Marie left Edmonton the next morning knowing the trip had been worthwhile. Driving back to Vancouver, staring out at the evergreen forests, she realized her bond with Johnny remained strong. Despite their distance and brief period of difficulties, she knew he would remain a loyal friend for the rest of his life.
FATE MACHINE
PLACED ON MULTIPLE WEBSITES, Twitchell’s casting calls for House of Cards had achieved much success. One actor, a local comedian, would be playing the victim, another was flying in from Toronto to be the killer, and a young woman agreed to portray the wife in the script. While they would be working for free, Twitchell was promising them potential roles in Day Players alongside stars like Alec Baldwin for their efforts. All were excited by the coming possibilities.
Twitchell’s search for movie props had been successful too. A military surplus store had a variety of knives, for which Twitchell had personally selected a sturdy KA-BAR blade as his killer’s weapon of choice. He also bought a large oil drum to help dress the set, hoping to give the garage the gritty look of a serial killer’s lair. Joss had urged Twitchell not to buy it since the drum would cost more than $150 after shipping, but Twitchell was adamant that he own such an item.
One of his most striking props brought back memories of Twitchell’s childhood video efforts. In an online sporting goods store, he had found a hard plastic hockey mask. It looked steeped in a horror vintage from the Friday the 13th slasher-film franchise, like something a goalie for the original-six NHL team the Detroit Red Wings would have worn. All he had to do was cut out the jaw, maybe dress it up with gold and black paint.
Far darker concepts were also brewing as he prepared for the film shoot, but like many aspects of Twitchell’s life, he was hiding them in plain sight. For no one, save for his suspicious spouse, was looking very closely at what was really transpiring. On Facebook he revealed his biggest clues, often wrapping them within his love of the double entendre.
He had already become Dexter Morgan on Facebook. He had opened an account under the fictional character’s name and included more than a dozen photos of the actor who played the role. He was gathering friends who were pretending Dexter was real. Twitchell would then communicate with his followers, responding as Dexter would with every reply. “Dexter is thinking deep these days,” he wrote.
Twitchell continued to update his own account. At the time, some users of the social-networking site were making references to themselves in the third person. Twitchell played along. It was just like a narrative technique used in Fight Club, one of his favourite movies. “Mark feeds on the souls of his defeated foes,” read one of his September offerings. “Mark is making the magic happen.” And as month’s end neared and the film shoot drew closer to reality, his excitement became quite evident: “Mark is gearing up for a crazy weekend of filmin’ action.”
Although House of Cards was only a short film, Twitchell had been spending a great deal of time researching the psychology behind his killer character – anything that could be used to describe the motives and personality of such a troubled man. He read books on psychological disorders and the kinds of diagnosed conditions that define a rare breed of uncaring, real-life criminal who can kill with as much emotion as required to slice bread. It was like a fundamental part of what it means to be human was missing from these people, a quality that made others uneasy.
What Twitchell was surprised to discover during his research was that he actually shared some of these undesirable personality traits with such monsters: an emotional detachment, a tendency to lie. At times, he was selfish. He sat down at his computer, struggling with the horrible self-discovery he had just made, and began typing a long passage that began with an admission that his continued lying to his wife was spiralling out of control:
I feel no remorse for this whatsoever, maybe because I feel like I’m entitled. I often find myself justifying my actions based on overarching loose philosophy like life is too short, or what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I’ve set up an intricate and elaborate web of lies around my entire relationship that I would claim is to protect her from stress, but all I seem to be doing is protecting her from truly knowing who I am.
He expanded on this point later:
I feel like I have to fake it the whole time.… If my family and friends ever knew the real me, it would damage many of them, some irreparably. I think I would rather continue faking it for their own benefit than watch several people’s worlds, including my own, unravel completely. I know they’ll survive, but sometimes happiness is more important than mere survival.
