faux fur jacket, and limps down the
creaking stairs to the pavement where
Low Track’s predators are beginning to
muster. She’s heard about the missing
women. So have all the girls. But what
can they do? Just take their chances and
hope some monster doesn’t pick them.She’s walking to her pitch near the
flickering neon of a new sex club when
Pickton’s bus draws up. This dude
promises cash and free drugs. She opens
the door and slides inside, easing up her
micro skirt, parting her legs just enough.
She’s desperate. Doesn’t want this trick
to change his mind.
The drive to Port Coquitlam takes
about half an hour. Gradually, the city
thins into suburbs, and she realises
where they are going. Some of the other
girls have talked about the pigman and
his stinking hog farm.Wilson drags herself from her filthy bed.
She has brown shoulder-length hair
and high cheekbones. Momma always
said she was the pretty one. But that
was in another life. Now she can hardly
remember what momma looked like.
She pulls on boots and a threadbare
For years prostitutes kept
vanishing from Vancouver’s
Downtown Eastside, never to
be seen again. If a serial killer
was at work, where exactly were
the bodies? By chance, attention
turned to local pig farmer
Robert “Willie” Pickton – and the
grim truth inally emerged...
Clockwise from above top left:
abandoned vehicles seen at the
farm during a police search in
February 2002; an aerial view of
the farm; Pickton at work; the
room with a freezer, wardrobe,
tables and hook where a witness
saw a woman butchered; the
slaughterhouse where police found
traces of Mona Wilson’s DNA