Recently featured in: The New York Times Bustle Quill & Quire Booklist Publishers Weekly CBC Toronto Star A My Favorite Murder recommended read “A must for true crime fans.” – Booklist “A truly impressive account of this dark chapter in [Ontario’s] history . . . Not just a sharp work of investigative journalism, The Forest City Killer is a poignant portrait of children and young people whose lives were cut short in horrific circumstances and a clarion call for long overdue justice. It is destined to become a classic of Canadian true crime.” ― Quill & Quire, starred review Dig deep into the unsolved murder of Jackie English and join the hunt for a serial killer Fifty years ago, a serial killer prowled the quiet city of London, Ontario, marking it as his hunting grounds. As young women and boys were abducted, raped, and murdered, residents of the area held their loved ones closer and closer, terrified of the monster ― or monsters ― stalking the streets. Homicide detective Dennis Alsop began hunting the killer in the 1960s, and he didn’t stop searching until his death 40 years later. For decades, detectives, actual and armchair, and the victims’ families and friends continued to ask questions: Who was the Forest City Killer? Was there more than one person, or did a depraved individual commit all of these crimes on his own? Combing through the files Detective Alsop left behind, researcher Vanessa Brown reopens the cases, revealing previously unpublished witness statements, details of evidence, and astonishing revelations. And through her investigation, Vanessa posits the unthinkable: is it possible that the Forest City Killer is still alive and, like the notorious Golden State Killer, a simple DNA test could bring him to justice?

Review

“Brown has done an admirable job of compiling a tremendous amount of information and combing through clues in order to provide an intriguing possibility.” ― Winnipeg Free Press

About the Author

Vanessa Brown has lived her entire life in London, Ontario. Her previous books include The Grand Old Lady: A History of Hotel London and London: 150 Cultural Moments, which was honored by the Ontario Heritage Trust. She is married to Canadian poet Jason Dickson, and together they own Brown & Dickson Booksellers.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

October 9, 1969. Dawdling around the back roads of Oxford County in a pickup truck, Ron Kiddie and Pete Kingma were on a duck-hunting excursion. They were two young guys, rifles in the back, gum in their mouths, listening to the radio and talking shit as they bounced along hills and uneven asphalt. It was uncustomarily warm out, so they rolled down their windows to catch the breeze. The sun was low in the sky. With a little time left before dinner, they stopped to check for birds under the gleaming new concrete bridge over Big Otter Creek. It was shouldered by two hills and two curves ― a great dark, low hiding place for water fowl. Ron pulled over next to the narrow bridge. Walking across the short expanse, they each took a side, Ron on the north and Peter on the south, leaning over the guardrail as far as they could. “Hey Peter,” called Ron. “Come see this.” Peter checked for traffic before crossing over. On this road, with the sharp turns and steep incline, they were hidden and trapped if a speeding automobile came over the hill. “There’s a body,” said Ron, pointing down. Peter looked. “Oh, that’s just a dummy.” To prove his point, he went and got his gun out of the truck to look down through the scope. As he squinted, he became very still and then slowly looked up at Ron. “There’s a ring on her finger,” he muttered. Without hesitation, Ron skidded down the steep banks of the creek to find out what was going on. “I can see [pubic] hair,” he shouted, as Peter followed. “And a vaccination mark on her arm!” On the edge of the water, he stumbled and accidentally stepped in the water. “Well, I’m wet now,” he said, turning his head and looking back. “I better wade in and see before we call the police.” He felt the frigid water creeping up his legs as he pushed through the muck, the soft creekbed beneath his boots. He could see goosebumps on her flesh, her face floating just beneath the surface of the murky water. Her chin was tilted up, as if she were calling out for help. Her left arm and breast protruded from the shallow creek, naked white in the fading fall sunlight, and her right hand floated in a fist, her young finger decorated with a black Alaskan diamond ring. In a sleepy London, Ontario, neighbourhood, fifty-year-old OPP Detective Dennis Alsop had just sat down to dinner. He was grabbing a quick bite to eat before heading out again to pick up his fifteen-year-old daughter Daphne, who would soon be finishing up at her ballet class. The phone rang and he answered. “They found her.”