By Jon Wells
Canada's award-winning crime author takes on a transatlantic serial killerOne of six book-length tales released within the Hamilton Spectator, Poison is a riveting piece of crime reporting that gained a countrywide Newspaper Award in 2004. Chronicling the existence and crimes of serial assassin Sukhwinder Dhillon, who coolly dispatched better halves, dual babies, and a pal only for coverage funds, Poison information the path that stretched from Canada to India, the paintings of the assurance claims investigator and the detectives who suspected wrong-doing, the forensics that sealed Dhillon's destiny, and the felony twists and turns of the double homicide trial that undefined.
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Extra resources for Poison: From Steeltown to the Punjab, The True Story of a Serial Killer
Yet it balances on the head of a pin, for if just one person disregards a horn or fails to use their own or loses trust in another driver, it can mean death. Now, leaving Toronto for Hamilton, Sukhwinder and his mother were on this superhighway, and it was staggering. The surface was like driving on marble, the car glided along as though on air, silently, no car horns; the road was black and clean, white lines shining in the dark as though lit by electricity, magically keeping traffic in different lanes, a spartan orderly progression.
He respected her so much. “Veerji, let’s talk about this, let’s talk this over in the community,” she said. “He won’t talk,” Gurmej muttered. ” Dhillon stood, blood flowing from his nose over his lip, yelling at Parvesh, his voice a guttural, raging shriek. “Call my brothers and get them down here! ” “I’m not going anywhere,” Parvesh said. “Do whatever you want,” Gurmej said. ” Dhillon screamed. ” “No,” Parvesh said evenly. , Gurmej answered his door. It was a police officer. Dhillon had pressed charges.
Back to the locker room. Dhillon was average height, perhaps five-foot-ten, and over 200 pounds, his shoulders broad, arms thick, but the stomach was soft and round. The dark eyes stared back at him in the mirror. Alarmingly, the ink-black color in his beard was marred by specks of gray. Dhillon was almost 36 years old, and he couldn’t stand it. He showered, returned to his locker, retrieved the toothbrush and bottle. Back at the mirror, inches from his reflection, he dipped the brush in black liquid and colored the bristles.