The Devil's Cinema

by Steve Lillebuen

  His new ending required the killer to plunge the samurai sword into his captive’s chest. Chris was relieved the crew could film this shot with him freed from the metal chair. As he stretched his legs and rubbed his wrists, the crew finished debating how to film the murder scene on such a low budget. Scott fashioned a fake torso by pulling apart an old couch the crew had tossed into the alley driveway. He ripped at the foam and placed the stuffing into an extra dress shirt Chris had brought with him, using duct tape to help form the belly and general shape of the actor’s body. He dropped the newly constructed torso on the chair.

  Twitchell returned from the grocery store with a bottle of corn syrup, red food colouring, and a juice jug. It was the film industry’s recipe for fake blood.

  Scott poured the syrup into the jug, added a bit of water and red dye, and then mixed it with an attached juice plunger. Within seconds he had created a glorious red liquid that looked just like the real thing. He dumped the fake blood into a Ziploc bag and made a few incisions in the foam chest cavity and inserted the bag inside. At last, they were ready for the final act of mayhem as a container was placed under the chair to stop the sticky substance from pooling on the floor.

  Twitchell circled the chair, smiling in satisfaction at the foam torso, before he took a spot behind the camera.

  Robert pulled one of the samurai blades out of its sheath and wrapped his hands around the handle. He pointed the long blade at the chair.

  “Camera’s rolling,” David announced.

  “Action!” said Twitchell.

  The killer leaped forward and plunged the sword deep into his victim’s torso. Grinding his teeth, he twisted the blade into his guts, taking great pleasure in killing his victim.

  But Robert missed the blood bag. And the sword he was using, the cheaper stainless steel version, wasn’t sharp enough to rip the shirt. On the second try, the sword sliced through the fabric, but it also pushed out foam, making it obvious that the victim was made of stuffing.

  The crew gave up on the idea of the fake torso and decided to just hold the shirt in place. Scott and Joss stood on either side of the chair, dangling the blood bag just behind the fabric. “Thrust!” everyone shouted, encouraging Robert to ram the sword through as hard as he could.

  The blade cut deep and the blood bag burst open. A pool of blood spilled out from the back of the shirt in a thickened stream. The liquid moved down the length of the sword, reaching the tip and falling off in drips of red.

  The crew waited and watched in excitement, letting the fake blood flow for several minutes as the camera kept recording, making sure they had captured the perfect shot.

  Chris was smiling, eyes bright. He thought the death scene looked fantastic. David and Scott were pleased with the special effect too. But Twitchell had gone silent, as if deep in thought. Crew members noticed his lack of reaction and wondered if he didn’t care at all. After their day of hard work, it looked like Twitchell was unmoved or disappointed by their effort, but if he was, he wasn’t saying.

  The crew had been filming for two days for what was supposed to be a short eight-minute film, and they still had another day to go. That night, they were scheduled to shoot a final scene at the garage, an external shot showing the killer dumping large garbage bags full of body parts into the trunk of his car. But David was exhausted and looking for an excuse to leave. He turned to Twitchell. “We’re not shooting that scene,” he said. “It’s too anti-climatic.”

  Twitchell listened to his complaints patiently.

  “We’ll do a really intense closeup of the guy being impaled,” David continued, trying to get Twitchell excited. “And he’s screaming from under the duct tape, the music is going to build up and, bam, it’s going to cut to the computer typing scene.”

  “Okay,” said Twitchell, nodding. “That works.” He remembered the scene well. It had been filmed the night before – with him playing the starring role. For Twitchell, the “write what you know” reveal of the writer being the real killer was just like a major twist renowned film director Alfred Hitchcock would have used in one of his suspense thrillers. And as Twitchell explained years later, the last shot of House of Cards also perfectly explained the theme – and an important lesson – behind his work, demonstrating how easily real motives can be hidden from view. “Anyone can turn out to be a psycho,” he wrote, “without being overtly obvious about it.”

  THE NEXT EVENING, TWITCHELL was cruising toward the freeway, slowing down on a yellow light, as he pondered the three-day film shoot. He had just left an east end steak house, where some of the crew had joined him for a House of Cards wrap party to celebrate the end of shooting. Over dinner, conversations had drifted into talk of follow-up projects, giving Twitchell a handful of ideas on where his little film project could be taken next. Of course, he had also pitched Chris on investing in Day Players. And while a $35,000 investment would be nearly all of his money, Chris was giving the proposal some serious thought. Twitchell just had to give him some time.

  Twitchell stopped for the red light and considered how much more he was capable of doing. While House of Cards was an accomplishment, he knew something was missing. He thought back to the film set, his ideas, his script, his character pulling a narrative forward. He tapped the steering wheel, deep in thought.

  Above the glowing streetlights a thin blue line of stars appeared through a rift in the clouds as an evening chill plunged the city close to the freezing point. He flicked on the car heater and waited as it coughed out a warm dusting at his feet. The light flashed to green. By the time he parked and reached his front door, he was on to a new plan.

