The Devil's Cinema (24 page)

I
NVESTORS 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.

I
T 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.

J
OHNNY WALKED INTO
A
RGUS
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.

A
N 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:

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.”

J
OHNNY 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.

She seemed interested in him. When he happened to mention the kind of vehicle he drove, Jen was intrigued. “A Mazda you say,” she wrote. “Zoom zoom!” Johnny told her about how he had the whole weekend off and an extra two days because of the Thanksgiving Day holiday.

Their messages bounced back and forth, their flirting escalating, until she offered her place as the meeting point for their evening. But she was concerned about safety:

Johnny read the message closely, thought it over, and told her he was in. A few minutes later, Jen passed on driving directions. “Park in the only driveway that looks like a forest,” she wrote. “What did I say. Fixer upper.”

She asked that he close the garage door when he entered – the button was by the back door to the house – and to be aware of how the garage may look inside. “I have a friend coming over to use part of it as a workshop this weekend, so he blanketed off where my car usually goes. Like I need red spray paint on my car, right? Don't ask.”

She planned to be home around 7:00 p.m.

T
WITCHELL THREW A ROLL
of black hockey tape on the car seat and sped off toward the movie theatre. He was early, but Traci was already waiting for him at their meeting place in a bookstore. He spotted her near a stack of novels as he walked inside. And with one look into her green eyes, he knew the attraction between them was still strong. Their secret movie plans were like old times in college. Flirting was just the start of it.

Bracing against a cold breeze, the pair hurried across the vast, nearly deserted parking lot to South Edmonton Common's Cineplex Odeon. The theatre had a huge blue and silver front entrance with a boulevard of naked trees and red lava rocks. It was Friday afternoon and the matinee theatres all looked pretty empty. They would have their choice of what to see.

Twitchell noticed one movie that looked interesting among the options on the display board. The film was called
Quarantine –
a psychological thriller just like his
House of Cards
project. And although it was fiction, it was shot like a documentary from the point of view of the cameraman, making the film appear like a recording of a real incident. The film's creators had previously released
The Poughkeepsie Tapes
, a film about a theatrical, masked serial killer who documents his gruesome murders and dismemberments.
Quarantine
also starred Jennifer Carpenter, who Twitchell knew from her role as Dexter's adoptive sister. He rarely picked movies solely because of an actor or filmmaker, but this one piqued his interest and was looking very promising indeed. Traci was fine with it too.

Twitchell stood in line for popcorn, spending extra to have the big bag slathered in real butter, as Traci headed to the theatre to grab their seats. He walked down the hall a few minutes later and peeked his head around the corner to Theatre Eight. Traci was already sitting in the back row with nobody nearby. He usually liked to sit near the middle in the “audio sweet
spot,” but he didn't mind her choice at all. He sat down and the two of them made small talk.

The tension was palpable.

“I was an idiot in school,” Twitchell blurted as the conversation lurched into the topic of their on-again-off-again romance. “I know I've said that before, but I've been learning lately how vital it is to can the bullshit and face yourself with brutal honesty.”

And he was right. Traci had heard this speech before and she would likely hear it again. She had trouble trusting him. But he had caught her in a weak moment, separated from her husband and her current relationship souring in recent days. She was listening intently.

Twitchell was a magnet, and no matter how much Traci logically thought of the futility of a relationship with him, she found herself being drawn closer. Their relationship had always been intense and, at times, exciting. She tried to bring up the topic of his wife, but Twitchell didn't want to talk about it. Traci was left with the distinct impression that he was basically separated. He kept going over past mistakes, telling Traci he was just a teenager when they dated and how he had lied because he wanted to impress her. He thought she was his soul mate.