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"A detailed, well-constructed account of a diabolical real-life Dexter. Lillebuen has written a riveting, true crime page-turner about aspiring filmmaker Mark Twitchell, who turned his obsession with fantasy into horrible reality." -- Robert Remington, co-author of Runaway Devil
On the night of October 10, 2008, Johnny Altinger was heading to his first date with a woman he had met online. He was never seen again. Two weeks earlier, aspiring filmmaker Mark Twitchell, a young father with a devotion to the television series Dexter, began a three-day shoot for his latest short film. His horror story featured a serial killer who impersonates women on an online dating site to lure unsuspecting men to his suburban kill room. But was his script actually the blueprint for a real-life murder? And what of Twitchell's other writings, including the elaborate and shocking document titled "S. K. Confessions"? Was it a work of fiction or a diary detailing his dark transformation into a would-be serial killer?
A powerfully gripping narrative, The Devil's Cinema is the definitive account of the notorious "Dexter Killer," a case and trial that captured the world's attention. Steve Lillebuen takes us deep into the extraordinary police investigation and the lives of everyone involved, while unveiling never-before-revealed details, all drawn from extensive and exclusive interviews -- including months of contact with the killer himself.
- Sales Rank: #2062067 in Books
- Brand: Brand: McClelland Stewart
- Published on: 2013-02-05
- Released on: 2013-02-05
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.98" h x .82" w x 6.03" l, 1.10 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 360 pages
Features
- Used Book in Good Condition
Review
Winner of 2013 Arthur Ellis Award for Best Crime Nonfiction
“A well-written and researched exploration of a very dark side of a young would-be filmmaker who is perhaps a tad over-influenced in his life and actions by the fictional TV character, serial killer Dexter Morgan. The horrific crimes and the trial of Edmontonian Mark Twitchell is deftly presented by Steve Lillebuen in a book that is a well-paced, hard-to-put-down, real-life thriller.”
—Jury citation for the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Non-fiction
"A compelling and frightening account. . . . Lillebuen creates a fascinating and detailed narrative, from the killer's and victim's early lives to the dramatic and bizarre courtroom trial. With its ties to online communities, dating sites, pop culture and modern filmmaking, The Devil's Cinema is a terrifying and intriguing account of murder in the digital age."
—Winnipeg Free Press
"Remind[s] us how the borders of human interaction and connective technology have shifted so drastically, and in so little time. . . . "
—Edmonton Journal
About the Author
STEVE LILLEBUEN is an experienced crime reporter whose work has been published in a wide range of respected media, including the Edmonton Journal, the Globe and Mail, the Toronto Star, the National Post, the Sydney Morning Herald, and around the world through The Associated Press and its related agencies. He currently divides his time between Edmonton and Australia.
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
It was half-past five on October 22. After a couple of long days and late-night interviews, Detective Bill Clark was getting ready to head home when one of the steel doors to the homicide unit creaked open.
Clark’s buddy, fellow homicide detective Mark Anstey, walked in with a huge grin. Behind him was Jeff Kerr, another detective on the Twitchell investigation. Clark took his eyes off his desk as the two of them approached. Anstey was beaming. “Bill, you won’t believe what we’ve just found.”
What?” His ears perked up.
Kerr had a stack of paper in his hands. He lowered them briefly so Clark could read the top of the first page he was holding:
This story is based on true events. The names and events were altered slightly to protect the guilty.
This is the story of my progression into becoming a serial killer. Like anyone just starting out in a new skill, I had a bit of trial and error in the beginning of my misadventures. Allow me to start from the beginning and I think you’ll see what I mean.
Clark’s jaw dropped.
Anstey couldn’t contain his excitement anymore. “It’s a diary of how he killed the guy!”
“Holy shit!” Clark smacked his head. “Gimme a copy! Come on! Come on!”
Kerr yanked the papers away from Clark. “No, no, no. Hang on, hang on here. This is the original. We’ve gotta be careful how many of these we make.”
Eventually a few photocopies were made – on Clark’s insistence – but only enough for all the major detectives. They wanted to keep this unexpected development very quiet.
