A New Kind of Monster (35 page)

And because his disorder lurked so deeply within him, it seems unfair to fault the Canadian Armed Forces for not detecting it. Conceivably there were shortfalls in his medical evaluation near the end of 2008, after which he was promoted. But no military screening or checks-and-balances system could have detected the sickness of a murderous human freak like Russ Williams, an exemplary soldier and commander who committed
all his crimes while off-duty, wreaking such destruction and heartbreak, and who started so late in life. That's how unusual he is—rarely seen before and unlikely to surface again—and he is not a symptom of anything but himself. Most serial killers are losers: the recluse who lives in a basement, the schizophrenic who hears voices in his head, the resentful misfit who has failed in life and hates the world. Williams was a winner, a powerful high-achiever, and nothing like any of them. And neither did he want to get caught—an enduring myth about serial killers.

“Why did he do it? Because he's a bright, bright guy who's intelligent, intelligent guys get bored easily, and he's got this deviant thing,” the police source says. “And while we on the outside look at his life and say, ‘Wow, he's at the top of his heap, he's flown the prime minister, he's in charge of his own air base,' that wasn't enough for him. His dark side is deviant sexuality, it's his preoccupation, and he made the decision to act on it. That's all. He's a big boy.”

In his cage at Kingston Penitentiary, or in some other place very similar, Williams will have the rest of his life to ask himself that same question: why? He told Smyth he didn't know, and that he suspected the answers, whatever they might be, made little difference to anything. There he was wrong. He holds a spot among Canada's very worst killers, and many people remain bewildered by him—not only by his particular brand of cruelty but by his willingness to betray everything he was supposed to represent, all for his own sexual gratification.

He's unlikely to provide any more answers than he already has. In large part his tailored confessions were seen by his inquisitors as his only means of salvaging any shred of control from his
hopeless situation. But as well, they helped him unburden himself of some guilt. And when done, he told police he had no interest in further discussing his crimes with anyone, least of all the media. What could it possibly achieve? Williams is intelligent enough to know that however enormous his shame, he can never be forgiven and no parole board can ever set him free.

But he doesn't mind talking to other people casually—off the record, as it were. Two days after he pleaded guilty to all the charges, he told a guard at the detention center that had he known his plea and sentencing would be such an enormous news event, he would not have gone ahead with it. It was one more lie, and a very obvious one. He knew very well that if his crimes had gone to trial, all the horrific evidence would have come out anyway, along with a great deal more, including disclosure of his kiddie-porn collection. As well, his already substantial legal fees would have swelled by tens of thousands of dollars—costs he told Smyth he was particularly anxious to avoid. The remark nonetheless shows how painful the media onslaught was, and how acute his sense of humiliation.

Nor is any more light likely to be shed by the Ontario Provincial Police, despite their successful investigation and the copious amounts of evidence presented in court. When Williams was convicted, the OPP said that after the thirty-day appeal period, investigators would be willing to entertain questions. But then, when the thirty days elapsed, orders came from newly minted commissioner Chris Lewis, Fantino's recent successor: out of deference to the victims and their families, it had been resolved there would be no more discussion of the Russ Williams case by the police officers or anyone else involved, all of whom were ordered to comply. It looked to be a clumsy move, because most of the questions probably had good answers: whether the residents of Tweed were given sufficient warning about the twin sex attacks; why the agreed
statement of facts omitted the unfortunate but significant incident when the Belleville policewoman drove up to Lloyd's house and then departed, as Williams skulked in the darkness; whether the various police forces investigating different crimes could have liaised differently; whether Williams was ever under police scrutiny before he was nabbed at the roadblock that night (from the outset, the OPP was adamant he was not, but doubts persisted).

All of this could probably have been addressed fairly easily. The other big, unstated reason for the police reticence, however, was the ever-familiar overconcern about investigative techniques being compromised. As well, Stephen Harper's federal government was anxious to see the last of a tragedy and scandal that had been so injurious to the armed forces, and pressure was felt from the Prime Minister's Office to make the story quickly vanish, according to OPP sources. And so it was decided to say almost nothing, leaving the impression that, once again, a big Canadian police force had circled its wagons and retreated into silence—even after scoring such a ringing victory.

