The Devil's Cinema (39 page)

A sheriff pulled on the door and vanished behind it, heading to the holding cell to retrieve Twitchell. The room rolled to silence. All eyes fixated on the door as if it was a theatre curtain about to rise on the performance of a lifetime. Everyone was eager to get their first glimpse of the man profiled in the world's media. After more than two years behind bars, he was now notorious. How would he walk in to the room?

The door handle clicked. The crowd grew very still. An old man in the middle row whispered as he elbowed the man beside him: “Here he comes!”

But the star of this show was in no mood for an audience.

The door flew open, nearly hitting the bar, a brass banister separating the public gallery from the front of the court. In three quick strides Twitchell glided to a leather office chair beside Davison and settled in behind the
desk. He never looked back. The public would stare at the back of his head for the rest of the day.

Seconds later Justice Terry Clackson walked in, took his seat, and called in the jury. One by one the jurors entered the court in silence and swore an oath. The jury had been chosen two days earlier during a seven-hour selection process. The six men and six women who would decide Twitchell's fate were a diverse group: two government executives, two retirees, a sales clerk, salesman, banker, engineer, teacher, librarian, nursing aid, and chef. Only one juror wasn't Caucasian. Four of them had never even heard of Twitchell's case before. They would be paid fifty dollars a day for their service. Only one juror affirmed. The rest took their oath on the Bible.

The trial clerk was tasked with reading Twitchell's formal arraignment and entering his plea. Twitchell was asked to rise and respond to the criminal charge.

He rose and stood tall. Folding his hands in front of him, he took in a deep breath and exhaled. Davison stood beside him. It would soon be time to reveal his big surprise.

The clerk began reading off the indictment sheet.

“Mark Andrew Twitchell,” she stated, her voice echoing off the back wooden wall. “You stand charged that on or about the 10th day of October 2008 at or near Edmonton, Alberta, did unlawfully cause the death of Johnny Altinger, thereby committing first-degree murder, contrary to Section 235 Sub One of the Criminal Code of Canada.” She continued reading off the paper. “How say to this charge? Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

Twitchell did not hesitate. “Not guilty,” he said flatly.

Davison raised his finger. “Now my Lord –” he interjected, coughing. “Having said that …” He explained that the law would allow Twitchell to enter a guilty plea to another offence arising from the same incident, despite pleading not guilty to the murder charge. “I have his instructions this afternoon to enter a guilty plea to an offence under Section 182 of the Criminal Code, in particular the offence of improperly interfering with a dead human body. Is that correct, Mr. Twitchell?”

“Yes.”

The court's spectators were stunned. No one had anticipated this.

Van Dyke shot up from his chair. “Sir! The Crown is not consenting to that alternate plea being entered. We'll be proceeding on the charge of first-degree murder, sir.” He sat down.

“All right. Thank you. Thank you,” said Justice Clackson.

The trial clerk appeared confused. She looked up from her desk at the judge. “So do I enter the not guilty or the –?”

“You enter a plea of not guilty to the charge,” he replied, cutting her off.

The crowd started whispering.
What is happening?

“Ladies and gentlemen, that development was a little unusual,” Justice Clackson explained, looking at the jury. “And I'll have more to say about what that means for you as this trial proceeds. But for now, all you need to remember is that Mr. Twitchell is charged with murder and has pled not guilty.”

It was just what Davison had wanted. The tactic worked beautifully. He caught the prosecution totally by surprise and it planted a seed of doubt in the jury's mind. All twelve jurors would remember that attempted guilty plea while every piece of damning evidence was presented. Nobody knew precisely what this plea meant just yet, which would mean a lot to the defence. It would cast doubt on the intent behind all the forensic evidence that the jury would be bombarded with over the coming three to four weeks. And the surprise came just as Van Dyke was about to give his opening statement, like a spoiled appetizer served right before the main course.

When he finally did rise, Van Dyke tried to brush off this unexpected incident and present the Crown as a friend of the jury, not an enemy of the accused. After all, Twitchell looked like anyone's son in his clean, crisp white polo shirt, khaki pants, and neatly trimmed hair. Van Dyke had to show this case wasn't a vendetta against Twitchell but a conclusion based on a mountain of evidence. Van Dyke cleared his throat, rested his hands on the podium on his desk not far from the jury, and turned to his left to greet them.

“My name is Lawrence Van Dyke and my colleague's name is Avril Inglis, and together we have the privilege of representing the Crown and the prosecution of this case,” he said slowly as he read off his notes. He looked up, smiling, making eye contact with each juror.

He thanked them for taking the opportunity to become a juror, spinning it like they were empowered to make this decision rather than compelled
by court order. He focused on Twitchell's right to a fair trial and stressed that each of them should keep an open mind. And with that proviso, he launched into describing a road map that Twitchell had left behind, a bloody trail that the Crown believed had exposed his deepest, most sinister desires.

“His plan was quite simply and shockingly to gain the experience of killing another human being,” Van Dyke said bluntly. “He not only formed this plan but methodically deliberated on how to best accomplish this goal.”

The prosecutor delivered the thirty-minute address like a story, one as colourful and peppered with clichés as any of Twitchell's own movie scripts. Van Dyke used phrases such as “fateful evening” and described the moment of the attack as when Twitchell's “murderous trap was sprung.” It was quoted in the newspapers for days.

