Rage (11 page)

The daughter is the youngest person ever convicted of multiple murder in Canada. She received the maximum penalty for an offender under 14 years old—ten years—which will include four years in a psychiatric institution. Steinke has yet to be tried.

As was the drill, a reporter from the
Edmonton Journal
asked a local Goth what she thought of the media coverage. “Now I don’t know about any one else,” she responded, “but I’m completely outraged by the information they actually printed in this article, it hints at every single person fitting this ‘description’ to be a murderous blood-fending [sic] vampire.”

I found that a strange opinion—that a free media should be censured for reporting pertinent facts regarding a murder suspect because it could bias the public against a group she considered herself part of. I wondered if she would hold the same opinion if the suspect were, say, a football player or a collector of true-crime books.

Swansong and his friends agree with her, though. “As Goths, we have to put up with a lot of bullshit,” he says. “We’re already labeled enough things, we don’t need to be called murderers too.”

After a long pause, Hellwind agrees. “Murders happen all the time, but when a Goth murders someone, it makes the front page.” I ask her why she thinks that’s the case. “Because people want to be able to identify a bad person,” she answers. “People want to be able to point at anyone who’s not normal and say ‘I know you’re bad.’”

I asked them if they’d had any problems because of the media portrayals of Goths. “We get so much abuse on a day-to-day basis, it’s hard to tell where people’s prejudices come from,” Swansong says.

“But I noticed people became especially nasty after what happened to little Johnathon,” Hellwind adds.

“He was no Goth,” Swansong snapped, referring not to the victim or the killer, but his accomplice, Timothy Ferriman. “He was a vampire.”

I immediately say the most wrong thing possible: “I thought you all dressed up like vampires.”

They think that’s an absurd statement and go into long colloquies about what Goth really is and isn’t. Most of it is self-praise, but it boils down to one main distinction: Goth is a dress-up routine, but there are really people out there who consider themselves actually to be vampires.

I ask if they can introduce me to some. Again, they can’t believe how stupid I am. “Goths and vampires rarely mix,” says Hellwind angrily.

Okay, I say, can they point some out? They take me outside and show me a couple of guys milling about. They look kind of Goth-y but without the makeup and with more leather—floor-length coats and almost knee-high boots. They look very much like the very best interpretation of Victorian-era noblemen as filtered through K-Mart. The main difference between the two of them is that one has long hair and one has short hair.

I introduce myself and tell them what I’m doing. At first they decline to speak to me because they believe that the “mainstream” media distorts everything about them. But I can tell it’s just an act, that these guys badly want the attention, and I tell them they can meet me in the coffee shop, if they change their minds.

When they show up, the Goths leave. The vampires sit with me and refuse to give their real names. One claims I couldn’t pronounce his real name anyway. They seem so touchy, so on edge, that I don’t argue. They assert that they are vampires, and not just pretend ones like the rest of the people I’ve been talking to.

I ask them if they drink blood. They both say they do—that is, after all, what makes them vampires. They tell me that they call blood by its proper name, “spiritus.” One of them then informs me that’s the Latin word for blood.

I have to restrain myself from them telling it isn’t—“spiritus” means breathing in Latin, “sanguineus” means blood—because their self-burnished veneer of intellect seems so very important to them.

Instead, I ask them where they get it. They demur until one says that he can usually convince one of his “lovers” to cut themselves for him. This makes some sense. As noted by the British study mentioned earlier, many Goths and their associates practice self-harm, including cutting themselves. Self-cutting is normally associated with adolescents, usually girls, and can be an indicator of low self-esteem and/or pathological perfectionism. Convincing a self-cutter to contribute their blood doesn’t seem like a very difficult task.

He then shows me his weapon of choice and I’m a little bit disappointed that it’s not fangs. Inside the small sterilized foil packets he hands me are lancets—tiny blades intended for diabetics to use to draw blood for samples. “They’re quick, clean and almost painless,” he tells me.

Then comes the hard question—
why?

“You wouldn’t understand,” they both answer simultaneously.

I ask them to try me.