The text had been pulled off the laptop found in Twitchell’s car. Constable Michael Roszko in the tech crimes unit had found two temporary files buried in the hard drive and stitched them together. Both files had been made automatically in Microsoft Word by a user logged in to an account titled “Xpress Entertainment.” One temporary file was likely created when the text was copied to the clipboard; the second was likely made during an auto-recovery backup. The original Word document, however, had been deleted. There were 35 pages of writing. The document appeared to have been saved as “SKConfessions.doc.”
Clark huddled around his copy at his desk, reading as fast as he could.
I don’t remember the exact place and time it was that I decided to become a serial killer, but I remember the sensation that hit me when I committed to the decision. It was a rush of pure euphoria. I felt lighter, less stressed, if you will, at the freedom of the prospect. There was something about urgently exploring my dark side that greatly appealed to me and I’m such a methodical planner and thinker, the very challenge itself was enticing to behold.
“This is incredible!” Clark kept repeating as he read, at times covering his face in disbelief or clutching the back of his head. “Wow!”
The first page described the decision to begin killing as the “hand of fate,” an idea taken from a fantasy book by David Gemmell. The second page detailed the method: targeting men through online dating websites. At first, the diary stated, the plan had been to lure cheating husbands, a way of “taking out the trash”—a line borrowed from the fictional Dexter Morgan, who justified his actions because he only killed people society already held in contempt. But the plan of targeting married men was too risky, the diary concluded, so it was changed to luring “middle-aged single men who lived alone.” The writer reasoned it would be easier to get away with killing such men. With no roommates or wives to worry about them, a victim could disappear for longer before people would notice. A fake female profile would do the trick: an attractive girl, using photos of a real woman’s profile living in another city, but under a fake name and fake personal details. The girl would be flirty, toying with the man until he was so eager his guard would drop and he would fall for the trap.
The document revealed that a “kill room” had been chosen: a double-door detached garage with a dirt driveway in the south end of the city. All the killer had to do was remove the address sign from the back wall of the garage and give out strange directions so nobody would know the physical address. The diary detailed the killer’s disguise: a black hockey mask, the forehead painted with gold streaks. It served the “double purpose of facial protection and identity shield to give the victim a false sense of security in thinking they would be let go.” Then he picked out his “kill knife” from a military surplus store for the “nasty mayhem” about to transpire:
The trap was set, and now it was time to bait the hook . . . My kill room was perfectly prepped. Plastic sheeting taped together and around my table; a large green cloth screwed into the drywall ceiling to shield view of it from my guest’s line of sight, and to shield me too, of course. I now stood but a few feet away from the front door, which I had locked of course. The plan was to wait in the shadow of my curtain until he approached the door and shock him with the stun baton followed by a sleeper hold that would sap away his consciousness so that I could tape him up and set him on my table.
Clark’s eyes flared as he kept reading. He knew what was coming next: Johnny was going to show up at that garage and be killed by Mark Twitchell.
But that wasn’t what happened.
Apparently, Johnny wasn’t the first victim.
The document described another attack on October 3, the Friday before Johnny disappeared. During the earlier attempt, the attacker’s stun baton had failed and the victim had fought back, reached for the man’s gun, and somehow managed to escape.
Clark realized they had to find the surviving victim. And the Twitchell file had suddenly become something much bigger: a serial killer investigation. Thank God the detectives had the foresight to order twenty-four-hour surveillance, he thought. Now that the surveillance team had confirmed a positive sighting of Twitchell at his parents’ house shortly after Clark’s visit, he was at least being watched while they gathered more evidence.
Clark took the diary home with him that night, as did every other detective on the file. For the first time in his 30-year career, he was overwhelmed with evidence in a homicide file. Reading the diary was an odyssey, a startling descent into the criminal persona, with the depths of human depravity presented to the reader in the form of entertainment. A detective usually never knew this level of detail about their suspects. Eyewitnesses were unreliable, even an admission from an accused was often embellished or twisted in some way. But what Clark and the team believed they had found this time was a virtual blow-by-blow account, an honest and full confession, relishing in every sordid detail. They had total insight into what the killer was likely thinking. Twitchell had written an extremely comprehensive account of how Johnny was killed. The descriptions were disgusting, some too graphic to repeat, words strung together about unspeakable and grotesque acts. Twitchell wrote at length about the difficulty in trying to hide Johnny’s body. He had scoured the river valley for the perfect spot, but there were too many people around so he had to think of another plan.
