Bye-Bye Bellemare
A fair analysis from Don Macpherson in the Gazette on the Marc Bellemare resignation:
Bellemare's resignation will also hurt the cause of victims' rights, by depriving it of its advocate at the cabinet table where the real decisions to make or change laws are made. He will enjoy more freedom on the outside, but less influence.
Translation: we've been reamed again! Macpherson notes,
As Denis Lessard of La Presse pointed out yesterday, by making sure to resign a couple of days before he had served a full year as a minister, the "man of principle" will be able to hire himself out immediately as a paid lobbyist, instead of having to wait two years.
I guess it's always important to look out for number one.
Don't look for much relief from interim replacement, Jacques Dupuis who is already stretched too thin multi-tasking as government house leader in the Assembly AND minister for the reform of democratic institutions -
Sure, I can work three jobs at once!
Dear Victims:
Get a number and take a seat; you're gonna' be here for a while.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Thursday, April 22, 2004
I hear you are singing a song of the past
Someone asked me if my sister and I were close. I don't know. I can't remember. She died when I was fourteen. She's been dead twenty-five years; which means I've had a longer relationship with her dead than alive.
We are close now. But most of what I have to go on is a mish-mash of old photographs, home movies, fantasies, memories, selective memories, false memories.
I like to think we were close in that I'm a lot like her. She was very adventurous. Of course a lot of what I'm like may be a product of me having co-opted her life and tried to live it in some form of pseudo-tribute to her, which she would have found pathetic. So it goes.
How did she die? She was most likely picked up hitch-hiking and strangled to death with her scarf. I've heard that it possibly didn't get that far - she might have been frightened to death before anything happened, and that's an image that I don't like to dwell on.
It's not horrible, it's just what happened. It was a long time ago. I don't carry a lot of reverence for the dead. Don't respect it, learn from it.
Judging from the lack of progress in victims rights over the past 25 years this is something that evidently has not been done.
Someone asked me if my sister and I were close. I don't know. I can't remember. She died when I was fourteen. She's been dead twenty-five years; which means I've had a longer relationship with her dead than alive.
We are close now. But most of what I have to go on is a mish-mash of old photographs, home movies, fantasies, memories, selective memories, false memories.
I like to think we were close in that I'm a lot like her. She was very adventurous. Of course a lot of what I'm like may be a product of me having co-opted her life and tried to live it in some form of pseudo-tribute to her, which she would have found pathetic. So it goes.
How did she die? She was most likely picked up hitch-hiking and strangled to death with her scarf. I've heard that it possibly didn't get that far - she might have been frightened to death before anything happened, and that's an image that I don't like to dwell on.
It's not horrible, it's just what happened. It was a long time ago. I don't carry a lot of reverence for the dead. Don't respect it, learn from it.
Judging from the lack of progress in victims rights over the past 25 years this is something that evidently has not been done.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I don't talk a lot about my sister here. It's not like I don't have something to say about her. I'm the youngest, so sometimes I feel like I'm the least qualified to address the subject. My brother remembers her better. My parents definitely knew her better. So I'm not much of an expert on her.
There is this other thing. I don't want you to think I'm hung up on her (me? never!) in the sense that I think she was the most special person in the world. She wasn't. She's special to me. But then everyone's lost someone like that, so you know what I mean when I say I miss those things she contributed to my life.
So I was thinking about her hair. She colored it and cut it quite often. I think her natural color was auburn. Just before she died, she got this awful perm, she looked like a french poodle. What a way to go out, with hair like that.
I've got a picture of her on my desk. She's got a great smile. I also have a picture of the place where her body was found. I took it last winter. It's desolate. The trees are without leaves. The water is frozen over. The corn husks in the field are cut down to stubble. I can't make up my mind if its the ugliest or most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
There is this other thing. I don't want you to think I'm hung up on her (me? never!) in the sense that I think she was the most special person in the world. She wasn't. She's special to me. But then everyone's lost someone like that, so you know what I mean when I say I miss those things she contributed to my life.
So I was thinking about her hair. She colored it and cut it quite often. I think her natural color was auburn. Just before she died, she got this awful perm, she looked like a french poodle. What a way to go out, with hair like that.
I've got a picture of her on my desk. She's got a great smile. I also have a picture of the place where her body was found. I took it last winter. It's desolate. The trees are without leaves. The water is frozen over. The corn husks in the field are cut down to stubble. I can't make up my mind if its the ugliest or most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Big Mouth to Blow Hard at Victims Conference
I keep forgetting to mention this: someone thought it a good idea to invite me to speak at a victims conference in Vancouver. Aparently British Columbia's Police Victim Services felt sorry for me after being snubbed by Justice Canada's National Victims Conference (you know, that victims conference back in November where no victims were invited to the party). I hope they know what they're getting into. I'm supposed to talk about Theresa's case, but maybe I'll spend the entire hour-and-a-half discussing those PETA billboards...
Oh well, it's a free trip to Vancouver. If you're in town, come see me; we can dish about this-and-that. Here are the details:
MONTREAL – John Allore - the brother of Theresa Allore, who was murdered in Compton Quebec over 25 years ago – has been invited to present at a provincial victims conference in Richmond, British Columbia.
Theresa Allore’s story drew national headlines in the summer of 2002 when Mr. Allore presented evidence that suggested her death was the result of a sexual assault and murder at the hands of a serial sexual predator, not a drug overdose as Quebec investigators originally speculated.
Since then Mr. Allore has become an independent victims’ advocate, working with several victims associations in Canada and the United States. Last Fall Mr. Allore, along with fellow advocate, Pierre-Hugues Boisvenu, whose daughter was murdered in Sherbrooke in 2002, traveled to Ottawa to criticize the Justice Department’s National Victims Conference for failure to invite enough victims to the symposium. Mr. Allore had applied to present at that conference, but his application was refused. As well Mr. Allore has been working with Mr. Boisvenu to initiate a Quebec victims association, and with victims’ advocates from across Canada to form a National association for victims assistance.
The B.C. conference, hosted by the province’s Police Victim Services, is the only annual conference of its kind in Canada. This year’s theme, The Dawning of Hope – Triumphing Through Adversity, will feature close to 40 presenters speaking on topics of criminal justice and victims issues. The two day event will be held in Richmond on June 4th and 5th. Mr. Allore will address the conference on two occasions; first on the topic of the investigation into his sister’s death and his relations with Quebec’s Surete du Quebec, and then on issues concerning campus security at Canadian universities.
I keep forgetting to mention this: someone thought it a good idea to invite me to speak at a victims conference in Vancouver. Aparently British Columbia's Police Victim Services felt sorry for me after being snubbed by Justice Canada's National Victims Conference (you know, that victims conference back in November where no victims were invited to the party). I hope they know what they're getting into. I'm supposed to talk about Theresa's case, but maybe I'll spend the entire hour-and-a-half discussing those PETA billboards...
Oh well, it's a free trip to Vancouver. If you're in town, come see me; we can dish about this-and-that. Here are the details:
MONTREAL – John Allore - the brother of Theresa Allore, who was murdered in Compton Quebec over 25 years ago – has been invited to present at a provincial victims conference in Richmond, British Columbia.
Theresa Allore’s story drew national headlines in the summer of 2002 when Mr. Allore presented evidence that suggested her death was the result of a sexual assault and murder at the hands of a serial sexual predator, not a drug overdose as Quebec investigators originally speculated.
Since then Mr. Allore has become an independent victims’ advocate, working with several victims associations in Canada and the United States. Last Fall Mr. Allore, along with fellow advocate, Pierre-Hugues Boisvenu, whose daughter was murdered in Sherbrooke in 2002, traveled to Ottawa to criticize the Justice Department’s National Victims Conference for failure to invite enough victims to the symposium. Mr. Allore had applied to present at that conference, but his application was refused. As well Mr. Allore has been working with Mr. Boisvenu to initiate a Quebec victims association, and with victims’ advocates from across Canada to form a National association for victims assistance.
The B.C. conference, hosted by the province’s Police Victim Services, is the only annual conference of its kind in Canada. This year’s theme, The Dawning of Hope – Triumphing Through Adversity, will feature close to 40 presenters speaking on topics of criminal justice and victims issues. The two day event will be held in Richmond on June 4th and 5th. Mr. Allore will address the conference on two occasions; first on the topic of the investigation into his sister’s death and his relations with Quebec’s Surete du Quebec, and then on issues concerning campus security at Canadian universities.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Indulgio Ad Absurdum
For the past week I've been working with a person who contacted me with a credible tip that could help solve my sister's murder.
Don't get too excited - I get a lot of these "tips", sometimes they are interesting, but misguided. Often it's people with information that is entirely irrelevant, they just want to talk to someone. Very often it's real fruit-cake stuff.
But this one is different. It got my interest. There was enough detailed information there to get me preoccupied. Forgive me for being a tease, but there's not a whole lot I can discuss about it - I turned it over to the police, they are looking into it.
While we're waiting for them to get back to me, allow me a brief moment to talk about the blog.
First things: By their nature, blogs are self-indulgent. You either like that or you don't. Now I hate blogs that have posts explaining what the blog is all about: it's about whatever's there before your eyes. Still, I'm going to break my rule and do a little self-conscious doodling about my motives and intentions which are sometimes misunderstood.
A while ago I read a posting about my site on another weblog. The message said something to the effect of, "somebody please help this poor man who has suffered for 25-years...". Now I appreciate the support, but I'm really not suffering. This site gives the perception that I'm preoccupied with death and murder 24-7, but that is not the case. I have a family. I have a life. I have outside interests. They are off limits. They are none of your business. I am actually a ton-of-fun outside the world of the blog. And most of what I write is tongue in cheek - I have a pretty ripped sense of humor.
I don't like that word "closure". A victim who lost their parents over seven years ago recently asked me, "when does it go away". It doesn't. You form a thick, hard scar. But sometimes that scar tickles you. It tells you things. It doesn't always haunt you. It can be a gift if you allow it to be.
Yes, I do want to solve the murder of my sister, but not because I will then find closure. I bare no hostility to the individual that did this - yet. They were just doing what they do. My bitterness and resentment is reserved for a system that failed to come to the aid and support of my parents. I want to solve the crime to prove that -even after 25-years - it can be done. It just takes a little dedication.
A good friend - whose ancestors died in concentration camps during World War II - recently emailed me with a revelation: "Ah..." he blurted "you're not keeping your blog to solve a crime, you do it so that this horrible event in your life - that once slipped from memory - will never again be forgotten."
There it is.
For the past week I've been working with a person who contacted me with a credible tip that could help solve my sister's murder.
Don't get too excited - I get a lot of these "tips", sometimes they are interesting, but misguided. Often it's people with information that is entirely irrelevant, they just want to talk to someone. Very often it's real fruit-cake stuff.
But this one is different. It got my interest. There was enough detailed information there to get me preoccupied. Forgive me for being a tease, but there's not a whole lot I can discuss about it - I turned it over to the police, they are looking into it.
While we're waiting for them to get back to me, allow me a brief moment to talk about the blog.
First things: By their nature, blogs are self-indulgent. You either like that or you don't. Now I hate blogs that have posts explaining what the blog is all about: it's about whatever's there before your eyes. Still, I'm going to break my rule and do a little self-conscious doodling about my motives and intentions which are sometimes misunderstood.
A while ago I read a posting about my site on another weblog. The message said something to the effect of, "somebody please help this poor man who has suffered for 25-years...". Now I appreciate the support, but I'm really not suffering. This site gives the perception that I'm preoccupied with death and murder 24-7, but that is not the case. I have a family. I have a life. I have outside interests. They are off limits. They are none of your business. I am actually a ton-of-fun outside the world of the blog. And most of what I write is tongue in cheek - I have a pretty ripped sense of humor.
I don't like that word "closure". A victim who lost their parents over seven years ago recently asked me, "when does it go away". It doesn't. You form a thick, hard scar. But sometimes that scar tickles you. It tells you things. It doesn't always haunt you. It can be a gift if you allow it to be.
Yes, I do want to solve the murder of my sister, but not because I will then find closure. I bare no hostility to the individual that did this - yet. They were just doing what they do. My bitterness and resentment is reserved for a system that failed to come to the aid and support of my parents. I want to solve the crime to prove that -even after 25-years - it can be done. It just takes a little dedication.
A good friend - whose ancestors died in concentration camps during World War II - recently emailed me with a revelation: "Ah..." he blurted "you're not keeping your blog to solve a crime, you do it so that this horrible event in your life - that once slipped from memory - will never again be forgotten."
There it is.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
IVAC Lab Rat
IVAC Lab Rat
April 13, 2004
Indemnisation des victims d’actes criminals
Attn: Mireille Doucet
1199 rue de Bleury
Succursale Centre-ville
Montreal, Quebec
H3C 4E1
Ms. Doucet:
I am in receipt of your letter dated April 5, 2004 requesting additional information to complete the processing of my claim for victims compensation in the matter of the death of my sister, Theresa Allore who was murdered 25-years-ago in Compton, Quebec. It is appropriate that I respond to you today, as this is the 25th anniversary of the date that Theresa’s body was recovered from a Coaticook drainage ditch after having lain in the frozen snow and ice for over five months. Specifically you have asked for the original bill for funeral services.
Ms. Doucet, this murder occurred over twenty-five years ago, do you think it reasonable to assume that I would have in my possession the original invoice for funeral arrangements?
Still, allow me to challenge my memory and provide you with some details that may assist your attorney in completing my claim:
The coffin was white. She was buried in a plot in an upscale cemetery. There was a coffin liner and marker. My mother ordered a lot of flowers. Does this help?
I have also enclosed the following documents from my father’s notes concerning the funeral arrangements:
- A CPR train schedule detailing the route that the coffin would have traveled from Montreal to Ontario, where she was buried.
