behind the house and into the ravine. Then he disappeared in the dark.

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  At two o’clock the phone rang and rang. Even though the phone was right beside Amanda’s bed, the sound came from far away. Amanda’s mother finally answered it, woke Amanda up and told her it was Leslie. It was a warm night. The window was open and a hght breeze billowed the curtains.

  Right away Leslie started telling Amanda that the cops had come to the Rock. A big spark had exploded out of the fire the guys had built and one of those huge trees almost became a burnmg bush. Leshe said she had left about two hours after Amanda, around 12:30 a.m. and Martin McSweeney walked her home. Leslie told Amanda that she was alone, she had no money. She told Amanda that she had fooled around with Martin when they had been alone; that she really liked him.

  Amanda had to break off twice—when a beep comes on the line it means somebody else is trying to call. It was Amanda’s sister, sick at a sleepover. Halfway through the conversation, Amanda’s mother went to get her sister.

  Leshe wanted to know if she could come over, just for the night?

  “I don’t think it would be such a good idea,” Amanda told her. The last time Mrs. Carpino had let Leslie stay over, Leslie’s mother had given Amanda’s mother proper shit the next day. Why not just go home and ring the bell? Amanda advised. Things had been pretty good at home lately, there had not been much trouble, it was no big deal.

  To Amanda, Leslie sounded upset and confused. Maybe it was the shock of finding herself locked out. She was talking quickly and kind of loud. She kept saying she did not want to go home. The last time Leslie had run away she had copped her grandmother’s cash card, dyed her hair and somehow got hold of some phoney ID.

  Leslie’s hair was naturally frizzy and a little bit curly but she liked to wear it straight. She always told Amanda if she really ran away she would take her hair straightener, her makeup, address book and clothes. Amanda believed her, but tonight Leslie had none of that stuff. She said she got the quarter for the phone call

  from somebody. She never said who. It was so quiet in the background that Amanda mentioned it. She just assumed that Leshe was at the pay phone in Mac’s.

  They talked for about a half hour. When she hung up, Amanda never thought the end was near; she just assumed Leslie would go home.

  Paul did not notice the name of the bar—it was some country-and-western joint, next to the Keg. He often met the Smirnis boys at the Keg in the plaza off Kerr Street in Oakville, just before Trafalgar Road. The Keg had closed at midnight. P
aul had barely sat down when they announced last call. The boys moved next door.

  When they came out there were a couple of cops at the doughnut shop in the plaza. So they waited about twenty minutes until the pohce left. Then the Smirnis brothers left. It was Paul’s plan to steal a few more license plates before he called it a night. Stolen plates came in handy. Canada Customs had spotters on the American side who randomly reported people with large quantities of cigarettes in their cars. Sometimes, a tourist would even call Customs. They would call ahead to the border and report license plates.

  The experienced smuggler picked up his cigarettes and started toward the border, pulled over and quickly changed the plates, crossed the border with impunit' and then changed them back on the other side. Paul headed across the highway into Burlington, where he had scored a couple of sets of plates a few weeks earlier.

  A territorial animal, Paul drove directly to the spot where he had parked the car before. He got out and cut through a tall hedge with a short fence around it. He tried to cut behind and then lost his footing and sank backward into the hedge. He felt Uke an idiot. Regaining his footing, he cut across the backyard.

  Suddenly he saw someone walk around the house into the backyard. It was a girl. He watched as she checked the doors at the back of the house. In the dim light cast by the street lamps,

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  she looked good. There were no lights on in the house. Paul thought to himself that when she got in, he might be able to do a little voyeurism. She was hot, he was there—why not? He started toward the other side of the house. She had gone around the front and unexpectedly came back down the side Paul had started to explore. They were both surprised.

  “What are you doing here … ?” She was not scared—she sounded upbeat, kind of happy.