Clark made it to the last section, hoping for a big conclusion.
Once again necessity is the mother of invention and my need to get rid of this evidence brought the solution to me like a child showing a parent their latest pencil crayon drawing.
The sewer. Of course, how obvious. No one ever goes down there. The body would rot away completely before anyone ever discovered the bones and by then it would be way too late to identify the person.
Clark flipped the page. “Where’s the rest?” he asked out loud, pinching the paper, trying to see if a couple were stuck together. But there was nothing else. “Where’s the body?” Either Twitchell had left out the ending or tech crimes had failed to locate it. “It doesn’t say where the body is!”
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39 of 43 people found the following review helpful.
A Sadly Incomplete Portrait of the Little Serial Killer Who Couldn't
By Anton Vereschagin
The Devil's Cinema is a generally factually accurate `true crime' text that is critically marred by a misplaced focus and omissions that seem intended to sculpt an image of a wanna-be serial killer, Mark Twitchell, in a dark and sinister light. That is unfortunate, because Twitchell's tale is a comedy, albeit one with a very dark and absurd character.
As a fair warning; I have considerable personal familiarity with the evidence and court proceeding in which Twitchell was convicted of first degree murder. I attended the majority of the trial, and am very familiar with the evidence in play. I cannot comment on the manner in which the police investigation is depicted, nor the reaction of Twitchell's family and acquaintances. I also have no personal knowledge of the one victim, Johnny Altinger, and his character or circumstances.
I believe an outline of the facts is helpful, since the Amazon book description is sketchy. In 2008 Mark Twitchell decided to become a serial killer. His scheme was to lure men to a rented garage where he had prepared a `kill room', the bait being online ads for attractive women interested in casual sex. Twitchell would incapacitate his victims, force them to disclose financial and personal information, after which they would be killed and dismembered. Twitchell's plan was to conceal their disappearance by maintaining an online presence as the victim, telling acquaintances of an impulsive trip abroad.
Twitchell was clearly obsessed with and inspired by the "Dexter" television series and novels. His scheme incorporated many motifs from that fiction. For one, he used the garage as a location to prepare a short and very amateurish film with a plot that mimicked much of the lure / incapacitate / extract information / kill / dispose scheme that Twitchell had adopted.
The first person to enter Twitchell's lair was Gilles Tetreault, who was attacked but escaped. I will comment later in more detail on Tetreault's quite extraordinary experience. Tetreault was understandably confused by the encounter, and did not contact police.
Undeterred, a week later Twitchell used the exact same scheme in the very same location This time he met with success, and killed Altinger. However, Twitchell's attempts to simulate Altinger online were unsuccessful, and Altinger's friends became suspicious.
This led to a police investigation. Since Altinger had told his friends about his anticipated date with the mysterious and sexy "Jen", and that included the location of the garage, it was not long before police tracked down Twitchell. Twitchell had kept Altinger's car.
Forensic investigation of the garage indicated Twitchell did not match Dexter's disciplined policy of a clean `kill' environment. A search of Twitchell's car found yet more incriminating evidence (among my favorites were a series of `post-it' notes that reminded "kill room clean sweep", "ship phone while it's on (return addy of vic)", and "destroy wallet contents"). But investigation of Twitchell's laptop computer recovered something unique. The police had anticipated they might find a snuff film, but instead identified a deleted word processor file entitled "S.K. Confessions", which appeared to be a first-person account of Twitchell's plan and efforts to become a serial killer.
Twitchell was subsequently tried and convicted of Altinger's murder. He testified in his own defence. The Crown provided a wealth of evidence that indicated the S.K. Confessions document was, in effect, a diary. Twitchell insisted it was fiction, but admitted to killing Altinger. He disclosed he had disposed of the body down a sewer, where it was recovered.
