Episode 6: Posted on May 9

In the spring of 2022, the 44 Division of the Toronto Police Service discovered the burnt remains of Rachel Amina Darwish, Daniel Brewer, and Mitig Biskane, in southern Ontario, Canada. The only clues offering an explanation for the three deaths were found in an anonymous blog written by an unknown individual.

The following is a reading from the blog website, www.everyoneandnoone.org, before it was seized by the police.

This episode is a reading of blog entries posted between May 9 to March 12, 2022.

This episode is dedicated to Ernesto P. Tuason, Dec. 9, 1936 - Oct. 13. 2023

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Transcript

Everyone and No One, a true crime podcast, hosted by Ian Tuason. Episode 1. 

In the spring of 2022, the 44 Division of the Toronto Police Service discovered the burnt remains of Rachel Amina Darwish, Daniel Brewer, and Mitig Biskane, in southern Ontario, Canada. The only clues offering an explanation for the three deaths were found in an anonymous blog written by an unknown individual.

The following content was taken from the blog website, everyoneandnoone.org


Posted on May 9

The bar was so dark that I couldn't see the coffee in my own cup, which was a good thing, I thought. It smelled like shit, tasted like shit, and if I saw it in proper light, it would probably look like shit. Soft sounds of salsa music played in the background. There was a sticker of Rick and Morty on the cash register behind the bar, and the smell of fried onions hovered nose level throughout the place.

I looked over my shoulder at the scattered tables, searching for William. My fingernails drummed on the varnished wood of the bar. There were two men holding hands at a table by the wall. They were leaning into each other and talking. There was another man playing pool by himself, and another lone figure with a Blue Jays cap, thumbing his phone in the corner. 

I glanced over to the other end of the bar where an older man with finely combed hair was drinking a martini and flirting with the young bartender. The older man was skinny and wore a low hanging v-neck. 

Taking my coffee with me, I walked to him. He noticed me and smiled, as if he knew me, but I had never seen him in my life.

"Goodies?" I said.

"Have a seat, honey," he patted the stool beside him and licked his lips. His wrinkled skin was spray-tanned orange.

"Are you Goodies?" I repeated.

"Yes, darling, that's me, that's me," he flipped over his phone face down on the bar. The bartender wandered away. "But you can call me Daniel. We're in real life now, you know."

I took a sip from my coffee and tried my best to hide my disappointment.

"I love your blog, especially your little love triangle," he puckered his lips like a duck. "You naughty boy."

"How did you find my blog?" I said.

"The same way I find everything, honey. With a gust of luck."

"Do you know William?" I asked.

"William?" he furrowed his brow. "Oh, you mean the character in your little story?" Daniel's phone vibrated on the bar and he checked the screen.

The bartender was pointing a remote at the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above the hard liquor, and flipped through channels with the volume muted. 

I glanced around and noticed the man playing pool was gone, and so was the man in the Blue Jays cap. An uneasiness crept over me.

"Where was I?" Daniel rested his phone back on the bar. I was about to say something, but the words stopped at my throat as I felt Daniel's hand rubbing my thigh.

I jolted up, the bar stool falling over behind me.

"Excuse me," I darted to the exit, the coffee cup still in my hand.

Behind me, I could hear Daniel shouting over the salsa music. "I could be William if you like!"

In my apartment, the smell of fried onions stuck to my clothes. I opened my blog and looked through Goodi3s' comments from earlier posts. I blocked him and a wave of comfort flowed through me. Goodi3s will just be Goodi3s now, and Daniel will be forgotten.

I was up for too long. I had to sleep. I had to get back on the pills, I thought, just so I could sleep. I swallowed two pills and waited.

Posted on May 10

In the forest, wind sifted through the cedar and birch trees, and I struggled to adjust my eyes to the darkness. I could feel the presence of night owls with bloated chests and long-faced coyotes stalking the wooded hillside, reminding me that despite the deed of land my parents owned, the land was never quite ours.