“Well, there’s a spirit to it—that’s why the Romans called it ‘spiritus’ and we do too—it adds something to your . . . your . . . spirit that you can’t get otherwise,” the long-haired one said. “It’s a spiritual thing—you wouldn’t understand—we know we’re vampires and our destiny is to drink blood.”

In their defense, blood is pretty nutritious. It has plenty of protein and, obviously, iron. Those facts are known to many cultures and cooking with blood is not uncommon in many parts of the world. Blood pudding (also called black pudding) is commonplace throughout much of Europe, including the British Isles. The Masai and other East African peoples frequently drink their cattle’s blood. I remember eating at a Vietnamese restaurant when my wife ordered the rare beef soup. The helpful waiter asked her if she wanted the blood “in the soup or on the side.”

But that’s animal blood, which is normally prepared and served in a hygienic manner like any other animal product. Drinking human blood, on the other hand, is an easy way to transmit disease. I called the U.S. Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta and told a doctor there I was planning on drinking human blood. After she suggested I see a psychiatrist, the doctor I spoke with told me that I should be inoculated against cholera, influenza, filariasis, anthrax, typhus, leptospirosis, lyme disease, malaria, meningitis, black plague, tuberculosis, intestinal worms, rabies, typhoid fever and yellow fever—just in case. She also told me I was taking my chances with HIV/AIDS and that there are “plenty of other ways to have a good time.”

But these self-described vampires aren’t interested in nutrition and only obliquely concerned about safety. They drink blood, not as a foodstuff, but as a sacrament. And they are quick to point out that Christians do the same thing (at least symbolically) through the sacrament of Communion. They are convinced that drinking human blood heightens their spirituality, just as warriors from many different cultures ritualistically ate various body parts of their enemies to give them strength. They believe this, it would appear, because they so very much want it to be true.

But they tell me that their spirituality doesn’t extend towards awakening the dead, super-long life spans, shape changing or near invincibility, when I bring them up. “That’s all typical Hollywood bullshit,” the longhaired one tells me. Again he’s wrong. Those attributes are actually essential parts of the original vampire myths; the only parts added by the film industry are the wardrobes, which these guys ape obsessively. “Vampires aren’t monsters with magic powers,” the shorthaired one tells me. “Just people with a different belief system.”

I ask them about Ferriman. “He was no vampire!” the shorthaired one shouts. “He was a total wannabe! A poseur!” His friend echoes his sentiments just as angrily. After they calm down, I ask them what made him a fake, in essence. What made them real vampires and him not. They speak obliquely about lifestyle and spirituality, but give me nothing concrete. So I ask them, what makes a vampire a vampire, then, is it drinking blood? They seem confused. They say that was part of it, a big part of it. I tell them that I have independently corroborated evidence that Ferriman drank blood.

Exasperated, the longhaired one sighs and throws his hands in the air. He looks at his pal and said: “Let’s get out of here.” They mutter a few things about how horrible the mainstream media is, threaten to sue me (though I have no idea why) and take off.

After those initial encounters, I’ve spoken to dozens of Goths and vampires, some in person, some online. A few commonalities arose. All of the Goths I met said they were shy people, but all considered themselves extremely intelligent, just misunderstood. All of them liked to cultivate an air of erudition, frequently using arcane words and unnecessessarily complicated syntax and thought processes, along with a liberal dose of what they considered philosophy, in conversation. As I expected, most of them generally became Goths less because of a fascination with things dark and dreary (few even knew who Bela Lugosi was, let alone idolized him), but because they were shut out by or not interested in other social circles at school. They were all adept at rationalizing things to support each of their opinions (no matter how illogical) and were quick to become angry or withdraw if that opinion was challenged or even questioned. And all of them took at least some time out to deny the Goth qualifications of somebody, often a friend.

But that’s about as far as the malice usually went with the Goths. There are, of course, good and bad people in every group; but Goths generally seemed to want to avoid confrontation, even fear it. And they seemed less likely to hurt others than themselves. I talked to a cop I know from Hamilton, Ontario, about Goths, and he agreed. “I see Goths all the time—but only as victims,” he said. “If a Goth were gonna commit a crime, other than suicide, I’d expect it to be something sneaky and anonymous—like arson or something.”