Most of the hundreds of people directly affected by Russell Williams's betrayal—thousands, if the Canadian military is included—had doubtless already drawn their conclusions about who or what he is. And for most, there may be comfort in knowing he will never again prey upon the fellow Canadians he was sworn to protect. For many, too, there is justice in knowing he will spend the rest of his days in a nightmarishly claustrophobic environment that will bring him great distress. In the victim impact phase of the sentencing hearing in Belleville, Lloyd's mother, Roxanne, a pendant containing some of Jessica's ashes dangling from her neck, spoke for many as she described through her tears the experience of seeing her daughter in a coffin: “No amount of suffering Russell Williams will feel after today can compare with
the suffering we have felt.” And a young woman named Kirsten, one of Jessica Lloyd's best friends, also expressed what many were feeling. After Williams acceded to Kirsten's challenge to look her in the eye, she told the court: “I hope he rots.”

Two weeks after Williams was dispatched to the penitentiary, Governor General David Johnston formally revoked his military commission, sealing his expulsion from the Canadian Armed Forces. Then, in December, the Department of National Defence announced that his two medals would be shredded, along with his commission scroll. And in the interim, the military would perform a curious act of exorcism.

The people who live along Cosy Cove Lane in Tweed, and on adjoining Charles Court, had long wearied of gawking tourists driving by for a glimpse of the house of horrors where Jessica Lloyd died, and that was, in a sense, the epicenter of events. No one expected the blue-gray cottage ever to be inhabited again—if and when it is leveled, next-door neighbor Larry Jones has said he might buy the land—but in the meantime, the property's status had for months been on hold, frozen by a judicial order stemming from Jane Doe's lawsuit against Williams and Harriman.

Then, one day in the third week of November, at around the same time that Williams was being given a medical examination that sealed his formal discharge from the military, a minivan pulled up outside number 62 Cosy Cove Lane. In it were four members of the 8 Wing base at Trenton, including two military police officers, who with Williams's permission unlocked the door and went inside. Ninety minutes later the van departed, loaded with all the fallen commander's military clothing and equipment: uniform, boots, shirts, headdress, books. When
anyone leaves the armed forces, it is standard procedure to retrieve his or her gear, and if possible recycle it. And it may be that that's what happened to some of Williams's stuff.

But not the crisp blue uniform he had once worn so proudly, and not anything else that bore his name. In a building at the Trenton air base there is an incinerator used to dispose of secret or sensitive documents. In a move that had no precedent, Williams's uniform was dropped inside and burned. The homicidal ex-colonel's disgrace was complete.

The first debt of gratitude is to those people who were willing to talk to me—either on the record or on condition of anonymity—in my effort to tell the story of Russell Williams. As well, none of this could have happened without the generosity of colleagues at the
Globe and Mail
, most of all investigative reporter Greg McArthur, whose hard work and talent was plundered. Special thanks, too, to reporters Colin Freeze, Tony Reinhart and Christie Blatchford and to the amazing folk who run our Editorial Research operation: take a bow Celia Donnelly, Rick Cash, Paula Wilson and, especially, Stephanie Chambers. Thanks also to the senior
Globe
management for cutting me loose for many months, particularly Deputy Editor Sylvia Stead, who instantly recognized the story for what it was. In Tweed, Lisa Ford became a great friend and ally, and in Trenton the debt is to Kathleen Rankine and Steve Bolton for their kindness in sharing their knowledge of all things military. At Random House, thanks to Anne Collins, editor Pamela Murray and the rest of the team there, as well as freelance editors John Sweet and Angelika Glover. Likewise to Charles Conrad and his people at Crown Publishing Group in New York. Last, not least, thanks to my best friend, Bob McKelvie, to Sheila Whyte, and to my agent, Helen Heller, for their constant support and insight.

Finally, it was of utmost importance to try to do justice to the memories of the two courageous women who were murdered by Williams, Corporal Marie-France Comeau and Jessica Lloyd, and to acknowledge the scores of others who were harmed. Any errors are my own, but I've tried to tell the truth and hope that in some small way it might help heal some of the wounds.

All photos are copyright Timothy Appleby except where otherwise noted. Grateful acknowledgment is expressed to the following people and sources for permission to reprint these images.

The maps of Orleans and Tweed on
this page
are copyright Brian Hughes/
GetStock.com
.

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all images courtesy
The Globe and Mail

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all images courtesy
The Globe and Mail

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all images courtesy
The Globe and Mail

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© George White

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courtesy
The Globe and Mail

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courtesy
The Globe and Mail

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courtesy
The Globe and Mail

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courtesy
The Globe and Mail

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Court exhibits: handout

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© Kathleen Rankine

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©Chris Mikula/Ottawa Citizen

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©The Canadian Press/Nathan Denette

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