The moon peeked out from behind a cloud and I saw the outline of trees. Walking deeper into the woods, I saw a dead birch tree, bare of leaves, a wooden crucifix nailed to its trunk. I walked closer and closer to it, but then the honking of cars echoed from the sky. Suddenly, I found myself lying on my stomach, a window open beside me. The window was level with me, and I realized I wasn't on the mattress on my bedroom floor. I was in William's room. My laptop rested on the nightstand next to the bed. I drew in a deep breath and tried to remember how I got there.

Outside the window, I noticed a tall pillar of black smoke rising from the horizon. The black smoke carved a trail of gloom across the azure sky. I waited to hear the sirens of firetrucks, but none came.

Posted on May 10
 (second post)

I stretched out on the sofa, the laptop resting on my stomach. I scrolled through William's final items. They were elaborate, once again describing the details of his abundant life. The items described the lemon smell of a motel room, roaming the city streets, stopping to admire the architecture of a church, smelling the strawberries in Kensington Market.

I fought the feeling of endlessness, reading through the afternoon, aiming only to finish. I pushed through the third last item, the second last item, and then finally I was back again at the very last item I had read first, days ago.

7:1

I’m sitting two tables away from him. His eyes are as deep as I imagined. I challenge him to remember a phrase. Let’s see if he does.

A cold breeze entered through the open window, and once again, I felt empty. So I scrolled back through William’s collection and started reading again from the beginning.
 

Posted on May 11

I felt a drop of rain on my wrist and another on my lip. I walked faster down the row of townhouses heading to Leah's place. It was almost noon and the darkening clouds looked the way clouds look before it pours. 

Focusing ahead, I walked faster. I hadn’t slept for two days. Once again, I was obsessed with the online, and I lost everything I had gained with Leah.

Reaching Leah's place, I banged on the door louder than I had intended and was worried the neighbor upstairs might be alarmed. Waiting a moment, I knocked again, this time softer. A minute passed. She wasn't home, I thought. I sat on her doorstep under an eave and lit a smoke. Looking up at the moving clouds, there was no doubt it would pour—but when? Then distant thunder rumbled and rain fell hard, drumming on the eave above. On my third cigarette, the pouring stopped as quickly as it came, leaving behind globs of raindrops hanging from the edge of the roof.

Then I heard someone behind Leah's door and quickly stood up.

The door opened and Leah, holding a long umbrella, looked at me, surprised. I expected her to say something, but instead, she looked at me curiously, waiting for me to say something first.

"You're home," I said.

"How long...long were you out here?" she stammered.

"You didn't hear me knock?"

"I was in the shower."

"Oh, I just got here," I looked away.

"I'm going to…get some bread," she stepped into me, forcing me to step back, and locked the door behind her.  

I followed her down the sidewalk, offering to hold her umbrella, but she refused. We hardly said a word all the way to the store.

Walking back home, the thinning clouds above exposed patches of blue. I carried her plastic grocery bag holding two loaves of white bread. We passed the swimming pool and tennis courts before arriving back at her place. She walked in leaving the door open behind her, an invite to come inside, I thought. 

In her kitchen, she put a kettle on the stove and gave me a saucer for an ashtray.

"Thanks," I sat down at the table.

Waiting for the kettle to boil, she lit an incense stick and waved her hand through the smoke in a scooping motion towards her face. "I don't...understand," she said, opening a cupboard and pulling out a box of oatmeal cookies. I pinched out a cigarette from my pack. She was acting distant, and I didn't blame her.

She dropped a small plate of cookies on the table, a spark of attitude in her eyes. It surprised me. 

She sat down and glared at me. "What...do you want?"

"What do you mean?" I said, worried about saying something wrong.

"I mean...you just have to tell me. You don't have to play games," she said.

"Is that what you think?"

"Then what is it?"

I put the cigarette back into the pack and stared at the table for a long time.

"Well?" she said.

"There's..." I stuttered, careful with my words. "I know you want me to be more open with you, and I know I haven't been doing that. But, I'm ready to do that now."

She held her stare. "I have nothing…to hide from you. I...I deserve the same, don't I?"

"You do. And that's why I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone, okay?" I shook my head. "It's just that..." I paused.

"What?"

"If I tell you, I'm afraid you might leave me."

"I won't...leave you that easily. Now have a cookie."