- The address of the Weaver Funeral Home where the coffin was held for viewing.
- A reference to $390.00 for the Mount Evergreen Cemetery – I imagine this would have been the cost to dig the hole and cover it up.
Anyway, adding up the costs and allowing a percentage for the time value of money, I have estimated the funeral expenses as follows:
Travel and lodging for family: $500.00
Transportation of corpse: $600.00
Funeral Service: $100.00
Coffin, Liner and Headstone: $3,000.00
Internment: $600.00
Total: funeral expenses: $4,800.00
Please make the cheque payable to Mrs. Robert and Marilyn Allore, Theresa’s mother and father; they’re the ones who have suffered. If you have any questions, or require any additional information please do not hesitate to contact me.
Sincerely,
John Allore
c.c. Marc Bellemare, Ministère de la Justice
April 13, 2004
Indemnisation des victims d’actes criminals
Attn: Mireille Doucet
1199 rue de Bleury
Succursale Centre-ville
Montreal, Quebec
H3C 4E1
Ms. Doucet:
I am in receipt of your letter dated April 5, 2004 requesting additional information to complete the processing of my claim for victims compensation in the matter of the death of my sister, Theresa Allore who was murdered 25-years-ago in Compton, Quebec. It is appropriate that I respond to you today, as this is the 25th anniversary of the date that Theresa’s body was recovered from a Coaticook drainage ditch after having lain in the frozen snow and ice for over five months. Specifically you have asked for the original bill for funeral services.
Ms. Doucet, this murder occurred over twenty-five years ago, do you think it reasonable to assume that I would have in my possession the original invoice for funeral arrangements?
Still, allow me to challenge my memory and provide you with some details that may assist your attorney in completing my claim:
The coffin was white. She was buried in a plot in an upscale cemetery. There was a coffin liner and marker. My mother ordered a lot of flowers. Does this help?
I have also enclosed the following documents from my father’s notes concerning the funeral arrangements:
- A CPR train schedule detailing the route that the coffin would have traveled from Montreal to Ontario, where she was buried.
- The address of the Weaver Funeral Home where the coffin was held for viewing.
- A reference to $390.00 for the Mount Evergreen Cemetery – I imagine this would have been the cost to dig the hole and cover it up.
Anyway, adding up the costs and allowing a percentage for the time value of money, I have estimated the funeral expenses as follows:
Travel and lodging for family: $500.00
Transportation of corpse: $600.00
Funeral Service: $100.00
Coffin, Liner and Headstone: $3,000.00
Internment: $600.00
Total: funeral expenses: $4,800.00
Please make the cheque payable to Mrs. Robert and Marilyn Allore, Theresa’s mother and father; they’re the ones who have suffered. If you have any questions, or require any additional information please do not hesitate to contact me.
Sincerely,
John Allore
c.c. Marc Bellemare, Ministère de la Justice
Irrelevant Crime
25 years ago today my sister's body was discovered by a muscrat trapper in a ditch-backflow off the Coaticook river near Compton, Quebec. This is the "official" press release that was so sensitively distributed by Champlain College - the school she was attending - following her discovery:
Theresa Allore Tragedy
The Champlain Regional College community is deeply saddened by the death of Theresa Allore. College officials will cooperate fully with police authorities in their investigation of this tragic event.
To enable our students to recover from this traumatic episode in their lives, the college respectfully requests members of the media to exercise discretion and good judgement in their overall conduct in reporting the incident.
The details of the crime are irrelevant. Theresa's loss will undoubtedly be mourned by those who knew and will remember her, and by those who are only witnesses to this tragedy.
Bill Matson
Campus Director
Champlain Regional College
25 years ago today my sister's body was discovered by a muscrat trapper in a ditch-backflow off the Coaticook river near Compton, Quebec. This is the "official" press release that was so sensitively distributed by Champlain College - the school she was attending - following her discovery:
Theresa Allore Tragedy
The Champlain Regional College community is deeply saddened by the death of Theresa Allore. College officials will cooperate fully with police authorities in their investigation of this tragic event.
To enable our students to recover from this traumatic episode in their lives, the college respectfully requests members of the media to exercise discretion and good judgement in their overall conduct in reporting the incident.
The details of the crime are irrelevant. Theresa's loss will undoubtedly be mourned by those who knew and will remember her, and by those who are only witnesses to this tragedy.
Bill Matson
Campus Director
Champlain Regional College
Monday, April 12, 2004
Warm-and-Fuzzy from IVAC
For any of you who missed it, I recently submitted a claim for victims compensation to the Montreal office of l'indemnisation des victimes d'actes Criminels (IVAC) in the matter of my sister's murder which occured 25-years-ago. Today I received the following letter from IVAC:
MR. JOHN ALLORE
500 ROBIN ROAD
CHAPEL HILL, NC 27516, U.S.A.
File of: THERESA MARIA ALLORE
Date of Event: November 3, 1978
Dear Madam (Madam?),
We were sorry to learn of the death of your sister. On behalf of the Direction de l'indemnisation des victimes d'actes Criminels (IVAC), please accept our condolences.
Representatives from the Direction de l'IVAC will be in contact with you throughout the processing of your claim. In the meantime, please send us the following documents as soon as possible:
- original bill for funeral expenses
Once the file is complete, a lawyer will reach a decision on your claim. You will be informed as soon as this decision is rendered.
Please feel free to contact us should you require further information regarding this matter or for any other questions you may have.
Yours Sincerely,
MIREILLE DOUCET
(514) 906-3019 extension: 2130
For any of you who missed it, I recently submitted a claim for victims compensation to the Montreal office of l'indemnisation des victimes d'actes Criminels (IVAC) in the matter of my sister's murder which occured 25-years-ago. Today I received the following letter from IVAC:
MR. JOHN ALLORE
500 ROBIN ROAD
CHAPEL HILL, NC 27516, U.S.A.
File of: THERESA MARIA ALLORE
Date of Event: November 3, 1978
Dear Madam (Madam?),
We were sorry to learn of the death of your sister. On behalf of the Direction de l'indemnisation des victimes d'actes Criminels (IVAC), please accept our condolences.
Representatives from the Direction de l'IVAC will be in contact with you throughout the processing of your claim. In the meantime, please send us the following documents as soon as possible:
- original bill for funeral expenses
Once the file is complete, a lawyer will reach a decision on your claim. You will be informed as soon as this decision is rendered.
Please feel free to contact us should you require further information regarding this matter or for any other questions you may have.
Yours Sincerely,
MIREILLE DOUCET
(514) 906-3019 extension: 2130
Wednesday, April 7, 2004
Bad Dream House
Bad Dream House
Very cranky these days... I'm coming up on the 25th anniversary of the discovery of my sister's body - I can't sit still.
Anyway, I've been chewing on this bone for a while wondering how best to write about something, but I think I'm just going to go for it and spit this one out...
The fact is I just recently moved. For four years my wife and daughters lived in a house that was the former residence of the lead suspect in a missing persons investigation. Here is how we came to buy that house:
When my wife and I first moved to North Carolina we were quite restless to put down some roots. We had spent a great deal of our married life living like gypsies, wandering from one city to the next. We moved to North Carolina in search of stability. Our daughter was two at the time, and we had another child on the way. My wife had grown up in Chapel Hill. She still had all her family here. It was a good place to raise a family. We were tired of living in apartments. Two children needed a home. They needed a yard to play in. I was thirty-seven years old. It was time to buy a house.
My wife had here heart set on a “fixer-upper” just outside Chapel Hill. From the outside the house was inviting. It looked like two A-Frames stuck together. A sort of Swiss chalet tucked neatly in the forest. As we approached the front door, my wife braced me with the words; “you’ll have to just go with me on this one.” That’s when I knew we were in for trouble. The odor was the first thing that hit me. As I crossed the threshold, I caught a waft of “the-dog’s-been-pissing-on-the-carpet-for-the-last-eight-months.” Then there were the visuals. The floor was absolutely covered with garbage - think D-Day and Omaha Beach, only substitute dead bodies with old pizza boxes, hard packs of Marlboros, and crushed Mello-Yellow cans. Anything that could hold water was absolutely filled to the brim with cigarette butts. Whoever lived here was an “artist”, there were nude drawings covering all the walls – cartoon anime; cinched wastes and big tits. And a complementary pornography collection in the video cabinet. There was a Christmas wreath over the fireplace mantle. It was March 31st. There were weapons - numb chucks and broadswords and crossbows - a D&D nerd’s dream come true. A thought crossed my mind; This must have been what it looked like when Guns and Roses recorded their first album. Then I heard the music coming from down the hall. There’s someone actually living here?
We started down the hallway. The carpeting was gone, torn up by whatever animal had lived there. The sub-flooring was all that remained. For some reason it was stained dark brown. I came to the door where the music was coming from. The door had about fifty knife marks in it. There were also silver dollar sized holes. It looked like someone had shot at it. I opened the door. Black Flag or Anthrax or some crap was screaming from the stereo. On the bed rested a big fat lump. The lump was sleeping. It was three in the afternoon, and this lump looked comatose. Suddenly, it rolled over, looked me briefly with one glazed fish-eye, and passed out again. I closed the door.
My wife and I were still arguing when we went to bed that night. To cut a long story short - against my better judgment - I decided to go with my wife on this one. We bought the house. Things only got worse. Before the closing, my wife was prone to coming out to the house alone. She would wander around the place and fantasize about all the little improvements we could make. A building inspector - an ex-Marine - advised my wife never to set foot alone in the house again. He had seen the lump on the bed. He thought he looked lethal. At the closing, none of our real estate people showed up. They found the house too disturbing.
Eventually we learned an elderly widow and her teenage son (the lump) had owned the house. We were told that the father had died, and the mother wanted to move to smaller accommodations that were more manageable. Junior was getting to be a handful - what with the medieval arsenal and all. When we walked around the neighborhood people would give us that funny look. You know, that, “you’re the fools who bought that house” look? One neighbor confided in us that the family had lived in the house for twenty years. The son was a quiet boy, but troubled. At age eight he walked up to this neighbor’s daughter on the street, smiled sweetly, and proceeded to pummel her with the brick he had concealed in his hand.
It’s not like we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. The evidence was tattooed all over the house. These folks were troubled. There were knife marks everywhere; not only through the bedroom door - on the kitchen walls, on the bathroom ceiling tile, there were so many stab marks on the wood floor in the living room, you’d have thought that Christmas dinner had been carved there. But our feeling was, don’t blame the house for the way it looked. It wasn’t the house’s fault. All it needed was a little love - and several dozen trips to the Home Depot. Fixing what was broken became my spring project. I ripped up the kitchen, tore out the pissed-stained carpet, replaced all the brown stained sub-flooring. I threw out drywall, re-tiled the bathroom floors, pulled-out horrendous amounts of hair and body-gunk from the drains. Finally I decided it would be easier to simply gut the bathrooms altogether.
When I’d go outside to work on the landscaping my wife would quip, “Tell me if you find any dead bodies out there.” I, of course, thought this was hysterical. A corpse would make our home complete. After six weeks, we finished our renovations. We burnt some sage given to us by our real estate agent, placed a small quartz crystal in the southwest corner of each room - because our real estate agent told us this would help with any bad vibes - and moved in.
Of course, it came as no surprise whatsoever when four weeks later the police phoned us up and asked if they could pay us a visit. It turned out the son of the former owner of the house was the lead suspect in a missing person investigation, and the police wished to check the property for a dead body.
There are times when you realize life is trying to tell you something. This was one of those times. It would be fair to say that I have a restless soul. I’ve traveled around a bit. Fifteen years ago, I left Canada, and eventually became an American citizen. I’d like to say that I did this because I love America, but the truer statement is that I’d grown to hate Canada. I hated the Canadian sense of superiority. The idea that Canada offered the same opportunities as the U.S. - only without the crime, without the chaos, without the social problems. It wasn’t true. There were the same problems in both countries. If the U.S. was a freak show in an open-air market, then Canada’s dirt lay hidden in a filing cabinet market “confidential”. Canada kept secrets. More to the point - after my sister died - I believed secrets were being kept from me.
For a long time I was determined to keep moving. I suffered from acute wanderlust. My wife and I traveled all over the country. In eight years we had moved from southeast Texas to Toronto to California to the Carolinas. I had an aunt who said we lived like gypsies – when were we finally going to settle down?
So what were the odds that me of all people - when I finally made the decision to settle down - would chose to buy a home with a dead body on it?
--------------------------------------------
Deborah Key was known for her independence, and for taking risks. On the night of Sunday, November 30th, 1997, the 35-year-old woman was seated at the bar of Sticks and Stones, a local pool hall in Carrboro, North Carolina. Seated at the other end of the bar, within Deborah’s view, was a young man in a leather jacket - his hair tied back in a ponytail. The man was busy drawing nudie pictures in an artists sketch book - pre-pubescent girls in space suits with huge cans; Sailor Moon with a hormonal imbalance. The young man was drinking diet coke. Deborah Key was drinking too much. At some point, Deborah got up from her barstool and ragged on the young man for drawing such disgusting pictures. The man apologized for offending her. He asked if she’d like to join him for a drink. Not at the bar, they would move to a booth at the back. Shortly before closing time the bartender saw the couple together in the corner. She was giving him a back massage. They were very flirtatious. The 5’6”, 115 lbs brunette was last seen at two-thirty a.m. in the parking lot of Sticks and Stones. Key and the young man were leaning up against her car, kissing. A few days later the police found Deborah’s unlocked car, still parked in the lot of Sticks and Stones. Her purse was resting on the passenger side seat. No one has seen her since.
