The Devil's Cinema

by Steve Lillebuen

  Gilles ripped the gun out of the stranger’s hands. He clasped on tight and tried to break the gun, crush it, smash it in two. He spotted black handcuffs on the floor and picked them up.

  “Put those down!” the masked man shouted excitedly.

  But Gilles ignored him. He tossed the fake gun into a corner and wrapped the handcuffs around his fist like a set of brass knuckles. Gilles took a long look at his attacker. Realizing the handcuffs wouldn’t dent the stranger’s mask, he discarded them and clenched his fists.

  The two collided. They wrestled, arms and hands ripping, grasping. Their feet jostled as they pushed and shoved each other in the scuffle, both trying to gain the upper hand.

  Gilles clasped his hands tightly around his attacker when the man lunged forward and head-butted him in the face. The mask struck hard against his nose, his eye, and he recoiled from the stinging pain.

  The stranger sneered. “Because you’re not cooperating, this is the way this has to be!”

  The duo struggled and spun around several times in the near darkness. The stranger threw a hard punch at Gilles’s left temple, but he was too high on adrenaline to feel its full impact. They continued struggling furiously, smashing from one end of the garage to the other. Arms flailing, fingers pulling and tearing, Gilles tried to rip his attacker’s mask off, but the man kept dodging him.

  Gilles lifted one leg and swung it as hard as he could at the groin of his masked attacker. But the man just ducked out of the way and he kicked nothing but air. The stranger tried to kick him back. Gilles kept punching the man in the chest, avoiding contact with the hard plastic mask.

  Then, as they struggled, Gilles felt some kind of pouch on the man’s waist. He shuddered.

  His attacker could be armed with a knife. Gilles knew he had to escape quickly if the man had such a weapon on him. This brawl could end his life.

  Gilles figured that if he let his attacker continue to hit him, he could slowly manoeuvre himself toward the bay door, each punch sending him closer to the exit.

  The punches kept battering the left side of his head. But there seemed to be no method to the attack. It was unorganized, chaotic. He tried to focus on what he could see of the attacker’s face, hoping to remember the details later. Maybe freckles. Gilles glanced again. He could have red hair. He was moving too fast for him to be sure, and the mask and hoodie covered nearly everything else.

  Gilles stepped away, then took another baby step. The door was close. He pushed the man back, but his grasp held on tight, the stranger’s fingers clawing into his jacket. Gilles slipped his arms out, letting the jacket slide off in the grasp of his attacker.

  Freedom neared.

  Gilles dropped to the floor and rolled under the partially opened garage door. He started crawling, palms pushing himself past the edge of the garage and down the driveway. He grabbed at soil and rocks. Out of breath and exhausted, he could barely keep going or even lift himself up. Maybe the stun gun baton had really knocked him out, he thought. All his energy was drained.

  Gilles gasped for air, crawling feverishly through patches of dying grass and dirt. Behind him, the stranger was back on his feet. He ducked under the garage door and started walking toward his prey. Gilles could hear him drawing closer and he pushed himself forward again, fighting to keep moving, to find help. But the stranger was upon him, grabbing him by his ankles, and pulling hard.

  Gilles struggled to hold him off, fingers digging and scratching into the ground. He reached for a rock, but just then the man pulled hard and the rock slipped out of his hands. He flailed his arms about uselessly as he was dragged all the way back to the garage.

  As the attacker attempted to raise the garage door high enough for both of them to slide under, he released his grip on Gilles momentarily, giving him a second chance to escape. He pushed away and leapt to his feet, stumbling sideways and nearly crashing into the old maroon-coloured fence. But he steadied himself and bolted once again around the corner and down the alley, heart booming in his chest.

  As he staggered toward the crossroads where the alley meets the walking path, Gilles spotted a young couple out for an evening stroll. “Please!” Gilles gasped, trying to find his voice as he stumbled again, collapsing at their feet. “There’s a guy attacking me.”

  The couple looked down at him.

  “He’s trying to mug me!” Gilles cried.

  Just then, his attacker emerged from out of the alley.