"I'm not hungry," I said.

"Have one…anyway,” she pushed the plate closer. 

"Okay," I said, crunching down on a cookie. I was sick of the secrets anyway. I swallowed and braced myself. "I'm on medication. I mean, I was."

"What medication?"

"It's hard to explain," I said. The look on her face softened. "I can't remember when the problem started."

The kettle burbled and then wheezed.

"Shoot," she jumped. "Hold your thought. I want...I want to give you my full attention." She opened the cupboard as the wheezing turned into whistling. She poured the boiling water into two cups in such a rush that I was worried she might burn herself. Sitting back down, she added a teabag to each cup, placed one in front of me, and I suddenly felt like changing the subject. But it was too late for that. So I just said it.

"When I was seven, my father—he killed my mother. And then he killed himself," I paused and then pushed on. "I don’t remember much of what happened, really. But I remember growing up and thinking I was different. Not like other kids. I just didn’t feeling anything."

Leah's eyes saddened.

"I felt numb. No, not numb," I said. "I felt nothing. For a long time."

"How…are you feeling now?"

"When I'm with you? I don't feel that way at all," I said. She reached her hands out to me. The incense on the table was almost burnt out, a long line of ash threatening to break. She bent low in her chair, her elbows touching her knees, and her head tilted up towards mine. The rain started up again, pattering on the windows. Then suddenly, the consecutive days of no sleep took its toll and pulled at my arms and eyelids like led. I was very sleepy, and very happy to be feeling anything at all. There was so much more I needed to tell her. I had to tell her about William—about his writing. But I was so sleepy, and Leah was mine again.

"Let's take…a nap?" she pulled me passed her elliptical, the hanging cross on the wall, and into her purple bedroom. We dressed down to our underwear. I felt her body slide under the covers next to me. I indulged in the softness of her legs and cotton t-shirt.

"Now, I have a secret...to tell you," she breathed, putting her leg on top of mine, pressing her face into my shoulder, smelling me deeply. "Before I went on meds, I tried to...kill myself. I needed an escape from the anxiety. There was just no comfort...or pleasure...hour after hour, day after day. No one could...could explain it to me. I was so scared of it, and the more I feared it, the...the stronger it got.

"So one night, I swallowed an entire bottle of Tylenol, and woke...woke up in a hospital bed. It...it was there, when I walked to the chapel in the morning. I stood under a large painting of the Lord. In the painting, there were...lights of different colors...shooting from his heart. And there were words written by his feet that said 'Trust in God'.

"At that...that moment, I just gave up, giving all my will power to God, and let the anxiety happen. And with that...the anxiety flowed out of me...and onto the floor. I had been fighting the anxiety for so long, but when I finally decided to accept it, it...it went away. I decided right there and then that my will was not my own, but that it was God's will. I learned to let go of everything. I still...still take meds every day, but at least I can say I'm okay now. I can say that now...I'm okay."

I kissed her forehead. "We're a couple of weirdos, aren't we?"

Leah smiled and closed her eyes. "Can you rub my back?" She flipped over onto her stomach. I slid my hand up the back of her shirt and massaged her shoulder blades, slowly, lightly, for several minutes, until I heard the gentle rasping of her sleeping breath.

Posted on May 12

Leah sat at the edge of her bed, stretching with a moan. I looked at the time—7:19pm.

She was on night shift again and had to be at work by ten. She leaned over me, checking if I was awake. My eyes were slightly open. Smiling, she kissed my temple. I reached around and touched the skin on her thighs. A feeling of safety washed over me, which was making it impossible for me to stay awake.

A towel hung from her arm. I sat up. "Go back to sleep," she said.

"It's okay. I'm up," I mumbled.

"Just stay. There's…food in the fridge."

"It's okay, I'll leave with you," I yawned. "Just ten more minutes."

"Stay here."

Only half awake, I heard the shower turn on. Time skipped, and I heard the sound of her blow dryer. I rolled over to her side of the bed and smothered my face in her cool pillow, breathing in her scent, falling into an even deeper sleep.

I woke up to perfect silence. The clock radio showed 12:18 a.m. My head ached from too much sleep.