So with that narrative in place, let's turn to The Devil's Cinema. As a general stylistic note, the author's slavish devotion to the `purple prose' typical of `true crime' texts is irritating, but perhaps necessary for that marketplace. The chief defect, however, is that The Devil's Cinema portrays the criminal as a terrifying, potent individual, barely brought to justice and at a terrible price. Maybe that is the formula for this kind of literature, but here, it's wrong.
Not to diminish Altinger's tragic death, but the author's attempt to mold Twitchell as a menacing and charismatic figure of unempathic malice is a total failure, and utterly mischaracterizes Twitchell. Twitchell was and remains an idiot, an incompetent of legendary quality. Objectively, it is astonishing Twitchell managed to kill even once. Once the deed was done, the police investigation was not so much a matter of following a trail of breadcrumbs, but instead whole, freshly baked loaves, monogrammed with M.A.T, and conveniently located to guide the investigation from origin to destination. That is not to slight the police, but rarely has any criminal delivered themselves up on such a richly appointed platter.
Lillebuen's text fails critically on this point. I will provide a specific example. Once located by police, Twitchell explained that he had purchased a car (Altinger's car) in peculiar circumstances: a man with a ponytail and celtic knot tattoo on his neck approached Twitchell and offered to sell a car for whatever cash Twitchell had in his wallet. The man said he had hooked up with a rich "sugar momma" who was going to buy him a new luxury vehicle after they returned from a tropical paradise. Twitchell had $40, and that sealed the deal.
When I first encountered this narrative in a police interview I presumed that Twitchell had, like so many other criminals, been caught with the unexpected question - where did you get that red Mazda, Mark? The absurd tale was then a panicked and improvised response. Ok, I thought, that's not the first time that a criminal has said something pretty stupid in response to a police interrogation. What I did not realize was that Twitchell's response was not impromptu but rather rehearsed! In S.K. Confessions the author detailed this very excuse that he would deploy if police ever asked him about having a vehicle of one of his victims! The author then gloats on how easily police will be sent off on a wild goose chase by this clever, subtle explanation.
My head exploded! That is the best Twitchell could come up with, as an excuse, for possession of the vehicle of his murder victim?! That was the best he could concoct?! Most criminals are idiots, but this level of incompetence was almost beyond belief.
Lillebuen's text does not disclose the `sugar momma' excuse was preplanned. That, I imagine, runs contrary to the author's narrative and characterization of Twitchell as a dangerous, terrifying psychopath. Rather than Bozo the Bludgeoner.
And that is unsatisfactory and unsatisfying, because Twitchell is so extraordinarily inept that his actions and words become high comedy. A key aspect of Twitchell's personality is that he viewed himself as a genius. At trial, he explained how he has what he called his "Genius Savant Power" or "Inner Savant Power", which he could not control, but which when active allowed him to create astonishing works and concepts in a very short time. He wrote entire film scripts in a couple days, when the best of Hollywood took months - years! Loosely recalling his testimony, the "Genius Savant Power" operated `like a sink without knobs', and when active Twitchell had to catch what he could `in a bucket' as it poured out.
Well, maybe more a chute of thrift-store rejects than a facet, judging from the product. This came through in both the small and grand aspects of Twitchell's saga. At trial the man who escaped, Tetreault, described his encounter in the dark rented garage - he was suddenly grabbed from behind by someone who jabbed him with a thing... it buzzed and gave off blue light. This was a `stun baton' that Twitchell had purchased and never tested - it turned out to be an ineffective toy. Tetreault turned, to find he had been grabbed by a man wearing a hockey mask with its mouth area cut out, and painted in gold and black stripes. Twitchell explained in S.K. Confessions he had prepared this mask to intimidate; the mask may not have had the desired effect as Tetreault could not figure out if this was a kind of practical joke, a mugging, or something even more peculiar. Twitchell then produced a gun, and ordered Tetreault to the ground, and put a piece of duct tape ... on Tetreault's eyes! Even though Twitchell was masked!