  That evening, the third season of Dexter premiered on television. The episode depicted the first time Dexter slays an innocent man in an act of self-defence. He covers it up, but the incident had him pondering his long-held code to only kill bad people. From now on, Dexter wondered if the code had been too rigid, and whether his targets for murder could be broadened to include more categories.

  Nearing midnight, Twitchell sat at his computer in his basement office, unable to sleep. His mind was a mess of jumbled thoughts. Jess and Chloe had gone to bed long ago. Twitchell logged on to his Dexter Morgan account on Facebook and discovered he had a new message from one of his followers. A woman named Renee Waring had “kidnapped” him. It was some silly game people could play on the site, forcing a response out of a targeted profile. He checked her account. She was a total stranger and lived in Ohio. She had long dark hair and sparkling green eyes. Twitchell was intrigued and sent her a Facebook message while still pretending to be Dexter. “I had to ignore your request,” he wrote, “because my only options were escape and ignore and if I were actually kidnapped by you, there’s no way I would want to escape.”

  He logged out after his subtle online flirt but found he still couldn’t sleep. His mind was lurching forward, and then an idea struck him with such a powerful force that he was staggered by the very thought of it.

  It had happened a few times before, but nothing like this. His Internal Creative Genius was rising within, giving him the confidence he needed to think through his plans. Twitchell viewed it as a “savant power,” a subconscious and random boost that helped drive his actions. “It’s not something that I can manually control or manipulate,” he explained later. “It’s like if you had a faucet and the dials didn’t work. And it just ran water when it felt like it, but you gotta get in there with a pitcher whenever it runs water to get a hold of it.”

  If there was a faucet, the water was now flowing uncontrollably. His mind could barely keep up. His heart was racing. He had an epiphany. At last, he was given the insight he had been seeking for so long.

  This night would change everything.

  Thinking about the film shoot, the conversation over dinner, everything he had been working toward over the past year, Twitchell had finally achieved some clarity of mind. He had a purpose, a new destiny. His next steps would impact the lives of countless others. But he wasn�
��t thinking of them. Perhaps he never would.

  Twitchell stared at the ceiling, realizing his maudlin suburban life was about to be blown apart. What he now saw in front of him was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. It would be full of risk, but it would set him apart from everyone else, forever.

  It would be his legacy. His claim to fame.

  GOING PUBLIC: Det. Mark Anstey announced the arrest of Mark Twitchell outside Edmonton’s downtown police headquarters (above). Holding a photograph of the suspect’s hockey mask, Anstey hoped the surviving victim would see it on the news and finally come forward. Detectives had already found plenty of evidence, like this Post-It note (right).

  WEAPON: Twitchell’s “kill knife” was found in his car, with bloodstains on the handle and blade. It was purchased at a military surplus store.

  THE FILM STUDIO: As seen from the back door, Twitchell’s rented garage appeared to be clean before police had a chance to examine it closely.

  PROPS: Items found in the garage had links to both Twitchell’s House of Cards movie production and the attack on Gilles Tetreault, including a BB gun (left), handcuffs (below left), and a retractable stun gun baton (below).

  THE KILL ROOM: Twitchell bought an oil drum as a set piece, while his friends made this metal chair and six-legged table, not realizing their real purpose, to be revealed later.

  TOOLS: A hunter’s game processing kit was found on a back shelf of the property. Bloodstains were found on every knife inside.

  BEHIND THE LENS: Twitchell took this self-portrait with camera gear at his former college during preparations for his Star Wars fan film. The photograph was published widely in the media and drew comparisons to a publicity shot for Dexter, with his strange expression, cold stare, and similar pose, though any similarity is coincidental as it was taken years before the first episode aired.

  GEEK TO DREAMER: Twitchell’s appearance changed noticeably during his high-school years, from Grade 10 (left) to Grade 12 (far right). Teased for his looks, he had surgery to pin his ears back and started wearing contacts by graduation.

  REALITY: Mark Twitchell and his ex-wife, Jess, on their wedding day, January 13, 2007. His sister served as his best man at a small ceremony in the Hotel Macdonald. Mark and Jess’s daughter, Chloe, was born just over a year later.

  FANTASY: Twitchell loved wearing self-made, screen-accurate reproductions of movie costumes. In 2005 (above), he attended a Star Wars premiere as Jedi knight Kit Fisto. In 2007, he won Edmonton’s Halloween Howler costume competition as Bumblebee from Transformers (right).

  CAREER CASE: Det. Bill Clark answered questions from the media outside Edmonton’s courthouse following the verdict in Twitchell’s first-degree murder trial. Det. Dale Johnson (left) and Det. Brad Mandrusiak (right) had watched the court proceedings closely as their case made the international news.

  SURVIVOR: Gilles Tetreault testified at length of his struggle with a masked man in Twitchell’s garage.

  FRIEND: Mike Young testified about his friendship with Twitchell, and their shared passion for making movies.

  MUSE: Twitchell drew this portrait of actor Michael C. Hall, who plays Dexter Morgan on the television show Dexter, while awaiting trial, but insisted he didn’t “hero-worship” the character.

  SKETCHES: His prison artwork was varied, including sketches of actress Natalie Portman (left) and characters from the movie Avatar (right). But only Dexter adorned the wall of Twitchell’s cell.