It took police six months to track down the young man with the ponytail. When they asked the man - the former resident of our house - to come in for questioning he said that he would be at police headquarters in the morning. By the time morning came, his lawyer intervened and told them that he would not be available to answer any questions. The police got a search warrant for the young man's car, but the lab results came back inconclusive. They found some bloodstained women’s underwear in the car, but they were never able to link the underwear to Deborah Key. The police were unsuccessful in trying to obtain a search warrant for the house. The car was easy, since it was established that the young man and his car were at the location where Deborah Key was last seen alive on the early morning of December 1st, 1997. The house was another matter; there was nothing to suggest that he and Key had traveled in the car all the way back to the house. The case dragged on for two years. The police had a lead suspect; they just didn’t have a body. And their suspect wasn’t talking.
In December of 1999, our soon-to-be house was put on the market. Immediately, the investigation into Deborah Key’s disappearance began to take life again. Detectives believed that Key’s body might be buried somewhere on the lot. In an effort to gain access to the property, police had agents pose as interested buyers to see if they could learn anything from viewing the interior of the house. They found the place in such a dilapidated state, investigators speculated that their suspect might be deliberately trashing the house, in an effort to keep what was inside hidden. If the place looked like crap, then no one would ever buy it. In the Spring of 2000, the local police chief was making a routine pass in an unmarked car when she noticed that the heaps of garbage that were normally piled up in the front yard, had suddenly been replaced with children’s toys. Someone actually bought this dump? A week later the chief of police called my wife, and asked to pay a visit.
When the police arrived they assured us they wanted to get this over with just as quickly and smoothly as possible. But there were problems. They couldn’t locate a cadaver dog. The one they wanted was from Florida, but he had suddenly been called away on business in Atlanta. It seemed the cadaver dog was over-booked. We would have to wait two weeks before they could search the grounds for a body.
“But couldn’t you just get another dog?”, I asked.
“Well we could, but we want the best. This dog’s the best.”
“Why do we have to wait two weeks?”
“The dog needs the rest. It’s exhausting work.”
Before they left, they wanted to assure us we were in no danger. Deborah Key was most likely this guy’s first kill. Police felt confidant that the body wasn’t buried anywhere in the house. If he did dispose of the body here, then it was probably back in the woods some place. In any case, they did ask us not to speak about the matter to anyone. Word might get around, and they didn’t want to tip off their suspect. Just in case he got it in his head to run. “Or maybe come back and move the body”, an officer added. Finally they all got up, and said that they’d see us in two weeks.
That first weekend we stayed at the beach. Then we stayed at my mother in laws. When we had run out of favors, we came back home. Home. We always talked about how neat it would be to live in a haunted house. But this wasn’t haunted. This was mother-fuckin’ creepy. There was the added benefit that my wife was by now seven month’s pregnant and looked like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. So began our two-week FREAK-OUT. We didn’t sleep. Not ever. I went to bed with a baseball bat, the telephone, the phone number of the police department, and a fifteen-pound Mag-lite next to my bed. I’d wake up every night in a cold sweat. Was he coming back? Was there something he left behind? Was he in the house now? He probably still had keys to it. He’s probably standing in the living room right now with a pickaxe just waiting for me to be foolish enough to come out after him.
It didn’t help that we had only lived in the house for a month. The place was scarier because you never knew where anything was. In the dark I’d bump into walls and fumble for the light switch. I couldn’t find anything. My daughter was sleeping in his room. Her bed was in the same spot where that lump rolled over and looked at me. One night she came running out of her room, “Mommy, Daddy, my room scares me!” Oh, that’s okay, pumpkin, the whole house is scary. Didn’t you know? We bought it from Leather-face. There was also the added spooky benefit of living in a deep dark forest. Outside our bedroom window, we’d hear something moving that sounded like a five hundred pound gorilla. I’d be cramming my heart back down my throat before I realized it was a herd of grazing deer. There were lots of critters out there. Possums and coons. Screech owls and badgers. And something that made a sound so terrifying that my wife and I just labeled it the flying-bush-pig. We never did find out what it was.
Somehow we survived. Two weeks passed. One morning a caravan of vehicles came up our gravel driveway.
We said hello again to the local detectives. Joining them for the day’s proceedings were various patrol officers, the County Sheriff’s department, a big fat agent from the State Bureau of Investigation (SBI), a team of forensic technicians, and the gang from Pee Wee’s Septic Tank Service. Everyone gathered round and tried to look like they knew why they were there. Officers discretely slurped on their Wendy’s Big Gulps. From out of the back of a kennel in the police van stepped the star of the show. I was expecting a big, droopy bloodhound. I was surprised to find a svelte, handsome German Shepard. I never got his name. We were never formally introduced. The dog wrangler stepped forward,
“We’ll start with the outer perimeter of the house. It’s a good morning. The ground is wet, so he should be able to sniff through the clay.”
The wrangler pulled the dog up close and shoved a small, black ball against his nose. Then he clipped the lead and let him run loose. The dog bolted off with officers and the wrangler in quick pursuit.
While we were waiting to see what the dog would find, I insinuated myself into the conversation with the agents. My wife remained indoors. Earlier, we had pawned our daughter off on my mother-in-law. We didn’t want her around for this. My wife certainly wasn’t setting foot outside. Unlike me, she held no fascination in seeing a corpse pulled out from under the dirt and the mud. Investigators were confident. They came dressed for the event, decked out in black SWAT fatigues. The SBI agent wore checkered pants and an ugly tie. The mood was intense and full of expectation. Everyone was certain that after two and a half years, the mystery of Deborah Key’s disappearance would finally be solved. The SBI agent spoke,
“We feel pretty confident he buried her out in these woods somewhere. Or maybe in the septic well.”
“In our septic well.”
“Ya. He might have chopped her up and dumped the pieces down the shaft. PEE WEE! YOU WANNA GET THAT SEWAGE PUMP STARTED!”
The dog worked all morning. He sniffed the better part of an acre of our property. The dog came up with nothing. Their efforts were hampered by the soil. In this part of North Carolina it is mostly made up of thick, hard clay. If anything were buried more than three feet deep, the dog would have a tough time picking up the scent. On the other hand, because the ground was so hard, it would be difficult for anyone to dig a grave deeper than three feet. I tried digging a garden in the stuff and the effort practically killed me. My harvest consisted of one dwarf sized pumpkin. Nothing grows in this stuff.
Meanwhile, Pee Wee had managed to suck our septic well dry. Everyone gathered around the well opening and looked down with gruesome expectation. The tank was empty. There were no bones at the bottom. The mood turned from confident to confused.
“If it’s alright, we’d like to check the inside of the house?"
It was the SBI guy. I explained that we had gutted the place. There would be no trace evidence. Everything was gone - the brown-stained flooring, the clumps of hair from the bathroom traps.
“You didn’t keep any of it, did you?”
Sure. It’s in the medicine cabinet next to my collection of human excrement.
As confusion turned to desperation, the recovery party agreed it was time to take the dog under the house. I opened the crawl space door, told everyone to mind the five-foot ceiling; the wrangler did his little black ball trick, and in went the dog.
“What’s in that ball anyway?”, I asked.
“Rotting flesh… I’m just kiddin’ ya’, we don’t use real corpses.”
Funny. Yeah, that’s some joke.
I was getting bored. Three hours and these loafers were still at my house. Then finally, the dog did something. At the back of the crawl space between two central supports, we all watched as the dog paced back and forth, and began scratching on the red dirt floor.
What’s he doing?”
“He’s lighted on something.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means he’s found something.”
It was scary. The dog kept pacing and scratching. I looked over my shoulder and there was a police officer with two shovels. Everyone began to dig. I couldn’t believe it. A dead body was buried under my house. I’d been under this house alone. I’d come under to repair the insulation, to fix the telephone wiring. The digging took a lot of effort. The space was too small to raise the shovel over your head. You couldn’t get a full arc. It was hot and humid. We kept running out of breath. The clay was as hard as rock. You couldn’t really dig; you had to chip away at the layers. We got two feet down. Finally - after forty-five minutes - we decided to stop. There wasn’t anything here. We didn’t find Deborah Key.
As things wound down the police told us not to worry. The good news was there wasn’t a body buried on our property. The bad news, Deborah Key was still a missing person. Everyone looked discouraged. The way you look when after the first 10 minutes you know the Super Bowl's going to be blowout. Detectives took the dog’s reaction into consideration and formed a theory. After she died, Deborah Key’s body was probably stored under the house for a brief period of time. Her killer took the time to plan how he would finally dispose of the body. Deborah Key was not buried here. If agents couldn’t dig through the clay, then their suspect certainly couldn’t either. The police also wanted us to know that Deborah Key probably hadn’t died in the house. Police believed she was killed earlier, in the killer's car.
After that day with the cadaver dog, I began to have terrible nightmares. I dreamed about rotting corpses all the time. I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Around the same time my daughter was doing some dreaming of her own. One day I caught her walking down the hall muttering to herself,
“No. No Way, I definitely don’t want to have that dream again. O Boy, I don’t want to have that dream where Mom and Dad turn into skeletons.”
She later confided to me that she had a reoccurring dreamed where she was strapped in her car seat, and the car was moving down the road, but no one was driving. I know just how she feels.
Some of my dreams got downright bizarre. There was one where I was at a party and Ralph Nadar sat down beside me. Only he was dressed like this classic, 60s G-man – Joe Friday or something - complete with blue suit and pork pie hat. We struck up a conversation. All at once he pulled out a brown manila envelope, and told me it contained autopsy photos of my sister. Would I like to see them? I had a dream where all the trees outside our house blew down. When I woke up, I swore it had happened. The screeching of the timbers as they snapped was so powerful. I went out on our deck at two in the morning to assess the damage. I found everything unchanged.
For a time I became obsessed with the Deborah Key case. I visited all the places where she had gone - where she was last seen. I did research. I started thinking about maybe solving the crime. Then one day while I was reading about the case on the Internet. I found an article written shortly after Deborah had disappeared. The reporter described Deborah as “loose”. They said she was in the habit of talking to strangers and partying all night. She would sometimes leave with strangers and not be heard from for 3 or 4 days at a time. In a subsequent letter to the editor, Deborah’s mother responded to the article. She said much of what had been written about Deborah was merely hearsay. Deborah’s mother was deeply hurt that the reporter would write such horrible things, as if she, the victim, was somehow responsible for the horrible, inhumane act that was her death. I felt so bad. I wanted to call her up and say I understood. I never called. I figured one of the last people she would have wanted to hear from was this guy who bought the house where the person who had murdered her daughter had lived.
The drama that had unfolded at our house became a common topic of conversation with friends and family. The story of Deborah Key became like a parlor game - shared with guests after a good dinner. One day I called up my brother.
“It’s pretty ironic don’t you think?”
“What is?”
“You know… House with a dead body. It’s a mystery. Theresa’s death’s a mystery.
“Yeah.”
“I just think it’s odd.”
“Are you at work?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll don’t you have work to do?”
“I just think it’s funny that I would move into this house.”
“I guess.”
“I mean, what are the chances…”
“Yeah, okay, I gotta go, I gotta go do some work.”
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Walking around Carrboro, I sometimes run into the detectives who are working the Deborah Key case. I see them at the grocery store, or in the summer at a fourth of July party - sometimes in the fall at the Halloween festival. The officers are always with his kids. We talk about how we should get our girls together. Then I’ll say something like, “anything ever happen with Deborah Key?”, and then this look of disappointment crosses their face. Clearly the case disturbs them. They were so sure the body would be on our property. No one can understand how - in a town the size of Carrboro - someone can just disappear. I have been troubled by the same thought.
Eventually our house became just another house. I would take out the garbage, or clean out the gutters... rake leaves. We’ve never had the feeling that the place was haunted; only that it was dead - dead energy. In addition to the crystals, our real estate agent advised us to put up wind chimes and mobiles. The place was like a black hole; it needed movement and activity to bring it to life. Eventually I had to stop thinking about Deborah Key. It might have been my wife who said it, or I may have come to the realization myself – why was I so obsessed with Deborah Key, but kept avoiding my sister’s case? I don’t know. I tried to stop thinking about the spooky place where we lived. But sometimes when I would go under the house to fix something, I'd stop and listen. Nothing. My heart would race. I'd start to hyperventilate. Then I'd come out from under the house and close the door. I'd stand on the sloping side of the hill and stare into the forest. Then I'd go back to my family inside and pretend like nothing happened.
Very cranky these days... I'm coming up on the 25th anniversary of the discovery of my sister's body - I can't sit still.
Anyway, I've been chewing on this bone for a while wondering how best to write about something, but I think I'm just going to go for it and spit this one out...
The fact is I just recently moved. For four years my wife and daughters lived in a house that was the former residence of the lead suspect in a missing persons investigation. Here is how we came to buy that house:
When my wife and I first moved to North Carolina we were quite restless to put down some roots. We had spent a great deal of our married life living like gypsies, wandering from one city to the next. We moved to North Carolina in search of stability. Our daughter was two at the time, and we had another child on the way. My wife had grown up in Chapel Hill. She still had all her family here. It was a good place to raise a family. We were tired of living in apartments. Two children needed a home. They needed a yard to play in. I was thirty-seven years old. It was time to buy a house.