Twitchell ignored Van Dyke, turning his attention back to the notepad on the desk in front of him. He had little patience for the prosecution and rolled his eyes when Van Dyke brought up S. K. Confessions and described it as a diary. Instead of listening to the Crown, Twitchell focused on a mental exercise, one that would occupy a lot of his time for the remainder of the trial.

It started first with a little scribble. To anyone in the courtroom it would appear as if he was doodling, but he wasn't. He was writing a speech.

Back in remand, Twitchell had taught himself to write in a foreign language. He had used it to help design an inmate's tattoo and later for his own prison journal, keeping its contents a secret. The language he was using was easy to learn: each letter of the alphabet was replaced with a symbol like a square, triangle, or intricate design. It was as simple as memorizing each symbol and writing it down in place of the letters making up each word. The language was called Aurebesh. Not many people knew about the language due to its origins – it was only spoken by aliens on a distant planet in the
Star Wars
universe.

As he sat in the courtroom, where his future lay in the hands of twelve of his peers, Twitchell began writing in Aurebesh like some fictional alien in a fictional universe. It was the only way he could distract himself from the harsh reality of the court case. He wrote dialogue from the Hollywood blockbuster
Troy
, detailing a scene where two kings line up their armies but decide to let their brewing war be decided with a one-on-one battle
between their two greatest warriors. One side calls in Achilles, who slays his far larger opponent in one swift blow.

This odd behaviour caught the attention of the public gallery, and at least one juror stared at him frequently. His lawyer had worked hard to gain the court's approval to allow Twitchell to wear civilian clothes instead of inmate blue coveralls and to sit up at the defence table like a professional instead of in the prisoner's box. But rather than listening intently with a blank expression, Twitchell was off in his own little world, writing page after page of indecipherable text.

As Twitchell continued writing, Van Dyke neared the end of his opening address. He had saved his best material for last. It was a conclusion the defence was anticipating, but no one sitting in the public gallery had ever thought to expect.

“You will hear evidence that over one and a half years after Johnny Altinger's disappearance,” Van Dyke said, pausing for effect, “the police had a further meeting with Mr. Twitchell at the Edmonton Remand Centre.” He let another moment pass. “And as a result of information provided in that meeting, the police were able to locate some of Johnny Altinger's skeletal remains.”

It was a shocking revelation. Every journalist in the courtroom began scribbling furiously in their notepads, trying to write down every word. How did the police keep this secret?

But Van Dyke didn't give it much time to sink in. He went straight to summing up the evidence. “We, as the Crown, are confident that you will find that Mark Twitchell was responsible for planning and deliberating upon, and ultimately carrying out, the intentional execution of Johnny Altinger and is therefore guilty of first-degree murder.”

He thanked the jury for their attention and patience.

“Order in court,” the jury officer called out.

Everyone clamoured to their feet for the morning break.

T
EN MONTHS EARLIER, ON
June 3, 2010, two homicide detectives were told to meet Twitchell and his new lawyer. Charles Davison had recently
taken over the case after Twitchell had parted ways with his first legal counsel. Twitchell had asked for the meeting, but only under three conditions: no questions, no media, and no Bill Clark. He was adamant the police detective he had grown to hate could not be involved and that no media release or tipoff to the press could occur in this case. The meeting had to remain secret or there was no deal. Police command agreed and Detective Mandrusiak took Clark's place since he had dealt with Twitchell from arrest to remand visits. He brought along Detective Kerr, who had taken over as the primary investigator when Anstey retired.

It was shortly after 6:00 p.m. and raining on the horizon when the two men walked through the remand building's main doors and headed straight to the bank of inmate interview rooms. Through the scratched glass they could see Twitchell sitting at a table with Davison hunched beside him.

The meeting was as short as it gets, but Twitchell had wanted one even shorter.

As both detectives entered, Twitchell shot up and tried to shove something in Mandrusiak's hands, as if anxious to rid himself of a terrible burden. Mandrusiak told him he would have to go over a few legalities before they could officially begin the meeting.

The detectives took their seats across from Twitchell, read him his rights once again, reminded him that he could seek legal advice – even now from another lawyer – and then they gave the go-ahead to begin the meeting.

But Twitchell just stared at the two of them.

After a moment, he pulled out a single piece of paper. It was folded in half. Twitchell slapped it on the table and slowly pushed it toward the detectives.

The rustle of the paper was the only sound in the interview room.

Mandrusiak saw the word “Google” printed on the top corner.

And that was all.

Mandrusiak slipped the paper inside his file folder, thanked Davison and Twitchell for their time, and the two detectives stood and walked out the door.

They got as far as the elevator at headquarters before they gave in to the urge to see what they had. It was a printout from Google Maps, taking up
the majority of the sheet. Below the map of northern Edmonton were a few words scrawled in blue ink: “Location of John Altinger's remains.”

Twitchell had signed and dated the sheet of paper and provided a three-sentence description of the exact location. On the map, he had drawn in an alley north of downtown and marked a sewer grate site with a red circle.

Mandrusiak rushed to the photocopier and made numerous copies. Then it was out the door and into the car for a mad drive with Kerr, following the directions closely to a parking spot near the mouth of the highlighted alley. The two men hustled on foot down the middle of the street to a sewer grate and a manhole near the fifth power pole from the road. Nearby was an aging fence with white peeling paint.

The sun was low and they were losing their light. Mandrusiak grabbed a flashlight and dropped to his belly to take a peek into the sewer. At the bottom of the manhole the flashlight beam illuminated two mounds floating in stagnant water. It was too late in the day to go down there now. Kerr called in the forensics team while a patrol car was parked to watch the location overnight.