Twitchell was worried his exploration into the depths of the killer instinct had uncovered a startling, unexpected portrait of himself. Twitchell picked up the phone and called a therapist. He also visited an on-staff psychiatrist at his nearby hospital. But both mental health experts, he later claimed, insisted that he was fine. After all, the beasts he was using as comparison never sought treatment because they insisted nothing was wrong with them – it was the world that had the problem. The fact that he visited a therapist was all the proof he needed to believe he was fine. “After a much wider series of probing questions that weren’t closed ended or leading, we discovered I have no deficiency in this area,” he later wrote, brushing off the incident. His fear of what could lie beneath found a way to subside.
Twitchell returned to designing what would make his killer tick. He was a fan of Batman’s Joker, especially actor Heath Ledger’s portrayal of the warped, sadistic prankster. Twitchell wrote how he loved the same concepts the Joker had exploited in the movie The Dark Knight:
The Joker is about theatrics. He wants to shake up the status quo, put the wildly invigorating thrill of uncertainty and imbalance into the public’s mind. He sees masses of drones living their worker bee lives and losing large sections of themselves to monotony. How do we solve this problem? Adventure. Mayhem. Chaos. That’s how.
And, of course, Dexter Morgan had always been top of mind:
Anyone who takes out the trash in such a way as the depiction of Dexter, or the killer in my film, is fine by me. Vigilante or not, the thought that there could be random citizens eliminating the dredge of society by hacking up pedophiles, rapists, killers of the innocent, and other vermin is a warm, comforting thought, and we should be so lucky to have anyone like that in the real world, let alone working for the police with their resources and education.
The concept of fate was of interest too. Twitchell had been struck by a passage in a book by fantasy writer David Gemmell, in which an assassin views himself as simply the “hand of fate” at work. As Twitchell would write days after the film shoot: “Not only does fate exist, but I am very important to this fate machine, and it has gone out of its way to teach me a valuable lesson so that I may continue carrying out its inevitabilities.”
After all his research, a composite of his killer character, blended from his various passions, was finally complete.
Twitchell had actually been honest with his wife when he confessed that House of Cards took inspiration from his personal life. In fact, the film focused on the concept of “self-hatred,” an admission he would later make to a total stranger drawn to his Dexter Morgan profile on Facebook. And as the years passed, Twitchell would continue to reveal how far more sinister themes had also played a role in the plot of his short film.
After all, at the very heart of his project, a film he was scheduled to begin shooting in a few short days, was a story of deception. Twitchell stayed quiet on this front, especially during filming when he appeared subdued, even slightly detached from his film crew. But the brutal violence of his serial killer came almost secondary to his film’s premise of a man living his life as a performance – perfecting day-to-day motions to mask his real identity and to fool the world – just like Dexter Morgan.
BEHIND THE SCENES
CHRIS HEWARD SAT HUNCHED over in the darkened garage, strapped to a metal chair in the middle of the musty wood building. His wrists were duct-t
aped to the back of the chair, his ankles strapped to its legs, his stomach spilling out over the sides of its narrow frame. It had been welded together out of angle iron. He was the victim trapped in the victim’s chair.
Before him stood Mark Twitchell in a dark hoodie and jeans, a studio light glowing behind his head, throwing a soft hue onto the grease-stained walls. Joss was nearby, checking on the sound equipment. David huddled over a rented digital camera mounted on a tripod. Scott, who towered over everyone, was fiddling with a light.
The crew had already unspooled a roll of duct tape across Chris’s chest. It tugged tight on the navy blue dress shirt he was wearing, squeezing his arms into his sides. Twitchell took a step back and looked down at the captive Chris, completely restrained from his shoulders to his feet. Twitchell’s lips pouted a bit as he tried to hide a brief smile of pride.
“Okay,” David announced, adjusting the camera a little. “We’re ready for the killer stuff.”
It was several hours into the second day of the House of Cards film shoot and aspiring actor Chris was not enjoying the experience. The acting job seemed exciting at first, but after being strapped down for hours he was feeling the cold drip of uneasiness. Chris began to wriggle his wrists and ankles, trying to loosen the tape.