  “That’s the man!” Gilles groaned, holding his stomach. He slowly rose to his feet.

  The couple looked on in terror at the approaching figure who looked like someone out of a horror movie, his mask still covering his face as he lumbered closer toward them.

  “Oh, hey friend!” the stranger said cheerfully, trying to feign friendship.

  But the young couple wasn’t buying it. Terrorized by the sight of a masked stranger, the woman took off down the path. Her boyfriend stayed behind momentarily, before he also fled, leaving Gilles on his own. But their presence had been enough to make the stranger skittish and he retreated as well.

  Gilles watched as everyone scattered. He was more angry than scared now and determined to return to the driveway to get to his truck.

  He moved slowly, quietly. He placed each footstep silently on the alley pavement, looking all around him and wondering where his attacker had fled. As he neared his parked truck, he could see under the partially opened garage door. A pair of feet was pacing frantically back and forth. His jacket was still on the floor, but he wasn’t going in there again to get it.

  Gilles jumped into his vehicle and locked the doors. He jammed the key in the ignition, gave it a crank, and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. He was driving on adrenaline.

  He was nearing a major roadway when the whole experience finally hit him, and then his heart really started to pound. It was like getting hit in the face with a sledgehammer: the shock, the fear, the panic. Everything started hurting, especially his ribs and the side of his face.

  He felt sick to his stomach. He had to stop.

  Gilles pulled over down a side street, got out, and dry-heaved. He grabbed a bottle of water he had in his truck, twisted the top, poured some over his burning face, and downed the rest.

  He was exhausted. He laid down in his vehicle, motionless.

  When he finally arrived at home, he saw in his bathroom mirror that he had a huge welt forming on his head. His clothes were torn. And he hurt everywhere. He grabbed a bag of frozen vegetables out of his freezer, wrapped it in a towel, and placed it on his head.

  He fell asleep.

  When he awoke a few hours later, it dawned on him to check his computer.

  He rushed over to his desk. He started up his web browser and logged back on to plentyoffish.com. But “Sheena” was gone.

  All her correspondence with him had been deleted. Details of their dinner and movie plans were now missing. All of her flirty messages had disappeared, along with all of his replies.

  He tried to find her dating profile.

  It had vanished too.

  CHANGING METHODS

  TWITCHELL CRINGED WITH EVERY phone call and spotted police cruiser. Each passing day, however, confirmed that the incident had likely – and remarkably – gone unreported. He felt his confidence bloom. He wrote about it later as he expanded on S. K. Confessions:

  My fear subsided.… No patrol car would come to take me away bound in handcuffs to be brought up on assault charges, forever ending my serial killing career before it began, bringing down my marriage with it when my wife finds out what I really am.

  Deleting Sheena’s dating profile minutes after the struggle had been a very good idea too, just in case police were ever called. But Twitchell was under the impression that Gilles had received the threatening message he had written, warning him that he would “hunt him down where he lives when he least expects it and finish what I started” if he ever went to the police. But deleting Sheena’s account minutes later had also
erased that message before Gilles had a chance to read it.

  Twitchell’s paperwork for a real firearm had not yet arrived. Joss had been his reference, as he requested, and the legal papers signed, authorized, and approved by the police but still delayed somewhere in the mail. Twitchell couldn’t legally buy himself a gun. Not yet.

  The fake firearm he had used was owned by a local movie prop company. Clearly, it didn’t fool anyone. If he was to continue with his plan, he would need to change his tactics.

  ON SUNDAY, OCTOBER 5, two days after her last contact with Twitchell, Renee sat at her computer in Ohio, cup of coffee in hand. “What were you up to this weekend?” she inquired. She had the whole day to herself, but her mind kept returning to Twitchell. She felt like he had awakened a part of her that had lay dormant for years. “Stun gun … that’s a good idea,” she told him. “But I think when it came to cutting her up in little pieces, I would choke.” She thought his plan would leave too much forensic evidence behind. “Where’s all the blood going to go when it’s time to pull the plastic down?”

