The Devil's Cinema (17 page)

P
LANNING AND PLOTTING
, T
WITCHELL'S
mind raced as he sped through the city. He had to stay organized as he checked off his list. He needed a practical effects artist to pull off his idea for a short film and had no clue where to look. But at least he had secured a location for the film shoot. The property was renting for $175 a month. It wasn't much, but when he saw it, he knew it was all he needed: a double-door garage surrounded by high fences and detached from the home. He liked how quiet it was, despite being in the middle of a suburb. The current renters of the house were from Mexico and spoke little English, which suited him fine. Twitchell knew they'd leave him alone. He signed the lease that morning.

Now sitting in front of his computer, pretending to be at work for another day, he read over an email he had written. He clicked through his address book, adding the names of his film crew – Mike, Jay, Scott, Joss, David – and a possible backup for camera duties. A woman who did makeup was included. He hit send:

He was searching for an actor who could deliver the killer's cold and intimidating tone without being too “corny” and overdoing it. The film's
victim, Roger, was meant to be a working man “who considers himself quite smooth at hiding things from his wife but loses all bravado when he's tied to a chair in a dark room.”

His email to the crew included a description of his desired special effects:

He told his crew not to worry about props. He had already bought a few the previous day, some contained in a green plastic briefcase. Twitchell wanted a stun gun for the shoot but discovered they were only legal for purchase in some American states.

His crew proved eager to help. Mike, Jay, and Scott all replied within four hours. Having formed a business partnership after the
Star Wars
fan film, the trio thought it would be a good chance to show off their new company, Apocalypse Arts, and their set-building abilities.

But Twitchell didn't need their input. He already knew exactly what he wanted.

He asked for a large rectangular table, longer than a grown man, and turned to Scott to build it. “It needs to be sturdy, strong as fuck,” he wrote the trio in another email. “This is not to be built for temporary use.… This has to be precision quality.” Twitchell wanted a thick wood top and six big table legs, all cross-braced. “The table must be surfaced and edged in stainless steel.”

Next, he demanded a custom-made chair. “Not just any chair though,” he explained. It had to be metal. Twitchell had drawn sketches of what he wanted and sent them on to some of the crew. Mike would help in this building effort. One of Twitchell's drawings showed the “killer chair” and the “victim chair,” looking like it had been bolted to a concrete floor. “I'll gladly pay for all materials used for this, as long as you shop wisely,” Twitchell wrote, finishing his email on a joke. “And then the hookers and beer on top of it.”

The film crew did as they were told. Mike and Jay would help build the set pieces, but couldn't be there for the filming. Scott would be there for both, however.

Mike picked up a set of keys and drove to the newly rented garage to begin working. One of the first things he did was pick up a padlock. Twitchell had insisted that one be attached to the back door as soon as possible.

O
N
F
RIDAY
, A
UGUST
29, Twitchell had taken until mid-afternoon to reach the U.S. border, a seven-hour drive straight south that ended at the mouth of a security checkpoint. Sitting in his car, Twitchell had been caught in a lie and refused entry. He wasn't sure why he did that. Sometimes he lied for no reason at all.

He had planned on driving to Montana to buy props and supplies for his new movie project but had told Jess he had scored work on a music video shoot over the Labour Day long weekend. Keeping the ruse going, he had told the customs officer the same story. The officer then asked Twitchell if he had the required U.S. work visa for such a project. He did not.

The mission failed, Twitchell pointed his Grand Am back north and hit the gas. By the time he reached Calgary a few hours later, he was tired and pulled in to a hotel. He needed a break from his life for a few days.

In his hotel room, just after 9:00 p.m., Twitchell flipped open his computer and surfed the web for solutions to his movie problems. After a few clicks, he found an option. A seller was offering to ship one of his desired props to Canada. He thought it would be perfect for a horror movie. Listed as a “Telescopic Stun Gun Baton,” the weapon could collapse into a black handle and even came with its own holster. “Just the sound of this unit should stop most people,” the seller boasted on the online advertisement. “It is loud, sparks bright and is very intimidating. If that doesn't stop them, the 800,000 volts will.” Twitchell pulled out his credit card. Minutes later, he was back on Facebook and asking for help: “Mark needs a headless mannequin to complete the effect. Anyone know where I can borrow/rent one?”