My wife had here heart set on a “fixer-upper” just outside Chapel Hill. From the outside the house was inviting. It looked like two A-Frames stuck together. A sort of Swiss chalet tucked neatly in the forest. As we approached the front door, my wife braced me with the words; “you’ll have to just go with me on this one.” That’s when I knew we were in for trouble. The odor was the first thing that hit me. As I crossed the threshold, I caught a waft of “the-dog’s-been-pissing-on-the-carpet-for-the-last-eight-months.” Then there were the visuals. The floor was absolutely covered with garbage - think D-Day and Omaha Beach, only substitute dead bodies with old pizza boxes, hard packs of Marlboros, and crushed Mello-Yellow cans. Anything that could hold water was absolutely filled to the brim with cigarette butts. Whoever lived here was an “artist”, there were nude drawings covering all the walls – cartoon anime; cinched wastes and big tits. And a complementary pornography collection in the video cabinet. There was a Christmas wreath over the fireplace mantle. It was March 31st. There were weapons - numb chucks and broadswords and crossbows - a D&D nerd’s dream come true. A thought crossed my mind; This must have been what it looked like when Guns and Roses recorded their first album. Then I heard the music coming from down the hall. There’s someone actually living here?
We started down the hallway. The carpeting was gone, torn up by whatever animal had lived there. The sub-flooring was all that remained. For some reason it was stained dark brown. I came to the door where the music was coming from. The door had about fifty knife marks in it. There were also silver dollar sized holes. It looked like someone had shot at it. I opened the door. Black Flag or Anthrax or some crap was screaming from the stereo. On the bed rested a big fat lump. The lump was sleeping. It was three in the afternoon, and this lump looked comatose. Suddenly, it rolled over, looked me briefly with one glazed fish-eye, and passed out again. I closed the door.
My wife and I were still arguing when we went to bed that night. To cut a long story short - against my better judgment - I decided to go with my wife on this one. We bought the house. Things only got worse. Before the closing, my wife was prone to coming out to the house alone. She would wander around the place and fantasize about all the little improvements we could make. A building inspector - an ex-Marine - advised my wife never to set foot alone in the house again. He had seen the lump on the bed. He thought he looked lethal. At the closing, none of our real estate people showed up. They found the house too disturbing.
Eventually we learned an elderly widow and her teenage son (the lump) had owned the house. We were told that the father had died, and the mother wanted to move to smaller accommodations that were more manageable. Junior was getting to be a handful - what with the medieval arsenal and all. When we walked around the neighborhood people would give us that funny look. You know, that, “you’re the fools who bought that house” look? One neighbor confided in us that the family had lived in the house for twenty years. The son was a quiet boy, but troubled. At age eight he walked up to this neighbor’s daughter on the street, smiled sweetly, and proceeded to pummel her with the brick he had concealed in his hand.
It’s not like we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. The evidence was tattooed all over the house. These folks were troubled. There were knife marks everywhere; not only through the bedroom door - on the kitchen walls, on the bathroom ceiling tile, there were so many stab marks on the wood floor in the living room, you’d have thought that Christmas dinner had been carved there. But our feeling was, don’t blame the house for the way it looked. It wasn’t the house’s fault. All it needed was a little love - and several dozen trips to the Home Depot. Fixing what was broken became my spring project. I ripped up the kitchen, tore out the pissed-stained carpet, replaced all the brown stained sub-flooring. I threw out drywall, re-tiled the bathroom floors, pulled-out horrendous amounts of hair and body-gunk from the drains. Finally I decided it would be easier to simply gut the bathrooms altogether.
When I’d go outside to work on the landscaping my wife would quip, “Tell me if you find any dead bodies out there.” I, of course, thought this was hysterical. A corpse would make our home complete. After six weeks, we finished our renovations. We burnt some sage given to us by our real estate agent, placed a small quartz crystal in the southwest corner of each room - because our real estate agent told us this would help with any bad vibes - and moved in.
Of course, it came as no surprise whatsoever when four weeks later the police phoned us up and asked if they could pay us a visit. It turned out the son of the former owner of the house was the lead suspect in a missing person investigation, and the police wished to check the property for a dead body.
There are times when you realize life is trying to tell you something. This was one of those times. It would be fair to say that I have a restless soul. I’ve traveled around a bit. Fifteen years ago, I left Canada, and eventually became an American citizen. I’d like to say that I did this because I love America, but the truer statement is that I’d grown to hate Canada. I hated the Canadian sense of superiority. The idea that Canada offered the same opportunities as the U.S. - only without the crime, without the chaos, without the social problems. It wasn’t true. There were the same problems in both countries. If the U.S. was a freak show in an open-air market, then Canada’s dirt lay hidden in a filing cabinet market “confidential”. Canada kept secrets. More to the point - after my sister died - I believed secrets were being kept from me.
For a long time I was determined to keep moving. I suffered from acute wanderlust. My wife and I traveled all over the country. In eight years we had moved from southeast Texas to Toronto to California to the Carolinas. I had an aunt who said we lived like gypsies – when were we finally going to settle down?
So what were the odds that me of all people - when I finally made the decision to settle down - would chose to buy a home with a dead body on it?
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Deborah Key was known for her independence, and for taking risks. On the night of Sunday, November 30th, 1997, the 35-year-old woman was seated at the bar of Sticks and Stones, a local pool hall in Carrboro, North Carolina. Seated at the other end of the bar, within Deborah’s view, was a young man in a leather jacket - his hair tied back in a ponytail. The man was busy drawing nudie pictures in an artists sketch book - pre-pubescent girls in space suits with huge cans; Sailor Moon with a hormonal imbalance. The young man was drinking diet coke. Deborah Key was drinking too much. At some point, Deborah got up from her barstool and ragged on the young man for drawing such disgusting pictures. The man apologized for offending her. He asked if she’d like to join him for a drink. Not at the bar, they would move to a booth at the back. Shortly before closing time the bartender saw the couple together in the corner. She was giving him a back massage. They were very flirtatious. The 5’6”, 115 lbs brunette was last seen at two-thirty a.m. in the parking lot of Sticks and Stones. Key and the young man were leaning up against her car, kissing. A few days later the police found Deborah’s unlocked car, still parked in the lot of Sticks and Stones. Her purse was resting on the passenger side seat. No one has seen her since.
It took police six months to track down the young man with the ponytail. When they asked the man - the former resident of our house - to come in for questioning he said that he would be at police headquarters in the morning. By the time morning came, his lawyer intervened and told them that he would not be available to answer any questions. The police got a search warrant for the young man's car, but the lab results came back inconclusive. They found some bloodstained women’s underwear in the car, but they were never able to link the underwear to Deborah Key. The police were unsuccessful in trying to obtain a search warrant for the house. The car was easy, since it was established that the young man and his car were at the location where Deborah Key was last seen alive on the early morning of December 1st, 1997. The house was another matter; there was nothing to suggest that he and Key had traveled in the car all the way back to the house. The case dragged on for two years. The police had a lead suspect; they just didn’t have a body. And their suspect wasn’t talking.
In December of 1999, our soon-to-be house was put on the market. Immediately, the investigation into Deborah Key’s disappearance began to take life again. Detectives believed that Key’s body might be buried somewhere on the lot. In an effort to gain access to the property, police had agents pose as interested buyers to see if they could learn anything from viewing the interior of the house. They found the place in such a dilapidated state, investigators speculated that their suspect might be deliberately trashing the house, in an effort to keep what was inside hidden. If the place looked like crap, then no one would ever buy it. In the Spring of 2000, the local police chief was making a routine pass in an unmarked car when she noticed that the heaps of garbage that were normally piled up in the front yard, had suddenly been replaced with children’s toys. Someone actually bought this dump? A week later the chief of police called my wife, and asked to pay a visit.
When the police arrived they assured us they wanted to get this over with just as quickly and smoothly as possible. But there were problems. They couldn’t locate a cadaver dog. The one they wanted was from Florida, but he had suddenly been called away on business in Atlanta. It seemed the cadaver dog was over-booked. We would have to wait two weeks before they could search the grounds for a body.
“But couldn’t you just get another dog?”, I asked.
“Well we could, but we want the best. This dog’s the best.”
“Why do we have to wait two weeks?”
“The dog needs the rest. It’s exhausting work.”
Before they left, they wanted to assure us we were in no danger. Deborah Key was most likely this guy’s first kill. Police felt confidant that the body wasn’t buried anywhere in the house. If he did dispose of the body here, then it was probably back in the woods some place. In any case, they did ask us not to speak about the matter to anyone. Word might get around, and they didn’t want to tip off their suspect. Just in case he got it in his head to run. “Or maybe come back and move the body”, an officer added. Finally they all got up, and said that they’d see us in two weeks.
That first weekend we stayed at the beach. Then we stayed at my mother in laws. When we had run out of favors, we came back home. Home. We always talked about how neat it would be to live in a haunted house. But this wasn’t haunted. This was mother-fuckin’ creepy. There was the added benefit that my wife was by now seven month’s pregnant and looked like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. So began our two-week FREAK-OUT. We didn’t sleep. Not ever. I went to bed with a baseball bat, the telephone, the phone number of the police department, and a fifteen-pound Mag-lite next to my bed. I’d wake up every night in a cold sweat. Was he coming back? Was there something he left behind? Was he in the house now? He probably still had keys to it. He’s probably standing in the living room right now with a pickaxe just waiting for me to be foolish enough to come out after him.
It didn’t help that we had only lived in the house for a month. The place was scarier because you never knew where anything was. In the dark I’d bump into walls and fumble for the light switch. I couldn’t find anything. My daughter was sleeping in his room. Her bed was in the same spot where that lump rolled over and looked at me. One night she came running out of her room, “Mommy, Daddy, my room scares me!” Oh, that’s okay, pumpkin, the whole house is scary. Didn’t you know? We bought it from Leather-face. There was also the added spooky benefit of living in a deep dark forest. Outside our bedroom window, we’d hear something moving that sounded like a five hundred pound gorilla. I’d be cramming my heart back down my throat before I realized it was a herd of grazing deer. There were lots of critters out there. Possums and coons. Screech owls and badgers. And something that made a sound so terrifying that my wife and I just labeled it the flying-bush-pig. We never did find out what it was.
Somehow we survived. Two weeks passed. One morning a caravan of vehicles came up our gravel driveway.
We said hello again to the local detectives. Joining them for the day’s proceedings were various patrol officers, the County Sheriff’s department, a big fat agent from the State Bureau of Investigation (SBI), a team of forensic technicians, and the gang from Pee Wee’s Septic Tank Service. Everyone gathered round and tried to look like they knew why they were there. Officers discretely slurped on their Wendy’s Big Gulps. From out of the back of a kennel in the police van stepped the star of the show. I was expecting a big, droopy bloodhound. I was surprised to find a svelte, handsome German Shepard. I never got his name. We were never formally introduced. The dog wrangler stepped forward,
“We’ll start with the outer perimeter of the house. It’s a good morning. The ground is wet, so he should be able to sniff through the clay.”
The wrangler pulled the dog up close and shoved a small, black ball against his nose. Then he clipped the lead and let him run loose. The dog bolted off with officers and the wrangler in quick pursuit.
While we were waiting to see what the dog would find, I insinuated myself into the conversation with the agents. My wife remained indoors. Earlier, we had pawned our daughter off on my mother-in-law. We didn’t want her around for this. My wife certainly wasn’t setting foot outside. Unlike me, she held no fascination in seeing a corpse pulled out from under the dirt and the mud. Investigators were confident. They came dressed for the event, decked out in black SWAT fatigues. The SBI agent wore checkered pants and an ugly tie. The mood was intense and full of expectation. Everyone was certain that after two and a half years, the mystery of Deborah Key’s disappearance would finally be solved. The SBI agent spoke,
“We feel pretty confident he buried her out in these woods somewhere. Or maybe in the septic well.”
“In our septic well.”
“Ya. He might have chopped her up and dumped the pieces down the shaft. PEE WEE! YOU WANNA GET THAT SEWAGE PUMP STARTED!”
The dog worked all morning. He sniffed the better part of an acre of our property. The dog came up with nothing. Their efforts were hampered by the soil. In this part of North Carolina it is mostly made up of thick, hard clay. If anything were buried more than three feet deep, the dog would have a tough time picking up the scent. On the other hand, because the ground was so hard, it would be difficult for anyone to dig a grave deeper than three feet. I tried digging a garden in the stuff and the effort practically killed me. My harvest consisted of one dwarf sized pumpkin. Nothing grows in this stuff.
Meanwhile, Pee Wee had managed to suck our septic well dry. Everyone gathered around the well opening and looked down with gruesome expectation. The tank was empty. There were no bones at the bottom. The mood turned from confident to confused.
“If it’s alright, we’d like to check the inside of the house?"
It was the SBI guy. I explained that we had gutted the place. There would be no trace evidence. Everything was gone - the brown-stained flooring, the clumps of hair from the bathroom traps.
“You didn’t keep any of it, did you?”
Sure. It’s in the medicine cabinet next to my collection of human excrement.
As confusion turned to desperation, the recovery party agreed it was time to take the dog under the house. I opened the crawl space door, told everyone to mind the five-foot ceiling; the wrangler did his little black ball trick, and in went the dog.
“What’s in that ball anyway?”, I asked.
“Rotting flesh… I’m just kiddin’ ya’, we don’t use real corpses.”
Funny. Yeah, that’s some joke.
I was getting bored. Three hours and these loafers were still at my house. Then finally, the dog did something. At the back of the crawl space between two central supports, we all watched as the dog paced back and forth, and began scratching on the red dirt floor.
What’s he doing?”
“He’s lighted on something.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means he’s found something.”
It was scary. The dog kept pacing and scratching. I looked over my shoulder and there was a police officer with two shovels. Everyone began to dig. I couldn’t believe it. A dead body was buried under my house. I’d been under this house alone. I’d come under to repair the insulation, to fix the telephone wiring. The digging took a lot of effort. The space was too small to raise the shovel over your head. You couldn’t get a full arc. It was hot and humid. We kept running out of breath. The clay was as hard as rock. You couldn’t really dig; you had to chip away at the layers. We got two feet down. Finally - after forty-five minutes - we decided to stop. There wasn’t anything here. We didn’t find Deborah Key.
