Rampage (30 page)

j. In reality, nearly the whole essay has comprised Marshall’s opinions.

k. If this worked so well, then how is it that Marshall was oblivious (if we are to believe him) to the gun laws he violated?

l. Once again, Marshall displaces responsibility for his actions onto an entity other than himself. It is the fault of society as a whole that gun crimes occur, not individuals like himself who perpetrate them.

m. This final sentence is by far the most telling, if barely readable. Marshall concludes his essay by essentially saying that he is sorry he will no longer use a gun to break up fights because of the legal ramifications. The implication is that, if the laws were different, he would take the same course of action. If so, then his expressions of remorse for scaring Nathan Tyler are completely insincere. In fact, his whole essay is invalid, and would have better been replaced with, “I will not point guns at people anymore because I don’t want to be punished by the criminal justice system.” Narcissism, manipulation, and deception; all three of these traits and behaviours are evidenced to varying degrees in Stephen Marshall’s half-hearted and snide attempt at a self-reflective essay.

Chapter 7

The Signature Killer

Of all the categories of spree killer, the Signature type bears the closest resemblance to the public conception of a serial murderer. During his formative years, his sexuality becomes warped, leading him to develop abnormal fantasies and numerous paraphilias, which can range from the desire to rape (
Jonathan Yeo
), to cannibalism and necrophilia (
Dale Merle Nelson
).

Kay Feely      

Dale Merle Nelson

Victims:
8 killed

Duration of rampage:
September 4 to 5, 1970 (spree killing)

Locations:
Creston and West Creston, British Columbia

Weapons:
7-mm Mauser rifle, fire extinguisher, carving knife

Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down

There’s an old saying that alcohol brings out the real you. If that’s the case, then Dale Merle Nelson was no less than a monster. For years the curly haired blond lumberjack played the role of loving husband and father, inhabiting a small but cozy home along Corn Creek Road in British Columbia’s Creston Valley. His wife Annette and his three children considered him to be a decent, hard-working man with one overriding flaw: a tendency for cruelty when he drank. At times he would become physically and verbally abusive, shaking the foundation of his family. There was clearly something sinister gnawing at his psyche: in early 1970 he attempted to take his own life, and spent the following two months at Riverview Psychiatric Hospital. Given the events of that September, perhaps it would have been better if he had succeeded.

It was 3:00 p.m. on a breezy Friday afternoon when Dale Nelson stepped into his local liquor store in Creston. Purchasing a 375-millilitre bottle of vodka and a six-pack, he relocated to the Kootenay Hotel tavern where he downed another eight to ten beers and gabbed about the impending hunting season, set to commence in less than ten hours. Incredibly, after drinking sixteen beers and a mickey of vodka, Nelson left the hotel with another six-pack in tow. Two friends offered to drive him across the Kootenay River to the tiny farming community of West Creston to pick up his rifle. Weeks before, he had lent the 7-millimetre bolt-action Mauser to his sister-in-law, Maureen McKay, who had complained of prowlers. Arriving at the home, he discovered that Maureen’s thirty-year-old aunt Shirley Wasyk had also stopped in for a visit. Dale made small talk with the two women before bidding them farewell and returning to Creston with his gun.

At 7:00 p.m., he refuelled his light blue 1966 Chevy at Brennan’s Garage, where he also purchased a box of ammunition. Driving three kilometres east to the tiny village of Erickson, he swung by an auto shop and had a drink with the proprietor, Armand Chauleur. Behind the building he practised shooting at targets with his beloved rifle — he was a crack shot, even when totally drunk. Dale’s thirst for booze was paralleled only by his love of firepower, and by 8:00 p.m. he had bought a second box of 7-millimetre ammo from Swanson’s Sporting Goods, along with a press and die he had pawned to them a month earlier. Then, returning to the Creston liquor store, he added a mickey of brandy and a bottle of wine to his arsenal. At the King George Hotel bar, he shared a few more beers with his drinking buddies John McKay and Rex Smith, who rented a room at the establishment. It was now 10:30 p.m., and the trio decided to move the party to Rex’s, where Dale continued to pour alcohol onto the slumbering beast in his belly. At the stroke of midnight, it awoke. Though his vision was blurred by the booze, Dale’s mental crosshairs slowly came into sharp focus. He took a swig of brandy. Hunting season had begun.

