Mike Browne - Murder, Madness and Mayhem: Twenty-Five Tales of True Crime and Dark History

This is for anyone who thinks you cannot do the thing

your heart truly desires. You can.

Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.

THE TEMPEST, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

W hat is it about the worst of human nature that so many people find fascinating? It may be the quest to understand the depraved mind of a psychopath, or perhaps its the glimpse into the darkest parts of humanity that makes true crimes worth studying.

As long as the human race endures, there will be tragic incidents of death and disappearance that will go unexplained. But as the stories in this book show, no matter how long they linger out in the cold, they remain an important part of our history.

Mike Browne has distinguished himself as a great resource for true crime history through his years of research for his Dark Poutine podcast, heard around the world by thousands of fans. This is his first shot at writing about some of the most fascinating crimes he has covered over the years that have made a personal impact on his own life.

Action fans will appreciate the exciting coverage of deadly disasters such as the space shuttle Challenger explosion and the Indian Ocean tsunami. Mike also reminds us of cases that have bizarre twists and turns to them, as in the kidnapping of Jayme Closs or the Boozing Barber.

Even more captivating is the array of stories he calls the perpetual puzzles, where he describes intriguing cases like the Oak Island mystery or the story of the unknown man.

You will find it hard to put this book down and even harder waiting for his next release!

Alan R. Warren

Host of the House of Mystery radio show

NBC Radio, Los Angeles, California

I ve always loved stories, reading them and telling them, and the darker, the better. Growing up in a small town like Bridgewater, Nova Scotia, the stories I loved were quite often from some other place in some other time. Its not that Bridgewater is boringplenty is going on there. It is a great little town to grow up in, but I did not realize what I had there until years after I had left.

I believed that the real, exciting stories were happening elsewhere, to folks other than me. I wanted transportation to anywhere other than where I was. Comics and magazines were my vehicles of escape. I fantasized about being an army man and fighting the Nazis like DC Comics Sgt. Rock and the men of Easy Company. I dreamt of finding ancient tombs filled with gold and treasure buried under the Sphinx, like Howard Carter, the archaeologist I learned about in National Geographic.

I spent a lot of time in my head.

The week before my 12th birthday, though, I had a rude awakening, and my simple life was not so simple anymore. Something happened that jerked me out of childish reverie into an adult world of darkness for which I was not ready. It was my first encounter with real evil and my introduction to the criminal mind.

It was July 29, 1981. I got up early to watch the wedding of Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles on television. After the wedding I got dressed and went to the park behind our house. I threw on my favourite jacket, a red pullover windbreaker. A few of my closest pals all had the same one. It was the type that folded up into a fanny pack. We were like a little gang of harmless hoodlums running around town in our cheap windbreakers. Thanks to that windbreaker I felt like I belonged, which was important to me because I was shy and awkward, with low self-esteem.

At the park, in front of the DesBrisay Museum, I received a prize, a navy and neon-green Adidas kit bag, and had my photo taken for the local newspaper. I had received the most monetary pledges in town for my participation in the first Terry Fox Run to raise awareness and earn money for cancer research. The photo would be in the next weekly edition of the Bridgewater Bulletin.

For the rest of the day, I played floor hockey with my pals at the Michelin Tire plants social club. A number of my windbreaker-wearing friends were there. We had a great day.

When it was time to go home, a friends mom offered me a ride, but I didnt accept her offer. I decided to walk the 2.5 kilometres (1.6 miles) home in the dark, alone. Dad had always said if you need a lift, call, but I didnt. I was almost 12 years old, after alltime to start acting like a grown-up.

After I crossed Dufferin Street, where York Street turns into Alexandra Avenue, I noticed a man following me. My spidey sense began tingling right away. Something wasnt right.

I picked up my pace, and so did he, until he was almost on top of me. Instinctively, I knew to let him pass, so I bent down to tie my shoe. I could feel his gaze burning into me as he walked by, but now he was in front of me. I let him get a few metres ahead so I could watch him.

The man turned down a dead end, Park Street, just before the hill leading to the town park and duck pond. I knew he didnt belong there because I was familiar with all five families who lived along the short lane.

As I approached Park Street, the stranger turned around and came back toward me. He asked me for the time when he caught up to me at the intersection. I was less than 100 metres (330 feet) from my familys home when the stranger grabbed me. He put my arm behind my back and started dragging me toward the darkened woods. He told me not to scream or he would break my arm.

I asked him what he intended to do with me, and he told me. He said vile things to me that no child should ever have to hear. But then something inside me snapped. I dont recall what I said, but I screamed and broke free of his grip. I ran to the home of a family I knew, which was just steps away. As I banged on their door, screaming for help, I saw my assailant scampering back the way we had come.

The police were called, and my dad also arrived minutes later. After I calmed down enough to tell the story, we climbed into the police cruiser and drove around for 15 minutes looking for the creep who had assaulted me. We didnt find him.

The police and the adults in my life tried to comfort me by telling me It could have been worse. Thats true; it could have been. Still, I grappled with nightmares and felt like a freak for being afraid. I was ashamed that the experience had upset me so much. I had a secret. Mom and Dad told me not to talk about it, and I didnt. No one, not even my closest friends, knew what had happened to me.

The next week, when I saw the local paper, there on the front page was the photo of me taken on the day of my assault. I was wearing the same clothes my monster had seen me in. I was horrifiedhe could easily recognize me. My full name was there in the caption. In those days it was as simple as looking in the telephone book to find out where someone lived. Because there were only two families with the last name Browne in the directory at that time, I knew my attacker would likely figure it out. I began to be afraid he might come for me, that I was not safe at home.

A couple of months later, just as I was beginning to get over my fear and anxiety, I saw the man again. I was hanging out with my friend Dominic, one of the guys I had been playing floor hockey with on the night of the attack. He and I had gone for lunch at a restaurant where his father worked. As we walked through the restaurant, I noticed a familiar face sitting at one of the tables. Our eyes met. It was the man whod grabbed me. I recognized him and he recognized me. I walked past him, pretending I hadnt seen him. I felt him staring at me as I walked by. Once Dominic and I reached the kitchen, I felt sick to my stomach. I cant recall whether I ate anything, but I did not mention the sighting to anyone. I was embarrassed by my victimhood.