  Renee viewed their discussions as intriguing, but upon reflection, she reminded him that an invisible line always separated her from the violence they envisioned together. She was never going to be a potential killer. “That’s what dark fantasies are,” she concluded. “Just a fantasy.”

  WHEN TWITCHELL READ RENEE’S message about stun gun batons, he must have chuckled to himself as he retracted his stated method. He warned her there were several unforeseen flaws:

  Batons and the like are ineffective and sloppy. And in the rare event the wild card situation of the victim grabbing it from you should happen, not good. I’d go with a sturdy copper pipe. Lead is too heavy and the copper finish allows you to tape the base ends for good gripping.

  Two swift hard bonks of the back of the head, and out cold. And if not out cold, they come in handy for concise hits to the torso to wind the individual and knee cap them as well so the sleeper hold can finish the job.

  Tearing apart bone connections by hand is simply not done and too much work for anyone, male or female. A hunter’s game processing kit comes with everything you would need to cut the body into nice manageable pieces, including a hand saw that will go through bone like butter … well, okay, maybe frozen butter, but still.

  As for what to do with the blood, that’s easy too. We assume she’s laying down on the table. With both her hands totally wrapped in duct tape, free one arm and slit the wrist, allowing the vast majority of the blood to flow out of the wrist and into a container like a garbage can with a hefty bag in it. The blood either gets dumped with the body, or poured into the nearest most convenient sewer drain.… After that, the body has barely any blood left and certainly wouldn’t be enough to pool anywhere.

  Renee called him an “evil genius” for his fantasy. “Oh, the horribly awesome things we could accomplish together,” she laughed.

  “I’m perfecting a few of them, but don’t tell anyone,” he replied.

  INVESTORS HUDDLED AROUND THE table of Venture Alberta. All eyes fell to Randy Lennon as he walked in and discussions returned to Xpress Entertainment. Having spent a few months looking at the Day Players film proposal from Mark Twitchell, Randy was asked for his advice.

  “I recommend everyone against investing in this.” The whole concept bothered him.

  Another member pulled Randy aside with some uncomfortable news: at least one investor had already agreed to put his money in.

  John Pinsent believed his investment was protected because his recently signed contract declared his funds to be “held in trust” and used “only for the direct purposes of assisting an independent gap financier establish a line of credit.” He planned on handing over a cheque at the end of October, as per his agreement.

  It couldn’t come sooner for Twitchell. He now had less than $200 in his business account.

  IT WAS NEARING 5:00 p.m. on Thursday, October 9, when Twitchell found he had time to spare before his marriage counselling session on the west end. He strolled into a Canadian Tire hardware store and scanned the aisles. Rows of auto parts stretched into sections devoted to camping, barbecues, gardening, sports, and home repair. Finally, he rounded a corner and spotted what he was looking for.

  A father and his little girl were standing nearby, rummaging through a section of faucets, sinks, and the like. The girl, who was around five years old, had picked up the wooden handle of a toilet plunger and was holding it high like a Jedi with a lightsaber, striking a defensive pose.

  Normally, children irritated Twitchell, but watching this scene unfold softened his hostility. The little girl blushed when she noticed he was staring at her. He smiled to assure her make-believe was okay and she gave him a bashful grin in return. Twitchell found the moment endearing, and he thought of his own daughter, who would be the girl’s age in only a few short years.

  As the girl scampered away, her father’s arms filled with supplies, Twitchell turned his attention back to what he was looking for. In front of him was a pile of pipes. He wrapped his hands around two of them. He felt the cold metal in his palms. Passing a twenty-dollar bill to the clerk as payment, he walked back to his car and drove off to his south side garage, dropping the items off before he had to meet Jess to discuss their marriage. He made a mental note that he had to pick up hockey tape later. He’d need a roll to deliver a much better grip.

  ARGUS

  JOHNNY WALKED INTO ARGUS Machine late Thursday afternoon, ready to begin his ten-hour night shift. But it didn’t take long until he was counting down the hours, eagerly awaiting the approaching long weekend. It would be his first four-day break since his late-summer road trips and he wouldn’t be expected back in the shop until Tuesday afternoon. He had finalized plans to teach Dale how to ride his motorcycle over the Canadian Thanksgiving holiday. That activity would take up most of one of his days off. But Johnny’s evenings were looking entirely free. He knew he would be back on his computer, hoping to find a date through an online dating service. Evenings as a single man could be so lonely.