"Leah?" I called out, my eyes slowly focusing and making out shapes in the dark room. I sprung up and searched the wall for the light switch. I flipped the switch, revealing a picture of the Virgin Mary looking down on me with palms open, exposing a bloody hole on each hand. I moved across the room and it seemed like her eyes were following me.

In the living room, the statue of Jesus loomed over me, and I stared at it for so long that I thought I saw it breathing—its rib cage rising and falling. I made a mental note never to look at it again. I snatched my phone from the kitchen table, and my eyes wandered to Jesus again, in spite of me. His eyes were rolled up in hellish pain.

I thought about making coffee. I sat on the sofa and opened Twitter on my phone, scrolling for crypto news. A tweet from a local news account I followed caught my eye—a photo of a burnt, blackened brick wall over a shattered window frame with the caption “Arson investigators on scene after Toronto man, 60, dies in apartment fire”.

I clicked the tweet, taking me to the news website. The full article read:

The arson and homicide units are investigating the death of a man found inside an apartment in Toronto's east end early Wednesday morning. Police say they are treating the incident as suspicious.

Around 4:00 a.m. emergency services responded to the 300 block of Church Street, arriving to find heavy smoke pouring from the two-story structure.

“Fire crews did encounter flames when they arrived," said fire department spokesman Toan Nguyen.

The man, identified as Daniel Brewer, was found after the fire was extinguished and was pronounced dead at the scene.

I read the sentence again.

The man, identified as Daniel Brewer, was found after the fire was extinguished and was pronounced dead at the scene.

Daniel. Church Street. This couldn't be the same Daniel, I thought, could it?

My ears rang. I glanced up at Jesus, bleeding. The ringing in my ears grew louder. A boom from the furnace startled me. The branches outside casted finger-like shadows on the wall, reaching for my head. I tried to stand but staggered, disoriented.

My pills—I needed my pills. A yearning seethed inside me—a heavy and terrible urge to swallow my nerves away. But the pills were in my apartment. Suddenly my hunger for the pills turned into a feverish withdrawal, sweat seeping from my pores.

I darted to every light switch in Leah's apartment, switching them all on. I dressed, buttoning my shirt inside out. I ran up the staircase and into the cool night air. 

The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet. The street looked so different in the nighttime. I trudged forward to the bus stop. A tall man with AirPods was bobbing his head in the shelter.

The bus rolled to the curb, breaks squealing. At the back of the bus, a man in a hoodie lowered his head, cloaking his face. He was tall, and thin.

At the next stop, another man stepped onto the bus wearing sunglasses and a backpack. 

Arriving at the station, I waited for another bus at the terminal—standing with strangers under a long awning. Our bus pulled up and we filed in. The driver was tall and thin, his head turned away from me.

Finally, at my stop, I got off alone. The street was empty. The bus motored away, leaving me in uneasy stillness, and I looked over my shoulder instinctively. Making my way down the rows of buildings, I shot nervous glances into each alley. My legs moved faster.

A voice screamed ahead. 

"Fucking shape shifter! Die you fucking shape shifter!" The bum wandered out from the side of a building. He stumbled towards me, coming closer. I didn't cross the street as I normally did. I was sick of dodging him—fearing him.

"Fucking shape shifter!" he approached, his shoulder threatening to brush mine. The bum took another step closer and I lunged at him with a raised fist.

He recoiled sideways onto the grass. I saw his eyes for the first time under his long, wiry hair. They were opened wide, terrified. Fury surged through me and I stood there trembling. The bum backed away cautiously, mumbling to himself. Blood ran warm through me.

I imagined the burnt bodies of Daniel and Rachel and I wanted to see him burnt, too. He was a stain on existence with no record, and no name. There would be no trace of him, unlike Daniel on my blog, or Rachel on Instagram. All that will remain of the bum is the vision of his body engulfed in orange flames, and that vision engraved in your mind, right now, as you read this page.


This ends Episode 6 of Everyone and No One, a true crime podcast, hosted by Ian Tuason. To be continued next Tuesday in Episode 7, anywhere you get your podcasts. This has been a DimensionGate production.