Chris had met Twitchell only once previously, over coffee, and he was starting to realize just how little he knew of the director’s filmmaking background. Their meeting had ended with a job offer and no formal audition – just a joke or two from Chris’s repertoire of amateur standup. While acting was a newer endeavour for Chris, Twitchell’s enthusiasm and promises of future work with Hollywood stars had him hoping the low-budget mystery thriller could be his big break. But when Chris showed up at the film set on the morning of Saturday, September 27, he found it wasn’t a professional studio but a rundown two-door garage. Its cream-coloured doors had been pulled down tight once filming began. Hardly any light could escape it. The air hung heavy with sawdust. And it was freezing cold. Everyone had their sleeves pulled down. Chris was regretting not telling his agent about what he was doing.
It had been a tense morning for the crew. They had taken longer than expected to get organized and continued to stumble over one another. Many of the finer details of the film shoot, from set pieces and props to the script, had been planned weeks in advance, but some of the very basics of filmmaking seemed to have been forgotten, almost treated like an afterthought. Mike and Jay had helped Scott clean out the garage and build set pieces, including perfecting Twitchell’s desired table and chair. But the camera Twitchell had rented didn’t come with a power adapter, forcing the crew to go hunting for one when the internal batteries died. Joss had to drive to St. Albert at the last minute to pick up a pair of samurai swords that Twitchell had forgotten at home. Disagreements broke out among the crew. At one point, Twitchell became upset because the crew was using too much of his duct tape. He wanted the tape rationed for some reason. He had also snatched one of the samurai swords out of the hands of his actors when they touched the sharpened blade between shots. “Don’t put your fingerprints on these!” he snarled. He explained how it was a higher quality blade of folded steel. “The oil on your hands could wreck it.”
With the final prep work for the next scene complete, Chris fidgeted in the metal chair, trying to get comfortable. He had read the script a few times and was worried about how the next scene would play out. Chris was playing the part of a cheating husband who uses online dating websites to arrange liaisons with other women. Only this time when he thinks he’s meeting some sexy date, he is confronted by a masked killer. “He’s about seven steps from the door when the unmistakable sound of a stun gun being fired explodes from the darkness,” the script read. “Before he has time to comprehend what’s going on he gets clubbed in the back of the head and is knocked unconscious.”
Now Chris’s character, strapped to the cold metal chair, was awaiting an interrogation by the masked stranger. The killer was being played by Robert Barnsley, another inexperienced actor who was so excited by the chance of landing a role in Twitchell’s next movie that he paid for his own flight from Toronto. Robert was skinny, only twenty years old, and looked young for his age. Some of the crew had wondered how he was going to pull off the performance of a threatening and crazed man. At least his youthful appearance would be hidden behind the modified hockey mask Twitchell had made. Robert slipped on the killer’s black mask, tightening the white straps behind his head as his nose pressed against the plastic, cupping his forehead. The lower section of the mask had been cut away, leaving his mouth and chin exposed. Twitchell had outfitted him with a hoodie, which covered his hair and ears, making him look sinister while still hiding his appearance.
Moments before they were to begin shooting the interrogation scene, a strip of duct tape was suddenly slapped across Chris’s mouth.
Twitchell disappeared behind the camera.
Joss, the sound man, held up a microphone.
David pressed the camera’s record button. “And rolling.”
It was Twitchell’s call. The sound of the camera humming, the buzz of the lights, a pause. Twitchell had given both of his actors very little direction throughout the shoot beyond minor instructions. Robert took a breath as he readied himself. Chris could only wait helplessly like a stuck pig, lips sealed tight with the fresh piece of tape.
Twitchell finally spoke: “Action.”
“Boo!” Robert hooted with a fiendish delight reminiscent of Batman’s Joker, his opening line rolling into a sadistic cackle. “Heeheeeheehehehe!” The noise startled his captive awake as Robert emerged from the darkness as the film’s killer, standing tall under the harsh glow of the light.