Vampires, on the other hand, seemed to be all about malevolence. And, I think, they would be pleased to know that I think so. There is, in my experience, a very distinct difference between dressing up like a vampire and actually believing you are one.

Although there’s no real vampire organization, there is a group called the Temple, which acts as such in a
de facto
manner. Situated in the extraordinarily boring, predominantly white suburb-of-a-suburb of Lacey, Washington, the Temple claims to speak for all vampires. Open up their website, and you will be treated to their motto: “Vampire, the traditional name given to those at the top of the food chain.” And if you dig deeper, you can read the vampire creed:

I remembered all of this in the coffee shop after the Toronto vampires left me, so I paid the check and followed them outside because I wanted to ask them about what they thought of the vampire’s creed.

It occurred to me then that the whole vampire thing is a way to adopt a feeling of superiority over others. But these guys, these vampires—there was nothing superior about them at all. They were of average intellect (despite what they believed), not particularly handsome or engaging or charismatic. Neither had accomplished anything of import in their lives; they had nothing, aside from their status as vampires, to be proud of.

I realized, while I was walking down Queen Street West after them, that the whole vampire thing is nothing more than an elaborate scam. It’s a way for people who are so downtrodden in real life to have a pretend world where everybody “bows down” to them. The only problem is that some people take it too seriously. And nobody actually bows.

I want to catch up to the vampires I met—these role models for Tim Ferriman; they were living the life he pretended to, he really wanted to be just like them—to see what they think about my hypothesis. I’m interested to see what their rebuttal is. But they have a few blocks’ head start on me. So I start to run. I finally catch up to them about three blocks away. I’ve been jogging a bit, so I’m a bit out of breath when I tap the shoulder of the long-haired one. As I take a moment to catch my breath, I look into their faces and see abject terror.

The long-haired one runs away—he just flees. I look at the shorthaired one and I can see that he’s actually weeping. And I don’t mean that there is a stoic tear emerging from his eyes: this guy is bawling. I’m a big guy, but not really intimidating in the normal world and I certainly didn’t intend to frighten these guys. But I literally have to hug the guy to calm him down enough to talk. “We didn’t mean to piss you off, man,” he says to me. “We’ll talk to you if you want.”

It’s okay, I tell him. I have everything I need.

It was meant to be a nice, heartwarming bit of holiday cheer, but the effect, seen now, is starkly the opposite. On December 22, 2002, a local Toronto news station, Citytv, aired a video news report—just about a minute and a half long—of firefighters coming to the aid of an unfortunate east end family. The Champagnies, at 90 Dawes Road, had suffered a terrible fire just four days earlier.

The firefighters had it out in 20 minutes and nobody was hurt, but the house was gutted. The family’s Christmas gifts and preparations were destroyed and they were living in a temporary apartment.

The video opens with a shot of Ralston Champagnie surrounded by burned wires uprooted from the pale green walls. There are patches of exposed drywall and wood; and there appears to be nothing in the house except for the people talking. Ralston nods and agrees with the reporter’s unheard assertion that the fire was “devastating.”

The scene cuts to a fire engine rolling down a city street with its siren on. The reporter says: “Call it déjà vu. Last week the Champagnie family watched from the front lawn as fire trucks raced down their street. Today, they watch the same scene—but for a very different reason.”

The fire engine stops. A pair of firefighters step out, each with a large clear plastic bag full of parcels. The bags are handed to the Champagnies’ two sons, Kevin Madden and Johnathon Madden. You can’t really see what Kevin got, but Johnathon received a slot-car racetrack and an NCAA basketball, among other things.

The boys are standing in the yard in front of 90 Dawes with their bags. It’s cold out and neither boy is wearing a hat. Kevin’s cheeks are bright red, in stark contrast to the rest of his pasty complexion. He’s grinning, maybe smirking. Johnathon stands beside his brother, the top of his head below the level of Kevin’s armpits. His head is down and he refuses to face the camera. Some people I’ve shown the video to say he looks scared, others say embarrassed.

The action then cuts to Ralston and his wife Joanne shaking hands with a senior firefighter. All three are wearing black leather jackets and both men have shaved heads. The camera then focuses on the senior firefighter, although the text on the screen misidentifies him as “Rolstan Champagnie: Fire victim,” misspelling Ralston’s first name. He talks about how “horrifying” it is for firefighters to see families like the Champagnies “out on the street” over the holidays.