Fair Game

Shirley Wasyk sat upright in her bed. Somebody had pulled a car into her driveway. Unexpected visits at this hour were creepy enough, but with her husband, Alex, sleeping overnight at his logging camp, she would have been particularly nervous. Her fingers drew back the curtains to reveal Dale Merle Nelson, stumbling up her driveway with a rifle. He was visibly intoxicated — and that usually meant trouble. Donning a housecoat, Shirley quickly telephoned Maureen for advice. Thankfully her niece was entertaining a gentleman caller — her old school chum Frank Chauleur. He promised Shirley he would be right over.
Boom boom boom!
The house thundered as Dale Nelson knocked against the door with his leathery mitts. For the time being, Shirley realized she would have to deal with him herself. If she ignored him, he would get angry, and that could only make things worse. She opened the door to the ruddy-faced Nelson, invited him inside, and offered him a coffee. Before he could respond, she heard Frank Chauleur’s car engine rumble into the driveway. Shirley met him at the door.

“Is your husband there?” Frank asked, catching sight of Dale lingering in the living room.

“No, Alex isn’t home,” Shirley replied. Frank would later admit that he got the impression he was intruding, and after a brief exchange, wished her good night and headed back to Maureen’s. Whatever was going through Shirley Wasyk’s mind at that moment, we will never know.

Unbeknownst to Shirley, her twelve-year-old daughter Debbie had also been startled awake, and was now huddled in her bedroom trying to make out the conversation. At some point, she heard Shirley cry, “No, Dale, don’t!” Curious, Debbie crept into the dark kitchen and stopped short. A strange gurgling sound was emanating from the master bedroom, punctuated by heavy footsteps. Debbie hid in the narrow gap between the fridge and the wall just in time to see her seven-year-old sister Tracey being led into the kitchen by Nelson. But this wasn’t the nice Uncle Dale who took her hunting; rather, in the dim light filtering in from outside, his countenance was terrifying.

“Find me a sharp knife!” his voice boomed. Shaking from head to toe, Tracey opened one of the kitchen drawers and dipped her hand inside. A twenty-five-centimetre steel blade glinted momentarily. Dale ushered Tracey out of the kitchen into the room where eight-year-old Sharlene Wasyk lay blissfully asleep. Seeing her chance, Debbie slipped off her sandals and sneaked quietly into her parents’ bedroom, locking the door. Instead of being greeted with her mother’s reassuring embrace, she recoiled in horror. Shirley Wasyk lay motionless on the bed, her hands tied behind her back. Blood drenched the linens, freckling the walls and ceiling. As Debbie struggled to free her mother from her bindings, she noticed a bloody fire extinguisher lying nearby. She turned back to the body. Shirley’s head had been almost completely obliterated. Suddenly, a high-pitched shriek broke the silence. Instinctively, Debbie seized the fire extinguisher and began dragging it back toward her bedroom. After closing the door, with all her might she hefted the heavy metal object and pitched it through the window, shattering glass onto the ground outside. As Nelson’s hands wrenched at her bedroom door, Debbie leaped into the autumn night and ran.

Having just settled back into their conversation, Maureen McKay and Frank Chauleur were startled to hear footsteps running across the porch followed by a frantic hammering at their door. Alarmed, Frank opened it to find Maureen’s younger cousin Debbie, trembling in her night dress. The story she was about to tell would later set the scene for one of the most macabre tales in Canadian history.

Houdini

The last thing Constable Ernie Moker was expecting to hear when he answered the phone at the Creston RCMP detachment was that a woman’s head had been bashed in with a fire extinguisher. However, when Maureen McKay fitfully explained that Dale Nelson had murdered her aunt and was now potentially doing the same to Tracey and Sharlene Wasyk, Moker immediately sent Constable Gary McLaughlin to West Creston to investigate.

With the towering silhouettes of pines flitting by as he sped across the Kootenay River Bridge, McLaughlin was surprised to see another vehicle approaching at a similar speed. Was this Dale Nelson making his getaway? Getting closer, he saw that it was in fact a couple trying to flag him down. They identified themselves as Maureen McKay and Frank Chauleur, and explained that they were taking Debbie to the hospital. McLaughlin, who was unacquainted with the labyrinth of country roads, requested that, instead, Frank show him the way to the Wasyk home.

