The letter is stuck inside a dog-eared copy of Terror, the 1990 book I co-wrote with Andre Veniot, then a TV reporter.
“Hi Dear. How are you? I had such a nice time last summer. Seen your nice place. You are such a lovely wife and I just love that new babby. So quiet and bouncy. I know you spend a lot of time by yourself.
“So I know you won’t mind me visiting you next year. Untill then I’ll say I’ll see you agin.”
“Love Nick.”
The postmark was Renous, New Brunswick. The letter was from Allan Legere, the serial killer. He didn’t sign his own name, of course. He preferred “Nick. ”
Apparently, the man who could slaughter five men and women mostly women - in their homes is well read. Old Nick is one of the many names given to the Devil, along with Old Scratch.
“It’s Legere,” said a police friend when I showed him the letter sent to my home address. “His girlfriend probably got it out for him. Do you want to file a complaint?”
I shook my head. What was the point? After all, Legere was in a maximum-security prison, headed for trial for the four murders he’d committed after escaping from prison guards during a trip to a Moncton hospital.
He has been serving a sentence of life with no full parole for at least 18 years for murdering John Glendenning, the brother of P.E.I’s Donald Glendenning, for whom a college residence is named.
Once free, Legere killed an elderly shopkeeper, two middle-aged women in their home and an elderly priest before being recaptured.
“He’s never getting out again,” I told the officer, who simply nodded and handed back the letter.
Legere was right. He had driven right past the front door to my home in 1989. He was fleeing in the priest’s car, his boots probably still covered in the man’s blood. Legere was racing to catch a train in a community about 80 kilometres away and my home at the time was on the main highway.
My wife was, and is, lovely. And our first child was, and is, a beautiful girl. And they were often home alone.
The letter was, in fact, not addressed to me. It was to “Mrs. R. Mclean.”
Beautiful Wife called me when she opened it. While alone with our daughter. At home.
“It’s Legere,” I said simply. “Don’t worry about it. He’s in prison and he’s never getting out.”
After he was convicted of all four murders and sentenced to life, Legere landed in a super-maximum prison in Quebec, a special handling unit. A prison within a prison for the worst of the worst.
“Don’t worry, he’ll never get out of there,” said a friend in the legal community. “No one will sign the papers to move him.”
Not true. Someone did sign the papers and late last month he was moved to a normal prison in Alberta. The Correctional Service of Canada didn’t tell me that. That’s not allowed. Privacy rights.
Privacy rights? That’s rich. A serial killer has privacy rights.
There is only one thing certain about Legere. Even though he turned 67 on Feb. 13 yes, Feb. 13, 1948 was a Friday there is only one thing on his mind, say those who know how his mind works.
Escape.
“Two things,” said one of the people involved in helping putting him behind bars.
“Revenge is the other. But don’t worry. You’re not first on his list. You’re likely third or fourth. Besides, he’s never going to get out of there anyway.”
- Rick MacLean is an instructor in the journalism program at Holland College in Charlottetown
The letter is stuck inside a dog-eared copy of Terror, the 1990 book I co-wrote with Andre Veniot, then a TV reporter.
“Hi Dear. How are you? I had such a nice time last summer. Seen your nice place. You are such a lovely wife and I just love that new babby. So quiet and bouncy. I know you spend a lot of time by yourself.
“So I know you won’t mind me visiting you next year. Untill then I’ll say I’ll see you agin.”
“Love Nick.”
The postmark was Renous, New Brunswick. The letter was from Allan Legere, the serial killer. He didn’t sign his own name, of course. He preferred “Nick. ”
Apparently, the man who could slaughter five men and women mostly women - in their homes is well read. Old Nick is one of the many names given to the Devil, along with Old Scratch.
“It’s Legere,” said a police friend when I showed him the letter sent to my home address. “His girlfriend probably got it out for him. Do you want to file a complaint?”
I shook my head. What was the point? After all, Legere was in a maximum-security prison, headed for trial for the four murders he’d committed after escaping from prison guards during a trip to a Moncton hospital.
He has been serving a sentence of life with no full parole for at least 18 years for murdering John Glendenning, the brother of P.E.I’s Donald Glendenning, for whom a college residence is named.
Once free, Legere killed an elderly shopkeeper, two middle-aged women in their home and an elderly priest before being recaptured.
“He’s never getting out again,” I told the officer, who simply nodded and handed back the letter.
Legere was right. He had driven right past the front door to my home in 1989. He was fleeing in the priest’s car, his boots probably still covered in the man’s blood. Legere was racing to catch a train in a community about 80 kilometres away and my home at the time was on the main highway.
My wife was, and is, lovely. And our first child was, and is, a beautiful girl. And they were often home alone.
The letter was, in fact, not addressed to me. It was to “Mrs. R. Mclean.”
Beautiful Wife called me when she opened it. While alone with our daughter. At home.
“It’s Legere,” I said simply. “Don’t worry about it. He’s in prison and he’s never getting out.”
After he was convicted of all four murders and sentenced to life, Legere landed in a super-maximum prison in Quebec, a special handling unit. A prison within a prison for the worst of the worst.
“Don’t worry, he’ll never get out of there,” said a friend in the legal community. “No one will sign the papers to move him.”
Not true. Someone did sign the papers and late last month he was moved to a normal prison in Alberta. The Correctional Service of Canada didn’t tell me that. That’s not allowed. Privacy rights.
Privacy rights? That’s rich. A serial killer has privacy rights.
There is only one thing certain about Legere. Even though he turned 67 on Feb. 13 yes, Feb. 13, 1948 was a Friday there is only one thing on his mind, say those who know how his mind works.
Escape.
“Two things,” said one of the people involved in helping putting him behind bars.
“Revenge is the other. But don’t worry. You’re not first on his list. You’re likely third or fourth. Besides, he’s never going to get out of there anyway.”
- Rick MacLean is an instructor in the journalism program at Holland College in Charlottetown