The scene switches back to the front lawn, where a firefighter officially hands the bags to the boys. The firefighter passes the bag to Kevin and shakes his hand. The man is about an inch shorter than the boy and much slighter, despite his bulky uniform. The two avoid eye contact.

Back inside the house, the camera focuses on the twisted wires and burned-out electrical fixtures, then follows the pretty young reporter—Anne-Marie Green—to the bottom of a staircase, where she interviews Kevin. He towers above her and begins to recount how he found out the house was on fire:

Throughout his story, Kevin is smiling, almost laughing. He’s clearly having a great time. Still, he avoids looking at either the camera or the reporter. His eyes, instead, dart around the fringes of the room.

The scene switches to Ralston, who describes the fire as “the worst 20 minutes of my life” and maintains that his primary concern was for his family because he didn’t know where they all were at the time.

Back outside, the video shows the firefighters handing the kids the bags again. “Thanks to the firefighters, the children received more presents than they would have on Christmas Day,” Green’s voice says pompously over the image. “And the entire family is extremely grateful.”

The video cuts to Ralston, who repeatedly praises the people of Toronto, which he calls the “greatest city in the world.” He calls his fellow Torontonians “open, honest, kind and giving.”

The firefighters make one last pass in front of the lined-up family and the camera captures a brief glimpse of Johnathon’s face. He flashes Kevin a broad grin and it’s unclear of whether his brother sees him or not. To me, his smile doesn’t indicate joy at receiving the gifts or being remembered during a time of family hardship. Instead, it appears to betray a kind of silliness, as though he finds the proceedings quite funny.

Another firefighter shakes hands with Kevin and again they don’t look at each other’s faces.

The video ends with Green dressed in faded jeans and a pullover “reporting live” from the Toronto Fire Department’s station 332. It’s not the station that responded to the fire—in fact, it’s almost eight miles away and across the most-congested part of the city—but it is two blocks from Citytv’s headquarters at Queen and John. Green, who now works in Philadelphia, closes with a comment about how investigators have determined that the fire was caused by faulty wiring, although two sources very close to the case believe that it may have begun after someone left a candle burning.

It’s unnerving to see the tape now, knowing what I know. It’s strange to see Johnathon, so shy, so tiny. But what’s really disturbing is seeing Kevin. He’s just so huge. A year before the murder, he was already massive and still growing. Significantly bigger than almost all of the adults in the video, he made Johnathon look almost like a toy in comparison.

And Kevin’s attitude is strange. Although he never actually says anything blatantly inappropriate, his delight in the family’s time of crisis seems strange, especially in retrospect.

Everyone who knew Kevin back then would describe him as strange, and many told me that he was at least a little nuts. He had sought or been strongly encouraged to seek psychological treatment on many occasions. So often, one medical professional told me, that most of the emergency room staff at one Toronto hospital knew him by sight.

At school, he was a regular in the principal’s and guidance counselors’ offices and—despite his school’s tough reputation—feared in the halls and playground.

David (not his real name) comes into the coffee shop wearing the current uniform of disaffected youth in Toronto. Gone are the traditional jeans, leather jackets and tour shirts of a generation earlier. The rocker look has been replaced with something vaguely but not overtly hiphopish. As he saunters up to me, I can see that he’s wearing oversized black jeans, a white t-shirt with a Fila logo and a black windbreaker, which I later see has “Perry Ellis” stitched on the back. He’s also wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. It’s bright red, even though the Red Sox actually wear navy blue caps. David wears it set at a rakish angle, like a kid from the
Little Rascals
. What I really notice about the cap, though, is that the brim is perfectly straight—like it was adjusted with a ruler—rather than slightly curled, the way ball players actually wear them.

He plops down opposite me with a loud thud. Although he’s almost painfully skinny, he stretches out to take up as much room as possible as though he is protecting the bench from someone trying to sit beside him. His baggy clothes help, but not much.

Up close I can see that his cheeks are ravaged by acne and that the hair on his head is only minutely longer than his patchy stubble.