  TORMENT: Surrounded by loved ones, Johnny’s mother, Elfriede Altinger, held back tears on the steps of Edmonton’s courthouse near the end of Twitchell’s murder trial. “There will never be closure,” she said of her son’s death. “But it goes on to the next step, to start to heal, if that’s possible.”

  JOY: The last known photograph of Johnny Altinger (above) was taken while driving to West Edmonton Mall in August 2008. Johnny’s family remembered his gentle spirit, as captured in one of their favourite photographs of him (right).

  FREEDOM

  ROARING DOWN THE HIGHWAY, Johnny grinned as he accelerated his motorcycle, feeling the speed of the road racing under his boots. His shaved head fit snugly in his helmet, the wind rushing past, tugging on his black riding jacket. Life was great.

  He was enjoying the final days of summer on a solo trip through the mountains. Rolling hills were opening up before him as he approached jagged peaks still brushed with glacial snow. He had plans throughout August to see an old friend in Calgary and was hoping to visit family during his vacation too. He had located the perfect parkland camping spots. Days were remaining warm as nights in the mountain valleys cooled rapidly. Tall grasses became moist with dew. A sprinkling of yellow was turning in the forests, the stillness of nature only broken by the chittering of chipmunks and the thundering engine of Johnny’s bike as he tore around a corner, full throttle, into the wild.

  Johnny had been watching his diet lately and was losing weight. At thirty-eight, he was still on the dating scene, meeting new women online, and moving on from his failed attempts at beginning relationships. On a spiritual level, he had experienced some success in his journey to enlightenment. He had developed a diverse network of friends. And he leaned on the support of Dale and his work buddies Hans and Willy. He enjoyed his job. But most of all, Johnny loved his motorbike, a Yamaha FJR. The navy-blue sport touring model had been loaded up with a sleeping bag secured on the seat behind Johnny’s back. A yellow tent became his shelter as he camped for several days. He had another bike parked at home. Both gave him the “mindnumbing” power and speed that he craved, and often expensive speeding fines. He could handle riding for more than seven hours a day, watching the picturesque landscape rush by.

  For years, Johnny had loved cruising in his cars with the stereo cranked, often singing along to Elton John. Picking up an interest in motorcycles in his thirties, Johnny found he couldn’t get enough. He posted a few pictures of his beloved machines on his Facebook profile as he returned to the city following his mountain vacation. To describe the motorbikes, he used only two words: “My children.”

  His enthusiasm had even convinced his buddy Dale to join the ranks of motorbike owners. Johnny was hoping to teach him how to ride. While they were running out of time with the turning weather, next summer was looking like a great opportunity to go cruising together. But for now, Johnny parked his bikes and headed back to work. His summer fun was over. Autumn had arrived.

  PLAY TIME

  IN THE BRILLIANCE OF Monday morning, Twitchell headed for his computer. Renee had already replied to his refusal to escape her little kidnapping game. “Or would it be that there would be no way I could escape?” she had written to his Dexter Morgan profile. “Hrmmm?”

  Intrigued by her cheeky response, he quickly wrote her back.

  Throughout the day, they would exchange five more messages, adding up to two dozen by week’s end. He revealed his real identity. They flirted. It escalated into sexual vulgarity. She knew he had a wife, but he assured Renee he was living in an “open marriage.” They became instant distractions in each other’s lives.

  Drawn together as strangers by their shared Dexter fandom, Twitchell and Renee discovered they had other interests in common. They both described themselves as geeks and Halloween fanatics, having social circles of costume-makers. But these were superficial connections. Their bond would soon go much deeper.

  At first, he treated Renee as a sounding board. Feeding into her Hollywood dreams, he promised a creative partnership in a potential movie project, bragging about his company and coming fortunes. Renee was a dog trainer. She was thrilled to have stumbled upon a filmmaker offering a slice of his success. “Where do I sign up and what can I do to help?”

  Photos were swapped, private details undressed, and long, rambling messages on failed relationships exchanged. It wasn’t long until their communication turned confessional. They both admitted to having dark fantasies through the years. Twitchell offered the cover of fiction to broach this
topic, telling her they could continue brainstorming film concepts. It would be their “play time” and if it led anywhere, she would of course be paid handsomely for her contribution. Renee dove in. “I carry my own dark demons every day,” she confessed. “There are days when all I want to see is broken necks and blood, but it never happens.”

  Twitchell was reassuring, as if he was eager to hear more details. “There is nothing you could possibly reveal to me that would make me cease communicating with you,” he wrote back, before making his own confession. “We all have a dark side, some darker than others, and you’re not the only one to relate to Dexter. It sometimes scares me how much I relate.”

  Renee was an unexpected jolt of energy just as Twitchell was beginning his new journey. She joined his long list of enterprises. Between writing her each day, he was also resuming contact with Traci Higgins. He was flirting with her again, picking up where the two had left off with their one kiss the previous summer. They made plans to meet up, which Twitchell organized through his Dexter Morgan profile. He knew Jess was still monitoring his emails and personal Facebook account.