Tetreault then heard sounds that he thought meant the attacker was undoing his pants - a rape was impending. In what ought to a rallying cry for the oppressed everywhere, Tetreault leapt up, tore off the tape, and exclaimed "I can't go down like this!" He grabbed Twitchell's gun, which turned out to be a plastic fake. Fisticuffs and wrestling ensued. Tetreault later observed that his attacker seemed to have no idea how to fight, as though it was the first time the attacker had ever been in a struggle. In particular, the `knee to the crotch' attacks just kept missing...
Tetreault eventually broke away, escaped the garage, and then encountered a couple on a stroll. Twitchell had followed wearing his hockey mask, and now pretended to be a friend. The persons dispersed. Tetreault did not report the story to police because he was confused as to what had happened, and thought the story was too strange to be credible.
When he was ultimately interviewed by police they had already read Twitchell's S.K. Confession's near identical blow-for-blow account of the encounter. That said, the interview made for fascinating viewing (it was recorded) as Tetreault hesitantly explains how `and then THIS strange thing happened and THAT strange thing happened' as the police interviewer quietly encourages, all with a bemused and amazed expression - S.K. Confessions, even its embarrassing misfires, was accurate!
Now, let's stop for a moment, and activate our Genius Savant Powers, bucket in hand. My intended victim has escaped and knows my lair. He has seen some quite unique paraphernalia that can be linked to me. Two others also have seen me in my murder attire, on site. What should I do? Perhaps I should dispose of any evidence that might link me to the attack? Like the mask? Perhaps I should schedule my next murder at a different location, as presumably my intended victim may lead police to the garage ... which I rented in my own name!
Twitchell does none of this. While he describes in S.K. Confessions his apprehension that law enforcement would soon arrive, he takes no precautions. A week later, Altinger arrives. At least this time Twitchell has switched from the toy stun baton to a piece of lead pipe. Again, near failure, as Twitchell discovers that motion pictures and television are sometimes inaccurate; people do not drop in an unconscious heap when struck on the head...
Similarly, when Twitchell discovers police are investigating Altinger's disappearance he fails to dispose of wildly incriminating evidence. Like the post-it notes. Like the mask. Like his computer. C'mon Mark, use that Genius Savant Power. Torch the car.
I could go on at length (and arguably have) but these absurdities only hint at the tapestry of Twitchell as a whole. The man saw himself as a creative and destructive genius, a Lex Luthor or Professor Moriarty, but instead was lucky if he remembered to put on his pants before embarking on his latest failure. And failures there were aplenty, which is another aspect of the Twitchell saga which is touched upon, but I think, neglected by the author.
My own take on Twitchell, and it is strictly my own, is that he was less interested and excited by killing than he was attracted to the idea and mystique of being a serial killer. Twitchell, at heart, is a fanboy, and the book does a good job of documenting his various obsessions, particularly Star Wars, and film and costume making. What the text does not address so much is fan culture itself, and the tendency of its members to imagine great dreams that remain unrealized. I can hardly count the number of times I have heard a fan describe a plan for a store, a club, a media project, that is obviously absurd and out of reach. A unique and very interesting aspect of Twitchell was that he attempted to realize whatever his Genius Savant Power provided, without hesitation, discretion, or common-sense. I see Twitchell as Serial Killer as merely another of Twitchell's many attempts to leap far, but collapse in a disjointed heap near where he started.
S.K. Confessions is the key to understanding Twitchell, and properly appreciate his unique manner of failure. As trial evidence this document is in the public domain and has previously been published en toto by Lillebeun's former employer, the Edmonton Journal. There is absolutely no excuse for why S.K. Confessions is not attached as an appendix to The Devil's Cinema, except for the fact it totally contradicts the author's characterization of Twitchell as a dark giant.
Yes, Lillebeun on occasion includes excerpts from S.K. Confessions in The Devil's Cinema, but these passages are not all that representative of the document as a whole. For example, the account of Altinger's dismemberment is included. It's scary and gross - and therefore consistent with the author's portrait. But, read front to back, S.K. Confessions discloses Twitchell as someone else, an incompetent, haphazard, self-absorbed poseur. And it's damned funny - so if you are curious, dig it up.
