Birth of a killer.

At nine years old, the boy was no stranger to sadistic behavior. He’s been coming across insects, squashing ants and other bugs. At first, he was squishing them under his shoes. Then he tried with his fingers, and the sensation was incredible, and he felt terrific. He could pick up an ant, hold it between his thumb and index finger, smile at it and whisper goodbye, his fingers rubbing together, annihilating the poor ant from existence.

He smiled, his laugh lines showed a little, but the outward expression was grim, and his eyes reflected calm. The boy spends the summer with his stepfather so his mother can work without paying for childcare. Violette’s dual life as a call girl and devout woman presents no conflict for her. Violette’s prayers, before and after each client, seek divine help in raising a godly son, resistant to worldly temptations.

Some days are idyllic for him, especially when mom took him out to the local restaurant, and he got to order spaghetti poutine and a tall glass of cola. The embarrassment of having to murmur prayers of thanks was worth it, as he imagined other clients giggling and mocking them behind their backs. In the booth, he kept his head down, praying, concentrating on the salt and pepper shakers. His mother’s fingers looked so beautiful with that pale pink nail polish, her shiny rings, the small veins on the back of each hand with their bluish tint. They ate in silence, exchanging a few smiles, and she might reach out, wiping the sauce from his mouth, and say, “God is pleased with you, and we will go to church after our meal to thank the Lord.” And Pierre-Martin smiled, and for all intent and purpose, seemed agreeable while he dreamed of seeing her disappear. He hated that she dated all those men. When she was on the phone, he overheard her, and he had figured out that she was charging them money for something and that she would meet them at the motel.

Michel left his mom a year earlier and came out as a gay man. The young boy was with him all summer, up in the Lanaudiere region of Quebec. Michel had a small log cabin-type house up in the mountainous area overlooking Sainte-Beatrix, near a bluff, a river, and swimmable lakes. His stepdad had a boyfriend staying with them. While the three of them fished on the river, he saw them kissing. A wave of nausea washed over him, his stomach churning with a strange unease. Mom had told him of Michel’s sinful life with other men, instructing her son to ignore such sights and offer prayers. The boy knew how to ruin their day. He jumped out of the small boat and into the cold water. Michel heard the splash, stopped the outboard motor, saw Pierre-Martin splashing about and about to sink. Michel dived in and swam towards the sinking boy, and when he was close enough, reached out and grabbed him by his hair at the very moment the kid disappeared below the surface. He pulled him back toward the boat. The friend helped them back on board and found a beach towel to wrap around the boy.

The boy thought about that word his mother would use to describe such people—degenerates. His stepdad was one such degenerate and was damned to hell. Though he pretended otherwise, he wished he could see them burn in front of his eyes. And one evening, while the men drove to a nearby village for groceries, he set fire to the cabin by lighting one of his stepfather’s cigarette stubs and placed it in front of the fireplace’s wood and paper pile. He sat there until it caught, then walked out the door and towards the dock. Once there, watched the cabin burn down.

The smoke was heavy, rising to the sky, which made him smile with satisfaction. His plan guaranteed a return to his mother. Two fire engines roared in, but the fire had consumed the cabin beyond repair. It had already burnt to the ground. Michel and his boyfriend rushed back when they heard from someone at the grocery store about a cabin burning near the bluff. Michel was a mess, fearing for his stepson’s safety. He jumped out of his car, running around and yelling his son’s name, frantic and crying. A police officer approached Michel and questioned him about the cabin, but Michel could only focus on his son and the cabin’s charred remains. Then, a child’s voice called, “Dad! Over here!” Michel turned towards the voice, saw his stepson and went to him, picking him up and holding him tight, thanking the universe that his son was alive.

The police interviewed Michel because fire investigators found the source of the fire was a cigarette that started the blaze. The investigators decided his actions were negligent, but accidental. Because of this ruling, the insurance company refused to pay, and Violette believed God punished Michel for his lifestyle. She would never allow her son ever again to leave her side; Violette had been mistaken about sending him off to be with his father. She, too, suffered by coming so close to losing him. She kept Pierre-Martin at home for the rest of the summer. Violette had to punish him after he told her how he witnessed his dad and boyfriend kiss. She took out an old cane she had found in a motel room while servicing a client and beat him bloody, leaving welts on his backside, arms, and legs. Violette forced him to kneel on that same cane for hours on end and pray to God to forgive his sins.

His mother, when she was drunk, would angrily lament how his real father, a cop, had abandoned them. Once, when visiting a Mall during the holidays, his mom got angry and started cursing at a man going down the other side of an escalator with his wife and son. The boy realized he was seeing his father for the first time. An hour later, the boy took out his anger at a Santa, and was forcefully removed along with his mother, but not before staring directly at his father’s other son. He felt envy, but above that, he felt rage.