As things wound down the police told us not to worry. The good news was there wasn’t a body buried on our property. The bad news, Deborah Key was still a missing person. Everyone looked discouraged. The way you look when after the first 10 minutes you know the Super Bowl's going to be blowout. Detectives took the dog’s reaction into consideration and formed a theory. After she died, Deborah Key’s body was probably stored under the house for a brief period of time. Her killer took the time to plan how he would finally dispose of the body. Deborah Key was not buried here. If agents couldn’t dig through the clay, then their suspect certainly couldn’t either. The police also wanted us to know that Deborah Key probably hadn’t died in the house. Police believed she was killed earlier, in the killer's car.
After that day with the cadaver dog, I began to have terrible nightmares. I dreamed about rotting corpses all the time. I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Around the same time my daughter was doing some dreaming of her own. One day I caught her walking down the hall muttering to herself,
“No. No Way, I definitely don’t want to have that dream again. O Boy, I don’t want to have that dream where Mom and Dad turn into skeletons.”
She later confided to me that she had a reoccurring dreamed where she was strapped in her car seat, and the car was moving down the road, but no one was driving. I know just how she feels.
Some of my dreams got downright bizarre. There was one where I was at a party and Ralph Nadar sat down beside me. Only he was dressed like this classic, 60s G-man – Joe Friday or something - complete with blue suit and pork pie hat. We struck up a conversation. All at once he pulled out a brown manila envelope, and told me it contained autopsy photos of my sister. Would I like to see them? I had a dream where all the trees outside our house blew down. When I woke up, I swore it had happened. The screeching of the timbers as they snapped was so powerful. I went out on our deck at two in the morning to assess the damage. I found everything unchanged.
For a time I became obsessed with the Deborah Key case. I visited all the places where she had gone - where she was last seen. I did research. I started thinking about maybe solving the crime. Then one day while I was reading about the case on the Internet. I found an article written shortly after Deborah had disappeared. The reporter described Deborah as “loose”. They said she was in the habit of talking to strangers and partying all night. She would sometimes leave with strangers and not be heard from for 3 or 4 days at a time. In a subsequent letter to the editor, Deborah’s mother responded to the article. She said much of what had been written about Deborah was merely hearsay. Deborah’s mother was deeply hurt that the reporter would write such horrible things, as if she, the victim, was somehow responsible for the horrible, inhumane act that was her death. I felt so bad. I wanted to call her up and say I understood. I never called. I figured one of the last people she would have wanted to hear from was this guy who bought the house where the person who had murdered her daughter had lived.
The drama that had unfolded at our house became a common topic of conversation with friends and family. The story of Deborah Key became like a parlor game - shared with guests after a good dinner. One day I called up my brother.
“It’s pretty ironic don’t you think?”
“What is?”
“You know… House with a dead body. It’s a mystery. Theresa’s death’s a mystery.
“Yeah.”
“I just think it’s odd.”
“Are you at work?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll don’t you have work to do?”
“I just think it’s funny that I would move into this house.”
“I guess.”
“I mean, what are the chances…”
“Yeah, okay, I gotta go, I gotta go do some work.”
--------------------------------------------
Walking around Carrboro, I sometimes run into the detectives who are working the Deborah Key case. I see them at the grocery store, or in the summer at a fourth of July party - sometimes in the fall at the Halloween festival. The officers are always with his kids. We talk about how we should get our girls together. Then I’ll say something like, “anything ever happen with Deborah Key?”, and then this look of disappointment crosses their face. Clearly the case disturbs them. They were so sure the body would be on our property. No one can understand how - in a town the size of Carrboro - someone can just disappear. I have been troubled by the same thought.
Eventually our house became just another house. I would take out the garbage, or clean out the gutters... rake leaves. We’ve never had the feeling that the place was haunted; only that it was dead - dead energy. In addition to the crystals, our real estate agent advised us to put up wind chimes and mobiles. The place was like a black hole; it needed movement and activity to bring it to life. Eventually I had to stop thinking about Deborah Key. It might have been my wife who said it, or I may have come to the realization myself – why was I so obsessed with Deborah Key, but kept avoiding my sister’s case? I don’t know. I tried to stop thinking about the spooky place where we lived. But sometimes when I would go under the house to fix something, I'd stop and listen. Nothing. My heart would race. I'd start to hyperventilate. Then I'd come out from under the house and close the door. I'd stand on the sloping side of the hill and stare into the forest. Then I'd go back to my family inside and pretend like nothing happened.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
on Résolu Encore - Louise Camirand
Twenty-Seven years ago today the body of 20-year old Louise Camirand was found in a snow bank near Megog, Quebec. Camirand's death remains unsolved. The following is how the newspapers reported her discovery 27 years ago:
Sherbrooke woman murdered near Magog
AUSTIN - Quebec Police Homicide officers are continuing their investigation in the murder of a 20-year-old Sherbrooke woman whose body was discovered on the McDonald Concession Road her at 10 a.m. Friday. Florent Henry and Robert Curtis, both of R.R. 2, Magog made the discovery when they were on their way to cut wood and saw the nude body of Louise Camirand of 30 Bryant St. partially covered with snow.
"They told us they travelled the same road on Wednesday when everything was normal." Const. Andre Lessard, Cowansville QPF said. "When Const. Gary Budge and I arrived on the scene we were able to determine she was in her 20s and had a boot lace around her neck. She was frozen solid and there were no other external signs of violence. Her black slacks and blue suede jacket with grey fur trim were near her."
Death was confirmed by Coroner Noel E. Monast and the body was taken to the Medical-Legal Institute, Montreal where an autopsy performed Saturday revealed the young woman had been sexually assaulted prior to being killed. The report also indicated she suffered internal lesions and fractures in the pelvic area and the latter might have been caused by kicking or having been hit by a blunt instrument.
It is understood Miss Camirand was to have been married in May.
Corporal Jacques Pothier is in charge of the investigation.
Twenty-Seven years ago today the body of 20-year old Louise Camirand was found in a snow bank near Megog, Quebec. Camirand's death remains unsolved. The following is how the newspapers reported her discovery 27 years ago:
Sherbrooke woman murdered near Magog
AUSTIN - Quebec Police Homicide officers are continuing their investigation in the murder of a 20-year-old Sherbrooke woman whose body was discovered on the McDonald Concession Road her at 10 a.m. Friday. Florent Henry and Robert Curtis, both of R.R. 2, Magog made the discovery when they were on their way to cut wood and saw the nude body of Louise Camirand of 30 Bryant St. partially covered with snow.
"They told us they travelled the same road on Wednesday when everything was normal." Const. Andre Lessard, Cowansville QPF said. "When Const. Gary Budge and I arrived on the scene we were able to determine she was in her 20s and had a boot lace around her neck. She was frozen solid and there were no other external signs of violence. Her black slacks and blue suede jacket with grey fur trim were near her."
Death was confirmed by Coroner Noel E. Monast and the body was taken to the Medical-Legal Institute, Montreal where an autopsy performed Saturday revealed the young woman had been sexually assaulted prior to being killed. The report also indicated she suffered internal lesions and fractures in the pelvic area and the latter might have been caused by kicking or having been hit by a blunt instrument.
It is understood Miss Camirand was to have been married in May.
Corporal Jacques Pothier is in charge of the investigation.
Louise Camirand R.I.P. - Les Journals Francais
Louise, 20 ans, VIOLEE ET ETRANGLEE
Malgre un travail acharne qui se poursuit depuis plus de trois mois, les policiers de la Surete du Quebec n'ont toujour pas encore reussi a percer le mystere qui entoure le meutre sadique de Louise Camirand, violee et etrangee, au mois de mars dernier, a Austin, dans les Cantons de l'Est.
On se reppellera que la jeune Camirand, agee de 20 ans, de Sherbrooke, etait mysterieusement disparue depuis deux jours quand son cadavre entierement nu fut decouvert, le 25 mars 1977, dans un chemin de halage d'Austin, a quelques milles de Magog.
Depuis cette macabre decouverte, les policiers ont deja l'interroge plus de 225 personnes, a Sherbrooke et dans les environs, mais aucun indice serieux ne leur a permis de faire progresser cette enquete.
Membre des forces armees canadiennes, Louise Camirand etait seule, en soiree de mercredi 23 mars 1977, lorsqu'elle a ete vue pour la derniere fois vivante, au depanneur "Provi-Soir", a l'intersection du boulevard Jacques Cartier et de la rue King Ouest, a Sherbrooke.
Reconnue comme une jeune fille qui ne faisait jamais d'auto-stop et qui ne semblait pas avoir d'ennemis, elle serait tout de meme montee a bord d'une voiture dont le ou les occupants etaient susceptibles de la connaitre.
Pres de l'endoit ou son cadabre a ete trouve, les policiers ont releve des traces de pneus dans la neige fraichement tombee, traces qui on 44 pouces entre les deux roules et qui pourraient correspondre a des voitures de marques Renault 5, Mini-Austin ou Toyota Celica.
Toute personne qui pourrait fournir des renseigements relativement a cet assassinat est priee de bien vouloir communiques aves les reponsables de cette enquete, les detectives Jacques Pothier et Andre Massicotte, des crimes contre la personne de la SQ de Montreal (514) 395-4004, ou au coporal Roch Gaudreault, du BEC de la SQ de L'Estrie, a (819) 565-8111, en etant assuree que tous les renseignements seront traites confidentiellement par les policiers.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Non Résolu - Manon Dube R.I.P.
Twenty-Six years ago today the body of 10-year old Manon Dube was found in a stream near Massawippi, Quebec. Manon's death remains unsolved. The following is how the newspapers reported her discovery 26 years ago:
Police say there is yet no way to determine what killed ten-year-old Manon Dube, missing from near her Sherbrooke home since. Jan. 27, whose body was retreived from a frozen brook Friday Night.
Two young Montreal Boys, in the area for the weekend, found Manon's body partially frozen into the brook ice half a mile from Massawippi on the Kingscroft road.
The body was transported to Montreal Saturday and an autopsy will be performed at the Medical-Legal Institute today. Det. Lt. Alphee Leblanc of the SHerbrooke Municipal Police who has headed the investigation since January will assist at the autopsy.
When found, Manon was dressed exactly as the day she disappeared, in a navy blue snowsuit and tan leather boots. Only one red mitten and a salmon-pink tuque were not recovered.
A police spokesmans said the only visible sign of injury was a deep gash to Manon's forehead, but added it may have been caused by the ragged ice.
The spokesman said it was impossible to determine exactly how long Manon's body had been in the brook, but said indications were the better part of the two months since her disappearance.
Members of the Sherbrooke and Coaticook QPF and Sherbrooke municipal police combed the brook area through the day Saturday but their search was hampered by melting ice and new fallen snow.
Manon was last seen at 7:30 p.m., Jan. 27, when she and her younger sister, Chantal were walking to their Bienville Street home after playing outdoors. When the pair reached the intersection of Union and Craig streets, Chatal decided to run the remainder of the way because she was cold. Only 500 yards from her home, Manon never arrived.
The same weekend, a 16-man police search team and tracking dogs combed the city's west end, but found no trace of the girl. More than 1500 local snowmobilers spent several days searching in the area surrounding Sherbrooke but found nothing.
Manon's mother, Jeannine Dube, said she was relieved that her daughter's body had been recovered: "for nine weeks, the tension I have been under... I didn't know what to do with myself," She said.
In a local radio broadcast yesterday morning Mrs. Dube said it was only the good will of her family and prayer that kept her going.
"And I ask you to pray for her... and for me." She said.
A Sherbrooke native, Mrs. Dube said she has no intention of moving from the City.
Twenty-Six years ago today the body of 10-year old Manon Dube was found in a stream near Massawippi, Quebec. Manon's death remains unsolved. The following is how the newspapers reported her discovery 26 years ago:
Police say there is yet no way to determine what killed ten-year-old Manon Dube, missing from near her Sherbrooke home since. Jan. 27, whose body was retreived from a frozen brook Friday Night.
Two young Montreal Boys, in the area for the weekend, found Manon's body partially frozen into the brook ice half a mile from Massawippi on the Kingscroft road.
The body was transported to Montreal Saturday and an autopsy will be performed at the Medical-Legal Institute today. Det. Lt. Alphee Leblanc of the SHerbrooke Municipal Police who has headed the investigation since January will assist at the autopsy.
When found, Manon was dressed exactly as the day she disappeared, in a navy blue snowsuit and tan leather boots. Only one red mitten and a salmon-pink tuque were not recovered.
A police spokesmans said the only visible sign of injury was a deep gash to Manon's forehead, but added it may have been caused by the ragged ice.
The spokesman said it was impossible to determine exactly how long Manon's body had been in the brook, but said indications were the better part of the two months since her disappearance.
Members of the Sherbrooke and Coaticook QPF and Sherbrooke municipal police combed the brook area through the day Saturday but their search was hampered by melting ice and new fallen snow.
Manon was last seen at 7:30 p.m., Jan. 27, when she and her younger sister, Chantal were walking to their Bienville Street home after playing outdoors. When the pair reached the intersection of Union and Craig streets, Chatal decided to run the remainder of the way because she was cold. Only 500 yards from her home, Manon never arrived.
The same weekend, a 16-man police search team and tracking dogs combed the city's west end, but found no trace of the girl. More than 1500 local snowmobilers spent several days searching in the area surrounding Sherbrooke but found nothing.
Manon's mother, Jeannine Dube, said she was relieved that her daughter's body had been recovered: "for nine weeks, the tension I have been under... I didn't know what to do with myself," She said.