Within minutes they reached the foot of the driveway, where they spied Dale’s blue Chevy. Knowing that the suspect was armed with a rifle, McLaughlin decided to play it safe, and radioed for backup. Constables Ernie Moker and Gus Slomba soon arrived, and the trio descended upon the property, instructing Frank to stay back. As they trudged apprehensively toward the house, a figure emerged from the blackness. It was Sharlene Wasyk — miraculously, she had been left alive and unscathed. Hoisting the eight-year-old into his arms, Moker motioned for Frank to drive toward them, and when he did, asked him to take the two sisters for medical treatment.

Inside the Wasyk residence, the officers found Shirley’s body, bludgeoned repeatedly to death, in bed. As horrific as the scene was, they had been expecting it. No amount of foreknowledge, however, could have prepared them for what they found in Tracey’s bedroom. The seven-year-old lay face up on her cot, her mouth sliced from ear to ear in a grotesque grin. The slippery coils of her innards protruded from a second slash running vertically down her chest to her genitals. An elk antler–handled carving knife had been placed beside her lifeless body. Moker and McLaughlin decided to vacate the premises immediately and head east to evacuate the Nelson family from their home. If there was one thing the Mounties could comprehend about this level of violence, it was that it could happen again.

Once Dale’s wife and children were out of harm’s reach, the three policemen returned to process the crime scene. As the cruiser’s headlights swept over the driveway, the men felt their stomachs churn: Nelson’s car was gone, and as they would soon discover, so was little Tracey’s body.

From the Cradle to the Grave

“There’s a man here with a gun!” Isabelle St. Amand cried into the phone. Before Corporal Harvey Finch could reply, she cut out. Shocked, Finch tried repeatedly to call back, but to no avail. It was 1:30 a.m. on September 5 and, determined to prevent another catastrophe from happening, Finch and fellow Creston RCMP officer Constable Dennis Schwartz jumped into a police cruiser and sped to the little residence on Corn Creek Road. It was home to forty-two-year-old Ray Phipps and his common-law wife, Isabelle St. Amand, along with their eighteen-month-old son, Roy, and Isabelle’s children, Paul, ten; Bryan, seven; and Catherine, eight. Built in a clearing of trees, the tiny two-room cabin creaked forbiddingly in the wind. Taking a deep breath, Finch moved cautiously toward the front door while Schwartz kept him covered. They had arrived too late. The lifeless body of Raymond Phipps was sprawled in the doorway, a crimson trail streaming from a bullet wound through his forehead. Three metres away, Isabelle St. Amand lay, shot once execution-style through the back of the skull. In the bedroom, Finch found Paul and Bryan St. Amand murdered in their beds, large pieces of their heads blown away by 7-millimetre shards of death. Even baby Roy had not been spared, killed with a single shot. On the lower half of the bunk bed, where Catherine St. Amand normally slept, there was only an empty mattress bereft of any signs of violence. Droplets of blood fell like tears from above.

With two missing girls and twin massacres occurring within the space of two hours, the RCMP responded in full force. By daybreak, an additional forty officers had poured in from detachments in Vancouver, Castlegar, Cranbrook, and Nelson to assist their ten colleagues in Creston. Roadblocks were erected barring all exits from East Kootenay, and an APB was broadcast to the community cautioning that the fugitive Dale Merle Nelson was armed and considered “extremely dangerous.”

Aided by an army helicopter, fifty armed foot patrollers began scouring the vicinity of the Phipps–St. Amand home. Despite the fog cloaking the pines, 275 metres to the west they happened upon some tire tracks trailing through a broken section of fence. Though the discovery came early, at 6:00 a.m., by afternoon the progress had stalled, and a decision to augment the search with tracking dogs and a spotter plane was made. It proved to be a decisive move — by 3:30 p.m. the pilot caught sight of a 1966 blue Chevrolet mired in a ditch just off a logging road east of Ezekiel. Surrounding the vehicle, the ground searchers slowly converged, weapons drawn. Rather than dodging bullets, they found the car deserted, its passenger seat and floor mats soaked in blood. Hair clung in dried, dark-red globules to the head of a hammer. It wasn’t long before they found the source — or at least part of it. When a disembodied arm, separated at the shoulder, was found twelve metres from the car, investigators could not determine which of the missing girls it belonged to. It wasn’t until the recovery of Tracey Wasyk’s severed head, six metres away, that positive identification was made. Next, they recovered a leg, followed by the rest of the dismembered body, all within seven metres of the Chevy. Amazingly, Nelson had somehow managed to escalate the scale of his depravity. Worse yet, Cathy St. Amand was still unaccounted for.