The text does an adequate job of explaining Twitchell's at trial testimony and defence, that he had accidentally killed a sex-hungry and enraged Altinger when he tried to recruit Altinger into his "Multiple Angle Psychosis Layering Entertaining" ["MAPLE"] movie/book promotion scheme (courtesy, of course, of Genius Savant Power!). In a nutshell, MAPLE was that Twitchell could recruit social media promoters by tricking them to come to a simulated kill room with the prospect of casual sex - then revealing he, Twitchell, was a film-maker who was going to make a Blair Witch-esque snuff film - and the tricked person could tell the public that `yep, I barely escaped that dude!' Altinger, disappointed at not having a date, had attacked Twitchell and impaled himself on Twitchell's knife. Tetreault had been an earlier test of MAPLE, but with extra verity.
The author quotes the transcript at this point - but omits some strategic details. For example, when Altinger is stabbed Twitchell explained that he knew the man was dying because (paraphrasing) `I knew the knife had gone into the man's ascending aorta - and I am a human anatomy expert because I had helped tutor an ex-girlfriend who was learning to be a chiropractic assistant.' Uh... really? You have that complete a knowledge of human anatomy and so subtle an ability to gauge the course of a blade? After helping a student chiropractic assistant?! Omissions of this kind of buffoonery is inexplicable, except that it undermines the author's portrait of the man, dark and potent.
Twitchell's at trial explanation of why S.K. Confessions takes a gloating tone to the victim and his dismemberment is equally idiotic and underplayed. Twitchell testified he wrote S.K. Confessions that way to torture himself. Real-Twitchell was wrenched asunder by the evil he had done. So Fiction-Twitchell captured that evil and turned it on its head, so Real-Twitchell would feel sad. The Devil's Cinema also omits this explanation.
I do not fault the author for his emphasis on the life and person of Johnny Altinger. The facts of the investigation are consistent with my knowledge of the matter, though the sequence of certain events seems out of place - that may be more a matter of how the text is structured than an actual error.
A significant defect, which I suspect flows from the author's background as a journalist, is the manner in which the trial itself is described. Understandably, the emphasis is on the dramatics of the proceeding, which I view as unfortunate given that the trial was a showcase of how the Canadian criminal justice system and its participants operate in an effective and reasonable manner. Counsel and Justice Clackson did a superb job in conducting a fair and effective jury trial.
As noted, the author's prose is annoying, particularly when one mentally adds a laugh-track to certain passages. Lillebuen is particularly dull when he tries to characterize Edmonton as murder central, "Deadmonton". Please, give the city its fair due. At least the murders here are interesting - how often does a murderer carry around a dead prostitute in a hockey bag sealed with wire, announcing that contains his composting worms? [Thomas Svekla, if you're curious.] Or one encounters a genuine `thrill kill cult'? [Nina Courtepatte, Ellie May Meyer.]
But all that aside, in The Devil's Cinema Twitchell has been miscast, and that is an injustice. He becomes just another cold eyed and merciless serial killer, one who was barely caught early in his progression. That omits and neglects what makes Mark Twitchell a titanic figure, who casts a shambling shadow broad across the world of media, art, and crime. Here is a great idiot: a person with nearly limitless energy, yet no ability to discern the most obvious defects in his works. Bask in his unique and special stupidity - god knows, I have.
So I will wait until another lifts up Mark Twitchell to his proper place, and tells his tale, sound - fury - nothing, as it deserves. Perhaps someone should give Uwe Boll a call.
And Twitchell can help raise the budget. He's useless in most senses, but at a minimum appears to have some aptitude and experience when scamming investors.
7 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
Best true crime book I've ever read... and I've read a lot of them!
By iagosan
I've read many many true crime books and I'm always left with the question "but WHY did he/she do it? What makes a killer do it?" The Devil's Cinema comes as close to answering the question of how one person can take another's life in cold blood as is probably possible to us non-serial killers. It tells the story of the lead up to the death of Johnny Altinger by exploring the spiral into madness of his killer Mark Twitchell. It parallels Mark's life with his victims for the year before the crime, explaining how they both arrived at that fateful night in the garage.