In a local radio broadcast yesterday morning Mrs. Dube said it was only the good will of her family and prayer that kept her going.
"And I ask you to pray for her... and for me." She said.
A Sherbrooke native, Mrs. Dube said she has no intention of moving from the City.
Non Résolu - Manon Dube R.I.P... Les Journals Francais
La mort Mysterieuse de Manon Dube: RIEN, RIEN, RIEN...
La mort de la jeune Manon Dube, a Sherbrooke, demeure une enigme. Aucune hypothese ne peut etre retenue sinon celle de l'implication d'une personne inconnue.
Manon Dube a ete portee disparue apres Noel, a Sherbrooke, et on a trouve son corps dans la glace a une vingtaine de milles de Sherbrooke plusieurs semaines plus tard.
Malgre des expertises menees de main de maitre, a l'Institut de medecine legale, rue Parthenais, a Montreal, on ne connait pas encore les causes exactes de la mort de l'enfant agee de dix ans.
La semaine derniere, le coroner Me Jean-Pierre Rivard a entendu quelques temoins, au palais de justice de Sherbrooke, quant aux circonstances entourant la mort de la jeune Dube. On y a repete les memes circonstances connues dupuis longtemps quant a la disparition et a la decouverte de la fillette.
Mais rien de nouveau n'a ete apporte devant le coroner. La cause demeure donc non resolue. Mais il est clair que quelqu'un a agi dans cette cause, car une fillette ne peut marcher 20 milles, sutout en periode hivernale...
Thursday, March 11, 2004
IVAC and Me
first in a series of my dealings with Quebec's Indemnisation des Victimes d'Actes Criminel
Having waited 25 years for a Quebec victims assistance service to come offer aid, I recently decided to take matters into my own hands and start knocking on doors.
What I knew of the two major Quebec victims assistance services, CAVAC and IVAC, was mostly gleaned through horror stories shared with other victims, but in truth I had no first-hand experience - in fact I didn't even know what the acronyms stood for. The worst "tale" was that of Pierre Boisvenu who, he had told me, had been given a paltry $600 to cover the cost of funeral arrangements in the matter of the murder of his daughter; this was the only assistance provided by CAVAC and IVAC, and the root of his bitterness with both organizations. But could this be so? Was $600 the extent of their services and compassion?
Then I caught wind of a brilliant idea... I was a victim! Why not contact IVAC and see what they were prepared to offer me as compensation for the trouble I had suffered for the murder of my sister. Sure, the case was fosillized, but it was worth a shot.
First things first, CAVAC stands for Les Centres d’aide aux victimes d’actes criminels. Not to sound catty, but I am still not clear on what exactly it is they do. I think they are supposed to act as a sort of information hub for victims. To be frank, when I attended Justice Canada's National Victims Conference in Ottawa last November (one last time: the victims conference without any victims) there was a large representation from CAVAC, but they looked like they weren't too sure what they were doing there. I introduced myself - it was pretty clear who I was since there was a C.B.C. camera stuck in my face - but I don't recall any of them approaching me and saying,
"Mr. Allore... in the matter of the recent reinvestigation into the murder of your sister... how are you doing? Is everything ok? Do you need some Quebec victims assistance?"
Nada - there was nothing like that. I do recall that they all were caring a lot of shopping bags, probably chaising down some pre-Christmas bargains in the big city.
So, that's CAVAC.
Now on to IVAC. IVAC stands for Indemnisation des Victimes d'Actes Criminel, the Crime Victims' Indemnity Commission. Unlike CAVAC, IVAC has a very definite purpose; since 1972 they've been doling out cash to victims of violent crime, with limited decerning criteria to define eligibility. IVAC does not require positive proof that someone was a victim; basically, if you tell your story to IVAC and it appears plausible than you may be eligile to receive a small fortune (unlike other victims compensation programs, IVAC has no minimum or maximum). Also, IVAC does not follow up with victims, so if you spin a good yarn, you could be set for life.
You'd think with such a loosy-goosy arrangement, IVAC might be bankrupt by now. Not so. According to an article by Kristian Gravenor, a 1987 Solicitor-General's report showed that less than one per cent of Quebec's crime victims applied for the money. This might have something to do with the fact that nobody is aware that the funds exist. IVAC advertises the fund once-a-year in medical magazines (hey, in 1979, my parents certainly weren't aware of it otherwise we would have hopped on the gravy-train).
Still, what could account for Pierre Boisvenu receiving such a small sum if the fund was so flush, and what might I be eligable for? Barely containing my excitement, I decided to call the IVAC offices in Montreal.
I was immediately put off by the guy that answered the phone; I expected him to do the I'll-only-speak-to-you-in-French brush-off, but instead he quickly switched to English - this made me even angrier, since it was my desire all along to struggle along in French.
- I wish to submit a demande.
- Can you tell me briefly the nature of the situation?
- Yes, my sister died in Quebec 25 years ago, but only recently was it discovered she had been murdered.
- Ah yes, in situations like that we can offer up to $600 towards compensation for the funeral expenses, do you wish for me to send you an application?
That was it. It was that simple, 60 seconds and I was riding the gravy train... Ok, $600; maybe the gravy cross-town bus. But why $600? Why should I receive the same amount as Pierre, whose daughter died only a year-and-a-half ago?
Six-hundred bucks; I'm hardly going to reimburse my father for the coffin, but it WILL buy one purdy flower arrangement.
first in a series of my dealings with Quebec's Indemnisation des Victimes d'Actes Criminel
Having waited 25 years for a Quebec victims assistance service to come offer aid, I recently decided to take matters into my own hands and start knocking on doors.
What I knew of the two major Quebec victims assistance services, CAVAC and IVAC, was mostly gleaned through horror stories shared with other victims, but in truth I had no first-hand experience - in fact I didn't even know what the acronyms stood for. The worst "tale" was that of Pierre Boisvenu who, he had told me, had been given a paltry $600 to cover the cost of funeral arrangements in the matter of the murder of his daughter; this was the only assistance provided by CAVAC and IVAC, and the root of his bitterness with both organizations. But could this be so? Was $600 the extent of their services and compassion?
Then I caught wind of a brilliant idea... I was a victim! Why not contact IVAC and see what they were prepared to offer me as compensation for the trouble I had suffered for the murder of my sister. Sure, the case was fosillized, but it was worth a shot.
First things first, CAVAC stands for Les Centres d’aide aux victimes d’actes criminels. Not to sound catty, but I am still not clear on what exactly it is they do. I think they are supposed to act as a sort of information hub for victims. To be frank, when I attended Justice Canada's National Victims Conference in Ottawa last November (one last time: the victims conference without any victims) there was a large representation from CAVAC, but they looked like they weren't too sure what they were doing there. I introduced myself - it was pretty clear who I was since there was a C.B.C. camera stuck in my face - but I don't recall any of them approaching me and saying,
"Mr. Allore... in the matter of the recent reinvestigation into the murder of your sister... how are you doing? Is everything ok? Do you need some Quebec victims assistance?"
Nada - there was nothing like that. I do recall that they all were caring a lot of shopping bags, probably chaising down some pre-Christmas bargains in the big city.
So, that's CAVAC.
Now on to IVAC. IVAC stands for Indemnisation des Victimes d'Actes Criminel, the Crime Victims' Indemnity Commission. Unlike CAVAC, IVAC has a very definite purpose; since 1972 they've been doling out cash to victims of violent crime, with limited decerning criteria to define eligibility. IVAC does not require positive proof that someone was a victim; basically, if you tell your story to IVAC and it appears plausible than you may be eligile to receive a small fortune (unlike other victims compensation programs, IVAC has no minimum or maximum). Also, IVAC does not follow up with victims, so if you spin a good yarn, you could be set for life.
You'd think with such a loosy-goosy arrangement, IVAC might be bankrupt by now. Not so. According to an article by Kristian Gravenor, a 1987 Solicitor-General's report showed that less than one per cent of Quebec's crime victims applied for the money. This might have something to do with the fact that nobody is aware that the funds exist. IVAC advertises the fund once-a-year in medical magazines (hey, in 1979, my parents certainly weren't aware of it otherwise we would have hopped on the gravy-train).
Still, what could account for Pierre Boisvenu receiving such a small sum if the fund was so flush, and what might I be eligable for? Barely containing my excitement, I decided to call the IVAC offices in Montreal.
I was immediately put off by the guy that answered the phone; I expected him to do the I'll-only-speak-to-you-in-French brush-off, but instead he quickly switched to English - this made me even angrier, since it was my desire all along to struggle along in French.
- I wish to submit a demande.
- Can you tell me briefly the nature of the situation?
- Yes, my sister died in Quebec 25 years ago, but only recently was it discovered she had been murdered.
- Ah yes, in situations like that we can offer up to $600 towards compensation for the funeral expenses, do you wish for me to send you an application?
That was it. It was that simple, 60 seconds and I was riding the gravy train... Ok, $600; maybe the gravy cross-town bus. But why $600? Why should I receive the same amount as Pierre, whose daughter died only a year-and-a-half ago?
Six-hundred bucks; I'm hardly going to reimburse my father for the coffin, but it WILL buy one purdy flower arrangement.
Monday, March 8, 2004
Finally - A Quebec Victims Association
Last week's Sherbrooke Tribune reported that myself and Pierre Boisvenu are starting a club (Vers une association des victimes - it's VERY exclusive; someone close to you has to have died to get in).
Ok, so I'll fess up... I've been conspiring with Pierre and some of his friends - Marcel Bolduc and some guys who lost loved ones to the Hells Angels war; if it weren't for the Angels victims, me, Pierre, and Marcel would call ourselves,
Fathers And Brothers Who Have Lost Family Due To Canada's Insanely Inadequate Revolving-Door Parole System (FABCIRPS ???)...
But as we are joined by the others, we'll probably call ourselves something like,
Disgruntled Association of Victims of Quebec who Intend to Kick Ass (DAVQIKA?)
So we'll work on the name.
Seriously, it was Pierre's idea to start an association of Quebec victims, that is run by victims and for the benefit of victims, and I am fully behind this idea.
You say, such an organization already exists in Quebec?
No, no, no my friend. Unless you're referring to the anemic CAVAC (good luck getting them to return your call) or the technology-challenged IVAC (good luck finding a website). Did you hear that IVAC (whose role it is to compensate the families of victims of crime) managed to award Pierre Boisvenu the astronomical sum of $600 for his trouble in the death of his daughter, Julie?
Now I'm no funeral expert, but I did a little quick research over at www.casketsource.com; this LITERALLY wouldn't pay the price tag on a cardboard coffin.
Friday, March 5, 2004
Transcript of Boisvenu Press Conference / Original French release follows
REACTION OF THE BOISVENU FAMILY TO THE JUDGES DECISION TO MOVE OF THE MURDER TRIAL OF JULIE BOISVENU TO MONTREAL
SHERBROOKE, March 02 2004
On February 27 2004, the magistrate assigned to the file of the murder of Julie
Boisvenu returned a decision that disappoints us enormously. Our family is discouraged and devastated by this judgment. Now a multiple of questions must be asked of the principal players in this decision. Almost two years after the murder of our daughter Julie, and again we are faced with a big open wound, and nothing indicates that this will resolve itself quickly. We respect the judgment of the magistrate assigned to Julie's case and understand the legal arguments on which it is founded. However, allow us to express our disappointment at the decision to move the legal process in the matter of the death of our daughter to Montreal. This decision will have a grave impact on our family. It will cause a great financial impact on us in order to follow the case adequately. This insensitive decision only confirms for us that
the victims are not taken into account in the whole judicial process in Quebec.
We would like to have answers to the following questions:
- How is it possible that a press conference can be held by the Sherbrooke police
in which evidence is revealed that can so negatively impact the judicial procedures?
- What are the means of communication between the city of Sherbrooke and the assigned prosecutor to the file? Can these communications be improved so that strategic information in future will not be divulged that could harm the the legal process?
- Why was it that the victims weren't first consulted before the judgment by the
magistrate?
- We say it again, we intend to protest the decision of the official magistrate; We question the judge's grounds for movement, that the case will be less compromised in Montreal than in the L'Estrie region or Granby.
In 2004, with all the tools of modern media and information which are disposed to us, the national 24-hour media, the access to limitless information through the internet, etc... and the fact that the death of our daughter, Julie was shouted to all of Quebec through these resources, can we say that a potential jury from Montreal versus L'Estrie is any less compromised?
Is it realistically possible in this modern context for any potential jury to be truly free of external influence?
Can we truly say with this decision that we will have more trust in the discerning capacity and judgement of a jury from Montreal? In this context the process would have been better served by placing the trial in the sector of Granby; this would have been a more acceptable compromise.
Help us understand this - with so many criminal cases in Montreal, such as the recent judgment concerning the Hells Angels where, before the process even begun it was exposed publicly in the media - who will the trial of Julie not be compromised?
Does not moving the trial to Montreal tend to favor one, if not all of the parties representing the accused (who is from Montreal) while serving to the detriment
of the crown?
All the parties in this process will have to move themselves to Montreal
in order to participate in this trial. All of the women and the men of L'Estrie
involved in this just and equitable process will have to move
themselvesto the home of the accused and his lawyers. Also,
the lead prosecutor to this case since the beginning , Mr. Campagna, in whom we have great confidence, will he remain as crown prosecutor once the trial is relocated to Montreal?
Is it not so that in our justice system, the accused has recourses to advantages
that would favor them, and that the deceased victims are ignored, even discriminated
against in the judicial process?
Would it not be fitting to compensate the immediate family and its supporters in order to have easy access to this process? The remoteness of the location of the trial, does it not come to restrict the basic right of citizens and citizens of l'Estrie to
attend this process?