We engage in a little small talk. I find out that he’s graduated high school, but hasn’t yet found any steady work. He makes a few bucks, he says, working with construction crews under the table, but doesn’t like it because most of the guys don’t speak English and working hard in very hot and very cold weather doesn’t appeal to him. He’s thinking of attending a local community college for HVAC—heating, ventilation and air conditioning maintenance—because “those guys have it made.”

He lives with his mother. When he tells me this, he calls her his “moms,” which immediately makes me think he’s a member of a household headed by a lesbian couple, but when I put it in context of the rest of his faux-gangsta vocabulary, I realize it’s just one woman.

When we begin to talk about Kevin, his speech becomes far less affected. There are fewer “yos” and his vowels shorten up. David doesn’t claim to have been a great friend of Kevin’s, just someone who hung around with the same people. And, if they were the only guys around, they sometimes hung out together. These social interactions usually centered around smoking. They didn’t really do more than shoot the breeze most of the time, talking about girls, games, school and the regular stuff.

Kevin, he remembered, liked to laugh. He became especially animated when he was describing movies he’d seen, detailing the parts he thought were funny—usually when a character had been hurt or humiliated—laughing all the way. Conversely, David says, Kevin had very little tolerance for anyone else trying to be funny. “It’s not that he thought he was the only funny guy,” David says. “He just couldn’t pay attention to what you had to say—he’d talk for a half hour and as soon as you’d open your mouth, he’d start up again . . . change the subject.”

I asked him what else Kevin talked about and his answer was vague. I asked him if Kevin ever talked about his family. He told me “guys don’t really talk about that kind of stuff,” as though I came from a completely different culture. He does, however, recall that he knew Kevin had a little brother (whom he had never met) and that Kevin hated his stepfather. “Yeah, Kevin used to complain about him all the time,” David says. “He thought he was a total asshole.” David doesn’t really give any more details. But he declares hatred for stepfathers to be commonplace in their community.

“He never mentioned his mother, though,” he says. “Maybe he liked her.”

I ask if Ralston’s being black was a major problem for Kevin. I’d heard that Kevin had a problem with black people, and I wanted to see what his friend thought. David seems startled by the question. From his outfit and language, I could tell that David was apishly copying what he thought was black culture, and Kevin didn’t dress much differently. David looked at me sheepishly and says: “I dunno.”

I ask if he thought Kevin was a bully.

“It’s hard to say,” he tells me. “I mean, Kevin could be mean—smacking guys in the head or slamming them into lockers, but it’s not like he picked on any one guy or one kind of guy; basically, anyone who was around might get the back of his hand.” He thinks for a while. “Guy had mental problems,” he says. “He wasn’t a bully, just a mean guy . . . mean to just about everyone.”

He recalls a few stories about Kevin that include him lashing out for no reason that David could discern and generally laughing it off if there was no obvious damage. He also noted that Kevin had a habit of making fun of anyone who had an obvious reaction to his assaults. “Yeah, if you yelled or made a big fuss, you were in trouble,” David tells me. “Kevin would mock you . . . call you ‘pussy’ and laugh—you just kind of had to take it.” He then nods and is quick to tell me that Kevin never bothered him that way, they were friends.

I ask David about retaliation, if any of the kids tried to get a little payback on Kevin after he hurt or humiliated them. He claims that there wasn’t, but that another friend of theirs used to joke about some of the smaller guys getting angry enough to come back to school one day with a gun and “blow him away.” Kevin didn’t seem to take it seriously.

There is one story David tells me that seems to encapsulate Kevin’s status as all-around tough guy. Kevin and a group of his peers were smoking and joking around in the park near their school. They were joined by a much larger group of kids and everybody was getting along, even if they were somewhat bored. One of the boys, Steve (not his real name), was chatting up a girl everyone knew he liked. They weren’t actually dating, but everyone considered them to be
de facto
boyfriend and girlfriend, and it was obvious that Steve just didn’t have enough confidence yet to ask her out. “So Kevin just goes up, walks up behind her and grabs both of her tits,” David tells me. The girl, he says, was angry, but far from panicked. She glared at Kevin, called him an asshole and left. The other two girls who were there left with her. Kevin just laughed and made sucking noises.