The book is very well researched and reads like a novel, with excellent characterization and a well constructed story told from from multiple angles. Even the court room drama, which I find is where many decent true crime books fall apart, is gripping. The personal communication the author had with Twitchell, while adding compelling insight into his mind, is far from the only voice in this book.
Most importantly Lillebuen is very respectful to the victim, and Johnny features prominently in the story, allowing the reader to get to know the gentle kind man his friends and family so adored. It makes it all the more heartbreaking to learn how Twitchell disrespected him so much before and especially after death. The book could have easily sold out to the gore and horror of that night in the garage, but Lillebuen manages to retain dignity for the victim while still allowing the reader to discover what a twisted mind Twitchell truly has.
I highly highly recommend adding this book to your true crime collection!
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
More Insight Into a Fascinating Case
By M. Russo
I hadn't heard of Mark Twitchell until I stumbled across his case while reading through various news articles about Luka Magnotta. I saw that he had written a document (which he later tried to delete, but was recovered by authorities) called S.K. Confessions that detailed his actions leading up to, during, and after the murder he committed. I read S.K. Confessions and was admittedly mesmerized. It gave so much insight into how an outwardly normal, 31 year old man could transform from a squeaky clean guy with a wife and a kid (and a budding film career) to a completely psychopathic murderer. In reality, it wasn't so much a sudden transformation, but a progression into accepting one's own dark psychopathic fantasies--then finally crossing the boundary and murdering someone.
S.K. Confessions made Twitchell sound human and relatable, not unfamiliar or disconnected as you might expect someone with psychopathic tendencies and a desire to commit murder to be. Granted he's a pathological liar, a killer, and not someone you'd want to invite into your life, but the document he created (and others) demonstrates perhaps the most insight we'll ever have into troubled minds. I wanted to learn more so I picked up The Devil's Cinema.
The Devil's Cinema does a great job of showing every perspective. Unexpectedly, it provides a lot of insight into the innocent victim and his last days leading up to his senseless murder. The beginning, which relies heavily upon the perspectives of the detectives investigating the case drags a little bit, but it quickly picks up once Twitchell's perspective becomes dominant.
I won't spend too much time generating much more praise about the book. It's a very easy, quick read (it took me two days) that provides plenty of new information surrounding the case and a number of perspectives (friends of Twitchell, online correspondents, the victim and his family/friends, detectives, Twitchell himself, etc.). It's as interesting as I thought it would be after reading S.K. Confessions and made me wish that there were more to learn as this case just fascinates me. My only gripes are that we didn't get much input from Twitchell's family, especially his parents, which is understandable considering they likely would refuse to provide interviews and insight about their son's terrible crime. Also, the book should have included a copy of S.K. Confessions and a few other interesting documents written by the murderer himself. Some excerpts are provided in the text, but reading the entire document is a must (if you're interested in the case and are okay with a little gore). The author hints that there are more documents and online correspondences that would provide interest, but to my dismay, none were provided.
I disagree with another reviewer's assessment that the book makes Mark Twitchell look like a dark genius. Right from the beginning, when you are given the detective's perspective, Twitchell is portrayed as a guy who had no clue what he was doing. The guy left a sticky note to himself to clean his kill room! The book doesn't make him look very bright at all. When reading from Twitchell's perspective it does mask is ineptitude a bit, but that's understandable considering people don't generally know when they're being foolish. Creating the document S.K. Confessions seems ridiculous enough as it is, but when you read it you can clearly see that he's not exactly a brilliant guy--though his narration gives reason to some of the more idiotic decisions he made when trying to get away with murder.
I'd recommend picking this book up--and then going online and finding the full un-redacted version of S.K. Confessions. Paired, the two documents give plenty of insight into a man who allowed himself to indulge in his darkest (and by any normal individual's standards, abnormal) fantasies, allowing his true nature to emerge and destroying the lives of a number of people in the process. Much like Twitchell, I now often wonder, when stopped at a red light, what exactly the people idling next to me in their cars are capable of--and what's in their trunk?
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