Finally, without entering into a game of comparisons, I would want point out
to our governments what is done to the families of the victims of such an assassination. When one sees the speed with which a government invest hundreds
of millions of dollars, think about the Programs of federal sponsorship, the huge monetary compensations authorized by a judge to the lawyers of Les Hells; how is it that when a young girl is murdered the government compensates the family a "generous" $600?
How is it that the revision of the program d'indemnisation of the victims
d'actes criminal (IVAC) managed by the CSST has not been concluded after 12 years
of administrative work?
We believe it is urgent that a quebec association of the victims d' actes criminal is established. It is important that this association have the cooperation of all government agencies so that the victims are better considered in the judicial process in Quebec and Canada. This situation I addressed last November during the National Victims of Crime Conference held in Ottawa. We seek nothing less than the solidarity of all the women and men of Quebec to accomplish this task in the defense of the victims of criminal acts.
Finally, the Boisvenu family wishes to express to the entire population of Quebec our thanks for the support and the words encouragement you have expressed during this too too long process.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
COMMUNIQUÉ DE PRESSE
Pour diffusion immédiate
RÉACTION DE LA FAMILLE BOISVENU
AU DÉPLACEMENT DU PROCÈS
DE L’ACCUSÉ DU MEURTRE
DE JULIE BOISVENU DANS
LA RÉGION DE MONTRÉAL
SHERBROOKE, le 02 mars 2004 - Le 27 février 2004, le magistrat nommé au dossier du meurtre Julie Boisvenu a rendu une décision qui nous déçoit énormément. Notre famille est découragée et dévastée par ce jugement. Aujourd’hui, de multiples questions interpellent les acteurs principaux dans ce dossier. Presque deux ans après le meurtre de Julie, la plaie encore grande ouverte et rien indique que le dossier se résoudra rapidement.
D’abord, la famille tient à affirmer qu’elle respecte le jugement du magistrat dans le dossier du meurtre de Julie et comprend les arguments légaux sur lequel il se fonde. Par contre nous désirons signifier notre déception devant la décision de déplacer le procès du présumé meurtrier de notre fille vers Montréal. Cette décision aura sur la famille des conséquences malheureuses. Ainsi, il y a un grand risque d’être reporté dans le temps et celui-ci occasionnera des frais de déplacement importants pour la famille et nos proches afin de le suivre adéquatement. Cette décision nous rappelle que les victimes ne sont pas prises en compte dans tout le processus judiciaires au Québec.
Au lieu de condamner et de juger qui que ce soit pour le travail fait, nous désirons avoir des réponses à nos questions.
Comment se fait-il qu’une conférence de presse de cette nature, tenue par les policiers de Sherbrooke au dénouement de leur enquête, ait pu avoir un impact si négatif sur le déroulement des procédures judiciaires? Quel a été l’encadrement fourni par le service des communications de la ville de Sherbrooke et le procureur assigné au dossier afin que l’information stratégique divulguée lors de la conférence de presse fut mieux filtrée afin de ne pas nuire aux suites du dossier devant la Cour? Pourquoi n’a-t-on pas suffisamment encadré les policiers qui se devaient d’une part informer une population inquiète et nerveuse suite au meurtre de Julie et d’autre part protéger des éléments de preuve ne pouvant à ce moment être rendus public?
Comment se fait-il que nous devions faire payer aux victimes les conséquences d’une activité de relation publique questionnable sur l’application des règles de base en matière de droit que soulève le magistrat dans son jugement?
Nous le disons encore, loin de nous l’intention de contester l’ensemble de la décision du magistrat attitré au dossier. Nous questionnons le fait que les citoyennes et citoyens de Montréal risquent d’être moins contaminés que ceux de la grande région l’Estrie et du secteur de Granby.
En 2004, peut-on se poser la question qu’avec tous les outils d’information modernes dont nous disposons, tels : les médias nationaux qui répètent sans arrêt des nouvelles, l’information illimitée accessible via internet, etc…; se peut-il qu’un membre potentiel d’un futur jury dans la cause de notre fille Julie qui a interpellé tout le Québec, qu’il soit de Montréal ou de l’Estrie, ait le même risque de contamination à cause de ce grand volume d’information disponible? Est-il possible que le contexte et le principe mêmes de constitution d’un jury devant demeurer à l’abri de toute influence externe soit révolus? Doit-on dorénavant davantage se fier à la capacité de discernement et de jugement des futurs membres d’un jury? Dans ce sens, le procès aurait mérité d’avoir lieu dans le secteur de Granby, ce qui nous serait apparu un compromis plus acceptable.
Comment comprendre cette décision alors que tant de dossiers criminels, tel celui des motards où, avant même la tenue des procès on expose publiquement une partie des preuves, tels les saisies et d’autres éléments de la preuve? Dans ce contexte, les citoyennes et les citoyens membres des jurés dans la cause des motards criminalisés ne furent-ils pas contaminés par toute l’information qui a circulé avant les procès? N’y avait-il pas lieu alors de déplacer ces procès dans le Grand Nord québécois afin de s’assurer d’un jury impartial?
En déplaçant le procès vers Montréal, ne favorise-t-on pas tous les acteurs responsables de la partie représentant l’accusé qui demeure dans cette région au détriment de la couronne? Tous les acteurs du procès devront se déplacer à Montréal afin de participer au procès. Toutes le femmes et les hommes de l’Estrie préoccupés par la tenue d’un procès juste et équitable devront également se déplacer vers le lieu de résidence l’accusé et de ses avocats. De plus, le procureur au dossier depuis le début des procédures, Me Campagna en qui nous avons une grande confiance sur le plan juridique et humain, sera-t-il toujours attitré à ce dossier une fois dans la région de Montréal? Si non…
Serait-il que, dans notre système de justice, les accusés auraient d’avantages de recours qui les favoriseraient et que les victimes décédées soient ignorées, même défavorisées dans le processus judiciaires ?
Une décision aussi difficile à accepter pour la famille n’aurait-elle pas du être assortie d’une recommandation appropriée afin de compenser justement la famille et ses proches pour avoir accès facilement au procès? Cet éloignement ne vient-il pas restreindre le droit fondamental aux citoyennes et citoyens de l’Estrie à assister à ce procès?
Enfin, sans entrer dans le jeu des comparaisons, je voudrais rappeler à nos gouvernements le sort qui est fait aux familles des victimes d’un tel assassinat. Quand on voit la vitesse avec laquelle un gouvernement investissent de centaines de millions de dollars, pensons au Programmes des commandites au fédéral, à l’échec de relance de l’usine de papier de Chandler ou aux compensations monétaires autorisées par un juge aux avocats des motards, comment se fait-il que lorsqu’une jeune fille est assassinée, le gouvernement compense la famille d’un montant de 600$...? Comment se fait-il que la révision du programme d’indemnisation des victimes d’actes criminelles (IVAC) administré par la CSST ne soit pas encore conclue après 12 ans de travaux administratifs?
Nous croyons qu’il est urgent que soit mis sur pied une association québécoise des victimes d’actes criminels. Il est important que celle-ci ait toute l’écoute des gouvernements afin que les victimes soient mieux considérées dans le processus judiciaires au Québec et au Canada. Cette situation, je la dénonçais, pas plus tard qu’au mois de novembre dernier, lors d’une Conférence nationale des victimes d’actes criminels à Ottawa. A cet égard nous ne demandons pas moins que la solidarité de toutes les femmes et les hommes du Québec afin de mener à bien ce projet de représentation officielle de la défense des victimes d’actes criminels.
La famille tient à dire à nouveau à toute la population du Québec son appréciation pour le support et les mots d’encouragement que vous adressez au cours de cette trop longue attente.
Source : Pierre-Hugues Boisvenu
Père de Julie Boisvenu
819-570-0640
REACTION OF THE BOISVENU FAMILY TO THE JUDGES DECISION TO MOVE OF THE MURDER TRIAL OF JULIE BOISVENU TO MONTREAL
SHERBROOKE, March 02 2004
On February 27 2004, the magistrate assigned to the file of the murder of Julie
Boisvenu returned a decision that disappoints us enormously. Our family is discouraged and devastated by this judgment. Now a multiple of questions must be asked of the principal players in this decision. Almost two years after the murder of our daughter Julie, and again we are faced with a big open wound, and nothing indicates that this will resolve itself quickly. We respect the judgment of the magistrate assigned to Julie's case and understand the legal arguments on which it is founded. However, allow us to express our disappointment at the decision to move the legal process in the matter of the death of our daughter to Montreal. This decision will have a grave impact on our family. It will cause a great financial impact on us in order to follow the case adequately. This insensitive decision only confirms for us that
the victims are not taken into account in the whole judicial process in Quebec.
We would like to have answers to the following questions:
- How is it possible that a press conference can be held by the Sherbrooke police
in which evidence is revealed that can so negatively impact the judicial procedures?
- What are the means of communication between the city of Sherbrooke and the assigned prosecutor to the file? Can these communications be improved so that strategic information in future will not be divulged that could harm the the legal process?
- Why was it that the victims weren't first consulted before the judgment by the
magistrate?
- We say it again, we intend to protest the decision of the official magistrate; We question the judge's grounds for movement, that the case will be less compromised in Montreal than in the L'Estrie region or Granby.
In 2004, with all the tools of modern media and information which are disposed to us, the national 24-hour media, the access to limitless information through the internet, etc... and the fact that the death of our daughter, Julie was shouted to all of Quebec through these resources, can we say that a potential jury from Montreal versus L'Estrie is any less compromised?
Is it realistically possible in this modern context for any potential jury to be truly free of external influence?
Can we truly say with this decision that we will have more trust in the discerning capacity and judgement of a jury from Montreal? In this context the process would have been better served by placing the trial in the sector of Granby; this would have been a more acceptable compromise.
Help us understand this - with so many criminal cases in Montreal, such as the recent judgment concerning the Hells Angels where, before the process even begun it was exposed publicly in the media - who will the trial of Julie not be compromised?
Does not moving the trial to Montreal tend to favor one, if not all of the parties representing the accused (who is from Montreal) while serving to the detriment
of the crown?
All the parties in this process will have to move themselves to Montreal
in order to participate in this trial. All of the women and the men of L'Estrie
involved in this just and equitable process will have to move
themselvesto the home of the accused and his lawyers. Also,
the lead prosecutor to this case since the beginning , Mr. Campagna, in whom we have great confidence, will he remain as crown prosecutor once the trial is relocated to Montreal?
Is it not so that in our justice system, the accused has recourses to advantages
that would favor them, and that the deceased victims are ignored, even discriminated
against in the judicial process?
Would it not be fitting to compensate the immediate family and its supporters in order to have easy access to this process? The remoteness of the location of the trial, does it not come to restrict the basic right of citizens and citizens of l'Estrie to
attend this process?
Finally, without entering into a game of comparisons, I would want point out
to our governments what is done to the families of the victims of such an assassination. When one sees the speed with which a government invest hundreds
of millions of dollars, think about the Programs of federal sponsorship, the huge monetary compensations authorized by a judge to the lawyers of Les Hells; how is it that when a young girl is murdered the government compensates the family a "generous" $600?
How is it that the revision of the program d'indemnisation of the victims
d'actes criminal (IVAC) managed by the CSST has not been concluded after 12 years
of administrative work?
We believe it is urgent that a quebec association of the victims d' actes criminal is established. It is important that this association have the cooperation of all government agencies so that the victims are better considered in the judicial process in Quebec and Canada. This situation I addressed last November during the National Victims of Crime Conference held in Ottawa. We seek nothing less than the solidarity of all the women and men of Quebec to accomplish this task in the defense of the victims of criminal acts.
Finally, the Boisvenu family wishes to express to the entire population of Quebec our thanks for the support and the words encouragement you have expressed during this too too long process.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
COMMUNIQUÉ DE PRESSE
Pour diffusion immédiate
RÉACTION DE LA FAMILLE BOISVENU
AU DÉPLACEMENT DU PROCÈS
DE L’ACCUSÉ DU MEURTRE
DE JULIE BOISVENU DANS
LA RÉGION DE MONTRÉAL
SHERBROOKE, le 02 mars 2004 - Le 27 février 2004, le magistrat nommé au dossier du meurtre Julie Boisvenu a rendu une décision qui nous déçoit énormément. Notre famille est découragée et dévastée par ce jugement. Aujourd’hui, de multiples questions interpellent les acteurs principaux dans ce dossier. Presque deux ans après le meurtre de Julie, la plaie encore grande ouverte et rien indique que le dossier se résoudra rapidement.
D’abord, la famille tient à affirmer qu’elle respecte le jugement du magistrat dans le dossier du meurtre de Julie et comprend les arguments légaux sur lequel il se fonde. Par contre nous désirons signifier notre déception devant la décision de déplacer le procès du présumé meurtrier de notre fille vers Montréal. Cette décision aura sur la famille des conséquences malheureuses. Ainsi, il y a un grand risque d’être reporté dans le temps et celui-ci occasionnera des frais de déplacement importants pour la famille et nos proches afin de le suivre adéquatement. Cette décision nous rappelle que les victimes ne sont pas prises en compte dans tout le processus judiciaires au Québec.
Au lieu de condamner et de juger qui que ce soit pour le travail fait, nous désirons avoir des réponses à nos questions.
Comment se fait-il qu’une conférence de presse de cette nature, tenue par les policiers de Sherbrooke au dénouement de leur enquête, ait pu avoir un impact si négatif sur le déroulement des procédures judiciaires? Quel a été l’encadrement fourni par le service des communications de la ville de Sherbrooke et le procureur assigné au dossier afin que l’information stratégique divulguée lors de la conférence de presse fut mieux filtrée afin de ne pas nuire aux suites du dossier devant la Cour? Pourquoi n’a-t-on pas suffisamment encadré les policiers qui se devaient d’une part informer une population inquiète et nerveuse suite au meurtre de Julie et d’autre part protéger des éléments de preuve ne pouvant à ce moment être rendus public?