  Johnny had headed straight for his warehouse station to measure the steel pipes coming down the line. His friend Hans was on shift but working in another section.

  As an inspector, Johnny held his digital caliper and examined the thread connections on the ends of each pipe. The instrument could measure the pipe’s dimensions like a precise ruler. If it looked good, he would let it go. But if it didn’t, Johnny slapped red tape on it and sent it back. Machinists like Hans would have to cut off the end of the pipe and do it all over again.

  The shift was unremarkable. A usual routine took over, the flow of pipes rolling down the assembly line in a noisy and steady pace.

  He took a break later while Hans enjoyed a coffee. They talked.

  At around 11:00 p.m., Hans sighed as he faced a long drive to his apartment. Johnny had to stay in the shop for at least three more hours.

  Hans left the building without saying goodbye to his friend. It was only in hindsight months later that this fact would bother him. It would bother him a great deal.

  RELATIONSHIPS

  AN HOUR AND A half after buying metal pipes, Twitchell watched as his wife cried, the couple discussing their crumbling relationship with a therapist. Twitchell had mixed feelings about seeing this psychologist, who was operating out of a clinic in a neighbourhood mall. There was a lot going on in his life that he certainly wasn’t going to talk about in front of Jess or a professional, some of which he shared only in S. K. Confessions:

  The last thing I needed to do was air out all my darkest fantasies and half-formed plans to someone who is legally obligated to contact the authorities if they think a patient will do harm to themselves or others. I’m not stupid.

  Twitchell’s mind was also drifting back to Traci. They had continued to chat online and tomorrow they would finally reconnect during an afternoon rendezvous.

  Still, as he sat in the therapist’s office, he found he was learning how his
disagreements with his wife could turn into fights. A key concern clearly revolved around the issue of trust.

  “Tell me,” Jess begged him. “Is Phil Porter a real person?”

  “Yes!” he assured her, nearly rolling his eyes as she brought up the editor once again. “You heard me talk to him. He’s real.”

  The couple left after sixty minutes with Twitchell shelling out eighty-five dollars for the session. Having spent the last of his cash on the pipes, he pulled out his business account bank card. His company funds had now dipped to only sixty-two dollars.

  They drove home in separate cars.

  Twitchell retreated to his basement office to check his computer. Tomorrow was another Friday, seven days since his first visitor fled the garage. Jess was under the impression he had another personal therapy appointment booked for Friday evening.

  Sitting in the basement, far away from the prying eyes of his wife, he returned to plentyoffish.com and designed a new dating profile. He created a new woman, with a new name, and with new photos. A new email address was used. He liked coming up with names. Some of the online usernames he had used over the years included Kill ’em All Twice, Night Stalker, Kill Mill, and Death By Flying.

  He was having fun.

  “This weekend I’ve got all kinds of shit planned,” he wrote to Renee.

  All week he had been writing Dexter Morgan status updates on how he was “reviewing possible candidates” and “contemplating selling his vics organs on the black market.” As Friday neared, he simply stated: “Dexter is crouching killer, nervous father.”

  Fans of the show played right into it.

  “You’ve been getting sloppy,” a follower warned in reply. “Rule #1: Don’t get caught.”

  DATE NIGHT

  JOHNNY HAD BEEN HUNCHED in front of his computer all Friday morning, flirting online with a girl he had just met as he settled into his long weekend, trying to make plans for the evening. Logging into plentyoffish.com, he had noticed the woman’s profile quickly. Her name was Jen and she had just joined the dating site. He thought she was beautiful and looked to be about thirty-five years old. She had included four photos in her account. One of them showed her on the beach in a bikini, her light brown hair teased around her face. And she was on the prowl. Jen wanted an “intimate encounter” with someone that evening. Johnny liked what he saw.