Butcher by Gary C. King

Author:Gary C. King [King, Gary C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2009-10-16T23:00:00+00:00

20

As the interrogation continued in the small RCMP interview room in Surrey, Sergeant Bill Fordy continued with his probe of Pickton’s life and tried to draw out what Pickton may have known about the missing women. Among the additional details he elicited from the suspected serial killer’s background through his questioning was the fact that Pickton had held a contract with the Vancouver Police Department for purchasing unclaimed cars that had been impounded by the police.

“I buy cars from the Vancouver police,” Pickton stated. “I have a contract there. Buy more than seventy a year. Had the contract almost four years. Just buy the old ones for salvage—there and other auctions. Strip the motor out and sell the motor. I found six hundred bucks in one. It wasn’t mine. I couldn’t take it. I took the money back to the owner. I don’t steal from nobody. People steal from me—left, right, and center. People knife me in the back. I’m just trying to help people. I try to help people.

“In one car,” he continued, “there was a single-bladed ax that had blood all over it. It came out of a 1989 Chevy Astro. The backseat was folded together. There was blood all over the backseats, everywhere else. But life goes on. When I pick up anything, I take it back to VPD, they say we don’t want anything back. Nothing. I go through about a hundred-fifty vehicles a year. I don’t have time to worry about one needle or anything else.”

“You said ‘need all’?” Fordy asked, trying to clarify what Pickton had said.

“Needles,” Pickton repeated.

“Oh, needles.”

“I look through glove boxes, trunks—you won’t believe what you find. It’s outrageous. Outrageous. Bras, tops, blouses, clothes,” Pickton said.

Pickton’s comments about the women’s items that he claimed he found in the vehicles he purchased could have been his way of deceptively attempting to show how so many women’s garments and other items had come into his possession—or it could have been the truth. Fordy had no way of knowing yet just how much was truth and how much was bullshit—but he did know that Mona Wilson’s DNA had turned up in bloodstains found on a garment in Pickton’s closet.

“When you find that stuff, do you try to sell it?” Fordy asked.

“No, no time. I bring two, three, four a day in. I don’t take anything out. If I see something valuable, I do. Tools, things like that, I put it aside.”

“I can understand, with that quantity coming in. So you said you find bras, clothes?”

“Everything’s there. People live in their cars…. A woman was supposed to come back and do laundry, take her clothes. They were all on the bed. She never came back. I don’t know what happened to her. She was staying in a van behind the Cobalt (hotel). Another person was staying behind the Georgia Viaduct.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know. They all look alike, and so many come and go.”

“You’d remember if you killed them—”

“I don’t remember them!” Pickton exclaimed. “I don’t.

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