The Devil's Cinema (30 page)

Twitchell sounded groggy. “Nah, I just woke up. I haven't called them yet.”

Joss checked the clock – it was around noon – and became frustrated with the delay. “You better call them about the car right away,” he warned. “If you don't call them, I will.”

T
HE ROAR OF A
homicide investigation thundered in Twitchell's ears as detectives picked apart his life, one piece at a time. Within twenty-four hours, his car and house had been seized, his garage film studio wrapped in crime scene tape, and a defence lawyer consulted. Twitchell had nowhere to go but his parents' bungalow, so he retreated to the cover of his childhood home, nestled in the suburbs north of the city centre.

His wife found him quickly, beating a police surveillance team that was still trying to locate him. On Monday, October 20, Jess stormed into her in-laws' basement, hours after losing her own home, to find her husband hiding from the world. A futon with one pillow was pulled out as his makeshift bed. Among the wood-panelled walls and discarded furniture, she demanded answers after months of suspicion. He easily crumbled in his weakened state, but used no tact in these cleansing efforts, dumping the truth on her lap like a shovel to the face.

As she listened in disbelief, Twitchell admitted to his secret life of unemployment.

His film career was in shambles.

And they were broke. All his money was gone.

The disclosure drew tears and screams. She demanded to know why the police were rummaging through their lives, but on that point, he refused to talk. Jess could not accept it.

Devastated by his startling admissions, she turned to ask one final question, as if grasping for something, anything, to salvage from the ruins of their marriage.

“Is Phil Porter real?” she pleaded.

“No,” he finally admitted coldly. “He's not.”

Jess stared at her husband, stunned by what he had just said. Her voice started to crack and waver. “Well then, who
was
that man?”

“An actor I hired.”

Twitchell watched as his wife's face lost all its vibrancy. The light dimmed in her eyes, a look of despair contorting her face in a way he had never seen before. Her tears flowed, her throat closing in as she heaved in wailing sobs that echoed through the house. Her weeping came crashing in waves, each one more overwhelming than the last.

She had been deceived in every possible way. Her husband was a liar. He had been cheating on her. Worse still, he was now a murder suspect.

Jess fled the home that night with an ache that would not leave her, racing to be freed of a terror that had gripped her so tightly.

Alone in the basement, Twitchell fell to the carpet. “I've destroyed us,” he mumbled, curling in a fetal position, as if a level of insight had finally come to pass.

I
N THE FOLLOWING WEEK
, while under siege, Twitchell found comfort in building a suit of armour, an effort that gave meaning to days that were now clicking by with little significance. Upon completion, the make-work costume could be strapped around his entire body, from head to toe. Like many of his previous designs, it also had the potential to earn him some money. He certainly needed it. Despite his mounting problems, he was still dreaming of his future, thinking of the Halloween Howler again and believing he could win the grand prize as he did the year before. This was no
Transformers
outfit. The same techniques of foam board and spray paint were being used, but, this year, he would be stepping into the main hall as the billionaire playboy and superhero Iron Man. He set to work in his father's garage workshop, hoping to finish a spectacular creation.

Much had changed since last Halloween. Back then he wasn't a father, he still had a day job, and he had kept his dabbling in darker fiction to a minimum. He was heavier now too and had recently started growing a little goatee. A posting to his Dexter Morgan account read: “Dexter is looking forward to increasing the strength of his disguise.”

He rarely left the house, but he took up residence at his parents' computer, set on a desk in a converted dining room beside the kitchen. The Internet gave him full access to his friends. On Thursday, October 23, just past 10:00 p.m.,
he was browsing Facebook again when he noticed that his wedding photographer had sent him a message, asking how things were. He had to confess that his marriage was falling apart. “I don't know how to explain this,” he typed. “I rarely think about long-term consequences before I act.”

He was emotional. Thinking of the police, his marriage, the film shoot, and the past few weeks, he became desperate. He typed out a long angry email to his film crew that evening, furious at the detectives who were taking everything away. The message was sent from one of his secret email accounts, with the username “Tyler Durden's Hero,” a reference to the disturbed main character in the film
Fight Club
. He sent his email to Joss, Mike, and Jay, his cameraman David, and set builder Scott. His email urged them to distrust the police:

The email worried his crew. Scott had called Twitchell earlier in the week to ask if it was okay to accept a job offer. He was concerned that by doing so he would give up his chance to work full-time on
Day Players
. Now cops were circling and Twitchell was furious. The bigger issue remained that his demands had come far too late. Everyone had already been interviewed by detectives or given statements. The noose was tightening around his neck.

That evening, while Twitchell was sitting at his parents' computer and sending out these messages, someone logged in to Johnny's Facebook account and added a friend. The activity came just after one of his friends had posted a message on Johnny's Facebook wall stating that the police department's homicide unit was for looking for him. For the police, who did not believe the missing man was behind such activity, the suspicious timing said everything.

