The Devil's Cinema (21 page)

R
OARING DOWN THE HIGHWAY
, Johnny grinned as he accelerated his motorcycle, feeling the speed of the road racing under his boots. His shaved head fit snugly in his helmet, the wind rushing past, tugging on his black riding jacket. Life was great.

He was enjoying the final days of summer on a solo trip through the mountains. Rolling hills were opening up before him as he approached jagged peaks still brushed with glacial snow. He had plans throughout August to see an old friend in Calgary and was hoping to visit family during his vacation too. He had located the perfect parkland camping spots. Days were remaining warm as nights in the mountain valleys cooled rapidly. Tall grasses became moist with dew. A sprinkling of yellow was turning in the forests, the stillness of nature only broken by the chittering of chipmunks and the thundering engine of Johnny's bike as he tore around a corner, full throttle, into the wild.

Johnny had been watching his diet lately and was losing weight. At thirty-eight, he was still on the dating scene, meeting new women online, and moving on from his failed attempts at beginning relationships. On a spiritual level, he had experienced some success in his journey to enlightenment. He had developed a diverse network of friends. And he leaned on the support of Dale and his work buddies Hans and Willy. He enjoyed his job. But most of all, Johnny loved his motorbike, a Yamaha FJR. The navy-blue sport touring model had been loaded up with a sleeping bag secured on the seat behind Johnny's back. A yellow tent became his shelter as he camped for several days. He had another bike parked at home. Both gave him the “mindnumbing” power and speed that he craved, and often expensive speeding fines. He could handle riding for more than seven hours a day, watching the picturesque landscape rush by.

For years, Johnny had loved cruising in his cars with the stereo cranked, often singing along to Elton John. Picking up an interest in motorcycles in
his thirties, Johnny found he couldn't get enough. He posted a few pictures of his beloved machines on his Facebook profile as he returned to the city following his mountain vacation. To describe the motorbikes, he used only two words: “My children.”

His enthusiasm had even convinced his buddy Dale to join the ranks of motorbike owners. Johnny was hoping to teach him how to ride. While they were running out of time with the turning weather, next summer was looking like a great opportunity to go cruising together. But for now, Johnny parked his bikes and headed back to work. His summer fun was over. Autumn had arrived.

I
N THE BRILLIANCE OF
Monday morning, Twitchell headed for his computer. Renee had already replied to his refusal to escape her little kidnapping game. “Or would it be that there would be no way
I
could escape?” she had written to his Dexter Morgan profile. “Hrmmm?”

Intrigued by her cheeky response, he quickly wrote her back.

Throughout the day, they would exchange five more messages, adding up to two dozen by week's end. He revealed his real identity. They flirted. It escalated into sexual vulgarity. She knew he had a wife, but he assured Renee he was living in an “open marriage.” They became instant distractions in each other's lives.

Drawn together as strangers by their shared
Dexter
fandom, Twitchell and Renee discovered they had other interests in common. They both described themselves as geeks and Halloween fanatics, having social circles of costume-makers. But these were superficial connections. Their bond would soon go much deeper.

At first, he treated Renee as a sounding board. Feeding into her Hollywood dreams, he promised a creative partnership in a potential movie project, bragging about his company and coming fortunes. Renee was a dog trainer. She was thrilled to have stumbled upon a filmmaker offering a slice of his success. “Where do I sign up and what can I do to help?”

Photos were swapped, private details undressed, and long, rambling messages on failed relationships exchanged. It wasn't long until their communication turned confessional. They both admitted to having dark fantasies through the years. Twitchell offered the cover of fiction to broach this topic, telling her they could continue brainstorming film concepts. It would be their “play time” and if it led anywhere, she would of course be paid handsomely for her contribution. Renee dove in. “I carry my own dark demons every day,” she confessed. “There are days
when all I want to see is broken necks and blood, but it never happens.”

Twitchell was reassuring, as if he was eager to hear more details. “There is nothing you could possibly reveal to me that would make me cease communicating with you,” he wrote back, before making his own confession. “We all have a dark side, some darker than others, and you're not the only one to relate to Dexter. It sometimes scares me how much I relate.”

Renee was an unexpected jolt of energy just as Twitchell was beginning his new journey. She joined his long list of enterprises. Between writing her each day, he was also resuming contact with Traci Higgins. He was flirting with her again, picking up where the two had left off with their one kiss the previous summer. They made plans to meet up, which Twitchell organized through his Dexter Morgan profile. He knew Jess was still monitoring his emails and personal Facebook account.

His eye was also drawn elsewhere, back to
plentyoffish.com
. He flicked on his software that blocked tracking of his Internet activity as he browsed the profiles of women in other cities. He sometimes looked for hours, scanning photo after photo of women seeking men.

It was a profile for a young blonde that captured his attention. He thought she was beautiful, able to instill a lustful craving in most men. He saved three of her available photos. One showed her posing in sunglasses behind the wheel of a convertible, giving a tiny smile.

Twitchell quickly created a new dating profile on the same site, using a new email address to open it. He then defined the particulars of the account holder: a woman, blond, seeking a man in Edmonton. He posted the three treasured photos he had just saved to his new account. He called it “Spiderwebzz” and gave the new woman the name “Sheena.” It was the name of his old roommate's girlfriend.

Then he sat back and waited for the men to respond.

He couldn't wait to write about it. He had learned long ago that there was no better release than writing. He turned to his computer again, fingers above the keyboard, and typed in high spirits:
This is the story of my progression into becoming a serial killer …

It was only the beginning. Over the coming days, the words would flow from his mind onto his computer screen in bursts of creative energy:

He just needed a title.

Twitchell remembered a quote attributed to Mark Twain that horror novelist Stephen King had used in his novel
Salem's Lot:
“
A
novel was a confession to everything by a man who had never done anything.” Twitchell loved the quote nearly as much as he loved how
Stephen King
and
serial killer
began with the same letters.

He had found the perfect phrase. Twitchell called his new masterpiece “S. K. Confessions.”