His secret weekend in Calgary included many online purchases: a meat cleaver, a pair of handcuffs, software to prevent tracking of his Internet
activity through his web address. But alone in his hotel room he found his mind drifting from movie plots to personal plights. He was thinking of his failing marriage; he was thinking of other women. His thoughts returned to his first love, Traci, who was never far from his heart. Twitchell flipped through another type of listing, one more discreet than those for knives and stun guns. It was something exotic, an unrushed service that attended his needs: the city escort or courtesan.

I
NVESTOR
J
OHN
P
INSENT, A
chartered accountant by trade, thumbed the dozen pages in a business proposal Twitchell had finally sent over to his office. The sales pitch had changed considerably over the past six months. There was a Hollywood veteran attached to the project, who was identified as a co-producer behind the blockbusters
Old School
and
Ocean's Eleven
. Twitchell had lined up big stars like cult movie director Kevin Smith, musician Justin Timberlake, and actors Jeff Goldblum and Alec Baldwin:

Twitchell stated he had gathered $500,000 in escrow and signed a $1 million production services contract with a company called Mandroid Inc. The remaining financing terms were now all cleared up. The filmmaker was asking John for a temporary loan. If Twitchell could get investors like him to buy ten units at $35,000 each, he could unlock a line of credit with a gap financier to cover the rest of the movie's budget. Once that happened, each investor would get their money back, plus a slice of profits, estimated at $170,000 for each unit purchase. The initial investment would be held in trust for a few months. “With the production values, level of talent and low cost of our budget that we have,” Twitchell wrote, “the movie would have to bomb beyond all comprehension to present any real risk.”

L
EANING INTO HIS DESK
and staring at the computer screen, Twitchell talked into his phone in his home basement office. He had been back from his solo trip to Calgary for a few weeks and was once again busy searching the Internet.

Jess came in from the backyard and headed for the stairs. As she turned the corner in the basement, she spotted her husband at the computer. He didn't see her as he blabbed into his phone. She glanced at the screen around the back of his head and, seeing what he was looking at, she suddenly felt sick. “Get off the fucking phone!” she exploded.

Twitchell jolted back in his chair and whipped around to meet her gaze.

“What
are
you doing!?” she screamed.

The computer monitor displayed a page from
ashleymadison.com
, a dating site tailored for extramarital affairs.

He flicked off his phone and gave her a quick answer. “I'm doing research for a freelance article about Internet dating.” He sounded calm. “I got the job by convincing the editor that I would sign up on some of the sites undercover to get first-hand material.”

Jess scowled. “What publication?”

“It's an online company.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I can prove it. My editor is going to be calling to discuss the article and my payment.”

Jess stared at him.

“You can listen in on the conference call if you'd like,” he added.

Raising a doubting eyebrow, Jess put her hand on her hip. “What's his name?”

“Phil Porter.”

Two days later, sitting in the upstairs living room, Twitchell talked on the phone as Jess listened in. Her husband was discussing an article with a man whose voice she didn't recognize, a man who identified himself as Phil Porter from an online magazine. Twitchell hung up after a few minutes.

“It still doesn't make any sense to me,” Jess sighed, shaking her head. “I don't believe it.”

Twitchell didn't know what else to do. He shrugged. “The only other thing I can think of is when the money comes in, you'll know they are using the article.”

It wasn't enough for Jess. She was terribly confused. He had never written a piece of journalism before. And thinking back to the distance growing between them, she feared her husband was having an affair. He eventually handed over his passwords to his email account to ease her suspicions, but they both knew where their relationship was heading. With trust between them rapidly deteriorating, they would likely need marriage counselling. Jess was wondering if her husband needed his own personal therapy as well.