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Authors: Steve Lillebuen
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Twitchellâs father kept talking as his mother walked away. âLook, if he gets charged with this, youâre the ones heâs going to come to for the legal bill. So let me give you a piece of advice: I wouldnât be paying for no lawyer bill if I thought my son did something bad. If thereâs a grey area,
maybe
you would â¦Â I bet you this house is paid for?â
Twitchellâs dad nodded. His mom walked back up to the door and began glaring at Clark.
âSo theyâll come to you because your son has no money. But he can get legal aid so you donât have to worry. But theyâre gonna try to get you to mortgage your house, and Iâll tell ya, I wouldnât be standing here right now if I didnât think your son did this. I take my job seriously. When you have homicide detectives come knocking on your door, thereâs some serious ââ
Twitchellâs mother cut him off. âEnough talking to him,â she said. She turned to Clark. âI want you to leave our house.â She pointed behind him.
Clark got the message. âOkay, okay,â he said, throwing his hands up in the air. âIâm gone.â
SPELLING IT OUT
T HE HOWL OF A late autumn breeze had ripped away the yellow leaf canopy from the cityâs trees, exposing the naked bark beneath like a network of veins. The grass was turning brown. The October sky faded to a light blue as the sun reached midday. Wednesday, October 22, was a suitable day to begin the search of Twitchellâs residence. Police activity would draw far less attention during the afternoon, when neighbours had deserted their homes for work in the city, far away from this quaint St. Albert crescent. The last thing the detectives wanted was the media to start sniffing around the investigation.
Pulling up and parking, forensic team members Randy Topp, Nancy Allen, and Gary Short arrived at the Twitchell home to begin their usual routines of documenting and gathering evidence as the chilly air warmed with a rising sun. It had been two days since Jess had fled her home. The team would have been here earlier, but they were caught off guard by the scale of work in searching Twitchellâs vehicle.
Topp opened the front door and slowly climbed the stairs. As the videographer for the team, he entered first to document the undisturbed state of the property before the rest of the team walked in and started moving things around. The home was quiet and the air inside had turned stale. The only sounds now were Toppâs breathing and his soft footsteps as he wandered through the rooms with a video camera, barely uttering a word.
He passed a baby gate and a vacuum on the landing leading toward the living room. On the messy coffee table were an empty baby bottle, a diaper, and a few Cheerios piled in a mound on a tissue. A big flat-screen T V hung in the corner, hooked up to a PlayStation 2. The kitchen counters were littered with empty glass bottles. A half-eaten chocolate chip cookie had been left near a stack of dirty plates on the stove.
Topp moved deeper into the residence, descending the stairs to Twitchellâs basement office. There was a second bedroom and bathroomdown there. Twitchellâs clothes were crumpled up near the bed. A shaving kit rested on the bathroom sink. In the furnace room, Topp found a medieval sword hidden behind paint cans and, later that day, a black samurai sword.
Twitchellâs desk was cluttered with empty cans of energy drinks and juice bottles. A half-eaten bowl of noodles sat by the keyboard. Topp spotted an external hard drive and the tower for Twitchellâs home computer. Both would have to be seized and examined. The computer monitor was still on, flickering under the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. Above the monitor he noted stacks of DVDs and an unusual possession: a single handcuff key. Among Twitchellâs computer desk shelves were burned copies of all twelve episodes
maybe
you would â¦Â I bet you this house is paid for?â
Twitchellâs dad nodded. His mom walked back up to the door and began glaring at Clark.
âSo theyâll come to you because your son has no money. But he can get legal aid so you donât have to worry. But theyâre gonna try to get you to mortgage your house, and Iâll tell ya, I wouldnât be standing here right now if I didnât think your son did this. I take my job seriously. When you have homicide detectives come knocking on your door, thereâs some serious ââ
Twitchellâs mother cut him off. âEnough talking to him,â she said. She turned to Clark. âI want you to leave our house.â She pointed behind him.
Clark got the message. âOkay, okay,â he said, throwing his hands up in the air. âIâm gone.â
SPELLING IT OUT
T HE HOWL OF A late autumn breeze had ripped away the yellow leaf canopy from the cityâs trees, exposing the naked bark beneath like a network of veins. The grass was turning brown. The October sky faded to a light blue as the sun reached midday. Wednesday, October 22, was a suitable day to begin the search of Twitchellâs residence. Police activity would draw far less attention during the afternoon, when neighbours had deserted their homes for work in the city, far away from this quaint St. Albert crescent. The last thing the detectives wanted was the media to start sniffing around the investigation.
Pulling up and parking, forensic team members Randy Topp, Nancy Allen, and Gary Short arrived at the Twitchell home to begin their usual routines of documenting and gathering evidence as the chilly air warmed with a rising sun. It had been two days since Jess had fled her home. The team would have been here earlier, but they were caught off guard by the scale of work in searching Twitchellâs vehicle.
Topp opened the front door and slowly climbed the stairs. As the videographer for the team, he entered first to document the undisturbed state of the property before the rest of the team walked in and started moving things around. The home was quiet and the air inside had turned stale. The only sounds now were Toppâs breathing and his soft footsteps as he wandered through the rooms with a video camera, barely uttering a word.
He passed a baby gate and a vacuum on the landing leading toward the living room. On the messy coffee table were an empty baby bottle, a diaper, and a few Cheerios piled in a mound on a tissue. A big flat-screen T V hung in the corner, hooked up to a PlayStation 2. The kitchen counters were littered with empty glass bottles. A half-eaten chocolate chip cookie had been left near a stack of dirty plates on the stove.
Topp moved deeper into the residence, descending the stairs to Twitchellâs basement office. There was a second bedroom and bathroomdown there. Twitchellâs clothes were crumpled up near the bed. A shaving kit rested on the bathroom sink. In the furnace room, Topp found a medieval sword hidden behind paint cans and, later that day, a black samurai sword.
Twitchellâs desk was cluttered with empty cans of energy drinks and juice bottles. A half-eaten bowl of noodles sat by the keyboard. Topp spotted an external hard drive and the tower for Twitchellâs home computer. Both would have to be seized and examined. The computer monitor was still on, flickering under the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. Above the monitor he noted stacks of DVDs and an unusual possession: a single handcuff key. Among Twitchellâs computer desk shelves were burned copies of all twelve episodes
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