R
ENEE HAD IGNORED
T
WITCHELL'S
attempts to call her. Although she had given him her number, she told him she didn't pick up because she thought it was a U.S. election campaigner. But the truth was that, while she wanted to know how he had “crossed the line,” she simply wasn't ready to find out. She realized her communication with him had drastically altered. He was no longer the hotshot filmmaker who had offered her a chance to break into the industry, but a man in crisis. She prodded for information in emails and saw he clearly wanted to hide something. “I can't even begin to go into the details,” he wrote. “So don't ask.” Instead, he was cleaning out his Facebook account, getting rid of messages: “Me and my manic deleting.” Renee wondered what was so important that he had to delete it. A tiny alarm bell started ringing in her head.

Twitchell asked if she'd be willing to go away to a tropical island with him. While the fantasy seemed amazing, in reality, she told him she would have to politely decline. “Just the fact that you actually gave my offer any thought of actual consideration makes me smile,” he replied. He then confessed to lying to his wife for months, offering Renee a brief glimpse into what was transpiring in his life. “The impounding of my car and the searching of my house brought everything out in the open and my own
House of Cards
came crashing down. I can certainly appreciate the irony of that title now more than ever.”

As Halloween drew closer, his mood soured. He was “blah” on Facebook and coming up with ominous and sinister messages on his Dexter Morgan page again. “Dexter feels the dark passenger getting restless again,” he wrote.

T
HEN, HOPE ARRIVED
. A potential new investor had seen Twitchell's website and emailed him, asking about his
Star Wars
fan film and how he could help. Twitchell directed him toward
Day Players
and explained in great detail how he was raising money for the comedy film and how investing came with virtually “no risk” and a profitable windfall.

“You certainly got my attention,” the businessman wrote back. “I have a busy week coming up but I might be able to open up a slot for a meeting.”

Twitchell started thinking he really could get his project off the ground.
House of Cards
actor Chris Heward had already called to say he was still interested in investing and wanted to find out more. His crew was thinking about investing. And then John Pinsent from Venture Alberta had finally sent him a cheque. When it arrived in the mail, Twitchell's dad gave him a lift to the bank to deposit it. Twitchell then headed to the mall and spent some of the newly acquired funds that were meant to be “held in trust.”

A day later, his potential new investor emailed again with good news: he wanted to meet with Twitchell and would be bringing an interested friend. Twitchell suggested they meet quickly, even on the weekend if possible. “I'm free all day Saturday and Sunday,” he wrote. “Just let me know.”

He was pushing everyone hard. Other investors at Venture Alberta were receiving emails as Twitchell talked of having just secured a home-video distribution deal through Warner Bros. and a U.S. financier who was backing his movie's entire budget. All he needed was to sell ten units, or points, of $35,000 investments to unlock the funds. “To give you a feeling for the landscape,” Twitchell wrote to one potential investor, “my co-producer has one investor ready to drop on three units at once and has almost done his due diligence with no hiccups.”

The truth was, however, that these pitches were, at best, the exaggerated vernacular of extreme salesmanship and, at worst, a string of blatant lies. His co-producer was quite surprised to discover his track record was being used as leverage with investors because he had none. The Producers Guild of America, an agency representing the vast majority of film producers, had never heard of him. He had never even worked on a Hollywood production, as Twitchell had claimed. The Californian was actually a friend of a friend, a man who had dabbled in low-budget independent film for years and shared Twitchell's dream of striking it big. His only connection to Warner Bros. was a contact who could possibly get a script read by a studio executive – if they had a major star attached. There was no distribution deal, no studio lot access, and certainly no U.S. investors lined up and ready to sign. The man had not yet sent Twitchell's proposal to his own lawyer for a review of its legitimacy.

The talent agency representing Alec Baldwin was also surprised to hear the star had been linked to Mark Twitchell's project. His agent had received
a letter from the unknown Canadian director, but with no secured money attached, it was just another proposal gathering dust on the desk of a big star.

But of course, Twitchell's potential new investor – and anyone else who had given him money for the project – would not have known any of this. On paper, the project looked quite promising. Twitchell could write anything he wanted as he crafted his proposal, twisting reality until it transformed into a viable business opportunity. A part of him honestly believed he was going to make it, that stardom was only a cheque or two away. With so many people ready to hand over their money, he saw no reason to doubt his ability to get the film off the ground and into production.

Twitchell suggested meeting on Saturday, at a coffee shop in the north end, not far from his parents' house. The investor was busy on the weekend, but told him he could meet the day before for a brief meeting. His friend would be coming too. “I think that once he sees the data in black and white he will be just as excited as I am,” the businessman wrote.