“Okay, welcome to a little game of live or die,” the killer declared, greeting his victim as he paced in front of him. “The process is really quite simple, so pay very close attention because I don’t enjoy repeating myself and if you make me do that, well …” He pulled out a knife.
Chris snapped himself into character, staring at the killer, a dark shadow falling off the nose of the mask. Remembering his cue, Chris began to whimper. He tried to scream, but the duct tape muffled the sound. He started to sweat. Chris knew it was a real knife taken off the metal table. And as the killer drew near, the knife’s sharp edge was inching closer toward his nose. Chris felt a lump in his throat and he didn’t have to feign fear.
“Okay, settle down.” The killer spat like he was disciplining a child, pulling back and twisting the knife in the light. “You have to take stock of your situation. You don’t know where you are, and I’m hiding my identity from you.” He spun on his heels, scraping a bit of dirt on the concrete floor. “Now, why would I bother if I was going to kill you?”
He glared and started pacing again. Chris stared back, noisily sucking air through his nose.
“I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and you’re going to answer me truthfully,” the killer continued. “I’m going to check your answers while you’re sitting here.” He looked over to the laptop on the table. “And if I find out you lied to me on any particular point …” He stopped his pacing and swung his masked face closer to Chris. “I’m going to cut something off.”
Chris tossed his weight from side to side and whimpered.
“Now I don’t mess around, and I don’t give second chances, so if anything comes out of your pie hole that isn’t a polite direct answer to a question, you’ll go home missing pieces. And that will be really hard to explain to your wife.” The killer tapped the blade on his palm. “Do you read me?”
Chris nodded frantically. The metal chair groaned and squeaked.
“Perfect. Let’s start with the easy one. What’s your Cheating Hearts password?”
“Mmmpphhhpmhhh.”
“Sorry, what? I didn’t quite catch that?” The killer squinted at the duct tape sealing his victim’s lips. “Oh right. Sorry!” He pinched his fingers and gripped the edge of one side, leaning in close to Chris’s ear
. “I realize this goes without saying,” he whispered, “but I don’t want any misunderstandings. If you scream I’m going to cut your windpipe out, which will cause an awfully huge mess and leave you unable to answer any more questions, so I’d recommend you restrain yourself.”
The killer ripped the tape off and threw it on the floor.
“Ugghhh!” Chris grunted in real pain. His lips were stinging and he wanted to rub them, but his arms were still taped to the chair.
Twitchell stopped the scene. David and Scott relaxed and Joss brought down the microphone. The crew would need several more takes as they tried to make the tape less sticky, sympathetic to the pain Chris was suffering every time it was ripped off his face.
During a break, Joss asked about the dating site in the film plot. “Are there even sites like this where married people can hook up?”
“Yeah, I heard of one,” Chris told the group. “I saw it in the paper the other day. It’s called Ashley Madison.”
Twitchell appeared to pick up on the conversation. But he didn’t say a word.
AS THE SATURDAY FILM shoot stretched into the early evening, the crew moved on to one of the last scenes at the garage. After the killer tortures his victim into revealing his bank PIN numbers, email and dating site passwords, he deletes his fake female account and all the communication between the profile and his victim, then drives to the bank to withdraw his victim’s money. Now in this scene, the killer returns, announcing he has changed his mind about letting his victim survive and will instead use the extorted personal information to fool his victim’s friends and family into believing he’s still alive. The perfect cover.
At Jess’s request, Twitchell had altered the film’s ending to remove a gruesome decapitation and power-saw dismemberment scene, but she probably wouldn’t have liked his new idea any better: the victim would now be brutally stabbed and his body chopped into pieces with a meat cleaver. It was a departure from Dexter’s preferred tools, but there were still references to the series littered throughout. The killer remained an employee of the police force in the script, and Twitchell made a “Power-Saw To The People” sticker promoting the TV show that appeared in the background of one scene. The victim’s wife also reads a Dexter novel in an earlier shot. Throughout the weekend, Twitchell kept saying things were “just like Dexter,“ smiling and laughing boisterously.
The Devil's Cinema Page 13