Comment se fait-il que nous devions faire payer aux victimes les conséquences d’une activité de relation publique questionnable sur l’application des règles de base en matière de droit que soulève le magistrat dans son jugement?
Nous le disons encore, loin de nous l’intention de contester l’ensemble de la décision du magistrat attitré au dossier. Nous questionnons le fait que les citoyennes et citoyens de Montréal risquent d’être moins contaminés que ceux de la grande région l’Estrie et du secteur de Granby.
En 2004, peut-on se poser la question qu’avec tous les outils d’information modernes dont nous disposons, tels : les médias nationaux qui répètent sans arrêt des nouvelles, l’information illimitée accessible via internet, etc…; se peut-il qu’un membre potentiel d’un futur jury dans la cause de notre fille Julie qui a interpellé tout le Québec, qu’il soit de Montréal ou de l’Estrie, ait le même risque de contamination à cause de ce grand volume d’information disponible? Est-il possible que le contexte et le principe mêmes de constitution d’un jury devant demeurer à l’abri de toute influence externe soit révolus? Doit-on dorénavant davantage se fier à la capacité de discernement et de jugement des futurs membres d’un jury? Dans ce sens, le procès aurait mérité d’avoir lieu dans le secteur de Granby, ce qui nous serait apparu un compromis plus acceptable.
Comment comprendre cette décision alors que tant de dossiers criminels, tel celui des motards où, avant même la tenue des procès on expose publiquement une partie des preuves, tels les saisies et d’autres éléments de la preuve? Dans ce contexte, les citoyennes et les citoyens membres des jurés dans la cause des motards criminalisés ne furent-ils pas contaminés par toute l’information qui a circulé avant les procès? N’y avait-il pas lieu alors de déplacer ces procès dans le Grand Nord québécois afin de s’assurer d’un jury impartial?
En déplaçant le procès vers Montréal, ne favorise-t-on pas tous les acteurs responsables de la partie représentant l’accusé qui demeure dans cette région au détriment de la couronne? Tous les acteurs du procès devront se déplacer à Montréal afin de participer au procès. Toutes le femmes et les hommes de l’Estrie préoccupés par la tenue d’un procès juste et équitable devront également se déplacer vers le lieu de résidence l’accusé et de ses avocats. De plus, le procureur au dossier depuis le début des procédures, Me Campagna en qui nous avons une grande confiance sur le plan juridique et humain, sera-t-il toujours attitré à ce dossier une fois dans la région de Montréal? Si non…
Serait-il que, dans notre système de justice, les accusés auraient d’avantages de recours qui les favoriseraient et que les victimes décédées soient ignorées, même défavorisées dans le processus judiciaires ?
Une décision aussi difficile à accepter pour la famille n’aurait-elle pas du être assortie d’une recommandation appropriée afin de compenser justement la famille et ses proches pour avoir accès facilement au procès? Cet éloignement ne vient-il pas restreindre le droit fondamental aux citoyennes et citoyens de l’Estrie à assister à ce procès?
Enfin, sans entrer dans le jeu des comparaisons, je voudrais rappeler à nos gouvernements le sort qui est fait aux familles des victimes d’un tel assassinat. Quand on voit la vitesse avec laquelle un gouvernement investissent de centaines de millions de dollars, pensons au Programmes des commandites au fédéral, à l’échec de relance de l’usine de papier de Chandler ou aux compensations monétaires autorisées par un juge aux avocats des motards, comment se fait-il que lorsqu’une jeune fille est assassinée, le gouvernement compense la famille d’un montant de 600$...? Comment se fait-il que la révision du programme d’indemnisation des victimes d’actes criminelles (IVAC) administré par la CSST ne soit pas encore conclue après 12 ans de travaux administratifs?
Nous croyons qu’il est urgent que soit mis sur pied une association québécoise des victimes d’actes criminels. Il est important que celle-ci ait toute l’écoute des gouvernements afin que les victimes soient mieux considérées dans le processus judiciaires au Québec et au Canada. Cette situation, je la dénonçais, pas plus tard qu’au mois de novembre dernier, lors d’une Conférence nationale des victimes d’actes criminels à Ottawa. A cet égard nous ne demandons pas moins que la solidarité de toutes les femmes et les hommes du Québec afin de mener à bien ce projet de représentation officielle de la défense des victimes d’actes criminels.
La famille tient à dire à nouveau à toute la population du Québec son appréciation pour le support et les mots d’encouragement que vous adressez au cours de cette trop longue attente.
Source : Pierre-Hugues Boisvenu
Père de Julie Boisvenu
819-570-0640
Monday, February 23, 2004
Croteau Redux
An interesting piece in yesterday's Gazette about a Longueuil women who thinks guy Croteau might have raped her in 1977.
Yes, I know Big-Bad-Guy isn't responsible for every sex crime in the '70s and '80s, but indulge me for a moment (my comments in italics):
Sexual attacker hands pedestrian a life sentence
JAMES MENNIE
The Gazette
Sunday, February 22, 2004
She says it was nearly 27 years ago, and so she's had to trade off some details in the recollection of it.
For example, she can remember the colour of the building where she first saw him standing, looking at her, but she's never been sure if he was wearing a checked lumberjack's jacket or an army fatigue coat.
"A checked lumberjack's jacket" matches the clothing worn by one of the suspects in the Manon Dube case.
Jeanette is 53 now, has a husband and works as a teacher and freelance writer, but most of what happened that autumn evening in 1977 remains crystal clear, the details as sharply defined as the shock in the man's eyes when she turned around and defended herself.
1977: this would put Croteau at approximately 21 years of age. A young serial killer in the making?
"I was coming back from the Longueuil métro station to where I live," she said. "I decided to walk rather than take the bus. It was about a 15-minute walk."
It was also a walk that took her from the subway across an overpass that spans Taschereau Blvd. and, as she paced across the bridge in the twilight, Jeanette looked back and noticed what appeared to be the figure of a man standing by a blue glass building. She resumed walking and was about three-quarters across the overpass when she sensed "a very light touch ... like a draft."
"So I whipped around and this guy had his hand right up the back of my skirt. ... I was just enraged to see him. I started showering abuse on him ... and then bashing him. I had a very heavy purse and I swung at his head.
"After I yelled at him, the strangest thing is he looked as if he was going to cry. ... He turned around and began to run. I began to chase him."
She chased him?
"I don't know. I was just so mad."
A woman reported to me a similar encounter with a man on the streets of Sherbrooke, Quebec in 1980. The man confronted her, she challenged him, he looked like he might cry, then she chased him.
Jeanette says he looked like someone who had just walked out of the woods - a beard, fairly long hair. "But it was his eyes that stood out the most. He had the most spectacular eyes."
Her assailant got away and Jeanette went home and filed a police report. She was visited by two officers who kept looking around her apartment, asked if she was single, if she lived alone, why she was walking alone at night. They left her feeling as if she was somehow responsible for the attack. It was the '70s.
It was the '70s? Oh come-on, James, do you think women are treated with any greater respect today?
The police said they'd come back with mug shots. They never did, Jeanette says.
This is an often described scenerio. I can't tell you the number of women who have contacted me about sexual assaults from 1977 - 1980. In almost every case the police very quickly dismissed their cause
Jeanette put the incident behind her for eight years, even though she'd shake when she talked about it, until an 18-year-old girl was found raped and killed in a ditch that runs parallel to the overpass.
Nathalie Boucher's body was found less than 300 metres from her Longueuil home. As of yesterday, her killing remained unsolved. "I always felt it was the same guy who did it," Jeanette says. "That he decided to get it right this time."
Nathalie Boucher is a new one on me. Yes, there are many people who could be responsible for her death. But one thing to keep in mind; Guy Croteau is the only "serial killer" I know of who to date is responsible for only one murder. He will serve a life sentence for the death of Sophie Landry: this is good. But who else did he kill? Remember, this is not stuff from my imagination; it is the Surete du Quebec who have publically labeled Croteau as a multiple murderer.
Ok, SQ, we're waiting for the other murders. It was dumb luck that you were able to link Croteau to Landry. Now it's time to go to work and solve some crimes.
And then, two years ago, she was in a coffee shop when she saw a newspaper front page covered with a series of photographs under a headline that read: "The Many Faces of a Serial Rapist." It was story about Guy Croteau, a school janitor who had been arrested for a murder and a string of sexual assaults on the South Shore.
The police published the 10, startlingly different photos after Croteau, then 45, was charged with nine sexual assaults that occurred between 1995 and 2000 and the 1987 murder of a 16-year-old girl who had been raped and stabbed 173 times.
Jeanette recognized the eyes.
She called the Sûreté du Québec's toll-free number and told them about the incident on the overpass. They took the information and never called back.
Oh boy! Like I'm not familiar with this story!
Jeanette, I called the same toll-free number, and guess what? They didn't call me back either. For a police force relying on the public to solve crimes, they sure weren't eager to put any effort into it. In short, it took embarrassing the SQ in the newspapers before they would even consider looking at my sister's murder in relation to Croteau.
FYI: Croteau had ties to the Eastern Townships.
Now, at this point it has to be said that the greater Montreal area has more than enough murderers and rapists to go around, and the area around the Longueuil métro, the place where Nathalie Boucher was murdered, where Croteau's 16-year-old victim was last seen alive, has known its share of crime scenes.
Ya, ya , ya... so this is an excuse not to look into these things?
Ask Jeanette what she'd do if the cops told her tomorrow that they knew for an absolute fact the man who tried to attack her wasn't Guy Croteau and she pauses for the longest time.
They can't say that. They don't know that.
"It's possible. ... It's possible I've talked myself into this." But Jeanette feels that even if it wasn't Croteau, "the guy who came up behind me (27 years ago) meant business."
And that's when you know that in the end, it really doesn't matter who it was who stood by a blue glass building on an autumn night in 1977, whether he wore a checked jacket or a drab olive coat, whether he's going to sit in a cell for the next quarter century or whether he's still out there.
We tell ourselves that justice has been done, that a school janitor convicted for the rape and murder of a teenage girl in 1987 has been given a life sentence for his crime. Even if he's convicted of anything else, society cannot do more to Guy Croteau than it already has.
So society should close the chapter on Croteau? Nathalie Boucher's murder remains unsolved. The Surete du Quebec has stated publicly that Guy Croteau is a serial killer - though inexplicably they can only tab him for one murder.
Doesn’t the SQ have an obligation to society to determine what other murders Croteau committed? In doing that, we just might learn from past mistakes. And I don't think it was women who made the mistake of walking where they shouldn't late at night.
But everything - including justice - is relative. Because a 27-year-old woman one autumn night decided to do nothing more sinister than walk home from the métro, a 53-year-old woman still wonders a quarter of a century after the fact whether she defended herself against a murderer in the making.
And that, some might argue, is a life sentence in itself.
I will leave the last word to another victim, Marc Lapierre who so eloquently stated:
"Life Sentence - it's the victims that receive it."
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Sophie Landry / Guy Croteau
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 2004
Sophie Landry
This site experienced a surge of visits yesterday. Checking my Site Meter, I found out why. In the wake of Guy Croteau's murder conviction, people were looking for more information on the case. But they weren't coming here for me, they weren't searching for Croteau. The words people kept Googling over and over were "Sophie Landry".
We've been accustomed to thinking that the offender holds all the interest and fascination. It is heartening, in this instance at least, that people want to learn more about the victim. I can't tell you anything about Sophie Landry. I didn't know her. But it's nice to know people are still thinking about her, that they care about her.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 2004
Croteau Attempts Suicide
the judge said five to ten
but I say double that again...
Moments after being convicted of the murder of Sophie Landry, Guy Croteau tries to slit his wrists in front of crowded courtroom.
Guy The Knife Could Walk
In a move I can only describe as, well... stupid... jurors in the Guy Croteau murder trial have asked to review the tapes of the closing arguments for each lawyer.
Recall that Croteau (irony of ironies: did I mention that "croteau" means "cut" in French) is charged with the 1987 death of 16-year-old Sophie Landry who was stabbed 173 times.
Hey jury! Let me make it easy for you...
SHE WAS STABBED 173 TIMES!!!!
So what could be holding up the jury? That's easy: utter confusion courtesy of the Judge. It turns out that - thanks to Superior Court Justice James Brunton - jurors are unaware that Croteau is awaiting trial on multiple charges of sexual assault, forcible confinement and robbery involving 10 other females age 10 to 18.
Brunton deemed this information prejudicial to the defendant.
Oy vey! With judges like this, who needs criminals!
Also, Justice Brunton disallowed testimony from profiler, Marc Lepine (No, not that Marc Lepine, in another irony, the Surete profiler shares the name of one of Quebec's most prolific murderers).
So what does the jury have to go on? Not much. That a girl was found stabbed to death with the defendant's sperm inside her. Defending attorney, Marc Labelle, has argued that Croteau might have raped her, but it doesn't mean he killed her. This might make sense except for the fact that in the matter of the other assaults:
- All of the victims were teenagers.
- All of the victims were assaulted on the South Shore of Montreal
- They were all found in isolated areas
- A knife was used in each incident.
Also, Croteau's m.o. is well established: he works alone; his pick-up line is usually of the, "hey, kid, can you help me find my lost puppy?" ilk. If Croteau raped Landry, then he most likely killed her too; there wouldn't have been a buddy around to blame.
Despite these points, Justice Brunton ruled there was not enough proof of a connection between the Landry murder and the sexual assaults.
Justice Brunton: that's French for knucklehead.
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