At twelve, the boy has taken a keen interest in an older neighbour’s fish. He had taken to doing small chores for this older woman next door with his mother’s permission. She was a little forgetful about where she left things. He was observant and knew she had forgotten to turn off the stove, which warranted a visit from the local firefighters. Once, she even mistook a garden gnome for him in her backyard and told his mother, complaining how he was just standing there staring at her. The boy’s mother went over, realized that what Mrs. Warren was looking at nothing other than the damn garden gnome and told her. She barked at the old lady that she had disturbed her, mumbling, “You senile old bitch,” as she walked back through the backyard gate and into her home.

He knew that Mrs. Warren was having memory issues and that her credibility was sometimes not at its best, and decided he would use this to help him with his plan for her aquarium fishes. The boy had overheard a couple of women talk about how one of their cats got real sick after nibbling on a pine tree car freshener and that it came close to dying. He found it thrilling and tested it. It occurred to him that Mrs. Warren’s fish would be the perfect victims. So, one fine day, he knocked at her door, offering to do some vacuuming of the living room carpet, which is a little worse for the wear because of her spilling or dropping food on it. She was glad for his thoughtfulness and accepted if he would take a small fee.

The boy took out the vacuum and moved some furniture to reach some areas while Mrs. Warren was having tea in her kitchen. The future serial killer puts his plan into action. He took out the pine tree freshener from his mother’s car and walked over to the aquarium. The boy used a couch pouffe to climb on, making it easier to reach the cover to access the fish. Then, checking she was still in the kitchen, he went back to work. Using a plastic planting clip, he sets the freshener behind a decorative rock. He secured it to prevent it from floating to the surface.

The boy wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there above the aquarium. He was in a state of gleefulness. He felt a tingling down there. The pleasure was so intense it paralyzed him with delight. Coming out of this state, he replaced the cover, stepped off the pouffe, placing it back in its place, and continued vacuuming as he waited to see what would happen to the fish. At first, they seemed brighter; their colours becoming more intense, like they were putting on a show just for him. Toxic oils leached into the water, poisoning the fish. Soon they jerked around a little, swimming in circles. In the end, they floated belly up. The young sadist smiled, whistling to himself. He finished his chores, vacuuming under chairs and the edge of the couch where she dropped crumbs. Walking to the closet, he half lifted, half pushed the vacuum cleaner back in its place and headed to the kitchen. Mrs. Warren greeted him and offered cookies, which he took but would dump as soon as he was outside; they were stale. Overwhelmed with appreciation, she offered him the money, expressing her sincere gratitude for his kindness. Her smile showed her teeth, yellowed, many missing, betraying a lack of means to care for them.

After thanking her and smiling, he left and went back home. His mother was not around, as she often had to work on-call, visiting clients who paid for what she offered. He hated that his mother was not there for him, especially because she was mean to him. He wished she had gone, but he knew he wasn’t yet ready. Her turn would come.

At sixteen, he was the target of a bully at school, got pushed around and punched a few times, one chubby fist hitting him just off his right temple. The boy took the hits, not wanting to show just how terrible it could have gone for the bully because passing as non-violent suited his plans. Three days passed, the teen who bullied him found a new package of cigarettes at the feet of his bicycle, where he locks it up every day. He looked around to see if anyone is coming back for them, bent over and grabbed the pack, taking out a cigarette, then fished through his backpack, coming across matches and lit himself up a free cigarette all the while laughing to himself, imagining the poor asshole who lost the smokes. Ben, the bully, hopped on his bicycle, rode up the street while smoking. A feeling of lightheadedness set in minutes later.

Ben got home, feeling a little agitated, went to his room and sat near the open window. He lit up another cigarette. Now he felt weird, restless, and his awareness was on fire. Memories of many little details about his ride home, the street smells, birds chirping, cars going by, horns honking, a young couple arguing at a corner stop. The muscles in his body were aching, and he thought riding his bicycle could be the culprit. His jaw tightened, and his entire body was sore. Breathing was getting complicated. He felt fear.

Vomiting soon followed. Muscles contracting and convulsing. The pain became terrible, and he was having difficulty breathing more than earlier. His head arched backwards, the extremities of his arms and legs extending, his jaw clenched, turning into a grimace. Neck muscles tightened, blocking air from reaching the lungs. His parents were out in the backyard. Ben tried rising, but his trembling hand failed to grasp the doorknob. Ben no longer had control over his body. He tried to scream, tried to stand, but his legs were stiff beyond belief. He fell and hit his head, landing sideways on the bedpost, and everything went dark. Ben would not wake up. His dad found him a few hours later, after going to call him downstairs. An autopsy would reveal a high dose of strychnine in the urine and gastric measurements. Police got called in to investigate and discovered the cigarettes, a water bottle, and some cookies in his backpack, which they sent to a lab. Investigators received results within weeks. They processed the package and each cigarette for latent prints and any other signs of human DNA, to no avail. Ben’s poisoning and subsequent death would remain a mystery.

Ben’s death was the teen serial killer’s first human kill, even if he wasn’t sure that Ben would find them, but it worked out. The killer was now experiencing powerful sensations and felt omnipotence; he was far beyond the reach of the law.