Mocking Justice: The Twisted Games of Abbotsford’s Notorious Imposter.
In the mid-1990s, the city of Abbotsford, British Columbia, was known as the “undisputed buckle of the Bible Belt.” It was a place of churches, safety, and community trust—until the autumn of 1995, when a “devil” moved through the streets, shattering that innocence forever. What followed was one of the most chilling cases in Canadian history, involving a predator who didn’t just kill, but who derived psychosexual gratification from taunting the very people sworn to catch him.
The nightmare began on Friday the 13th of October. Sixteen-year-old Misty Cochril and her friend Tanya Smith were headed to a party, a routine weekend activity for teenagers. They never made it. Instead, they were intercepted by a man who forced them into a secluded area behind a school. With a terrifying display of control, he ordered them to undress. When Misty realized the gravity of the situation, she chose to fight back. Her bravery was met with a baseball bat; she counted seven blows to her head before the world went black.
Hours later, Misty regained consciousness and managed to stumble to the nearby Abbotsford Hospital. She was in horrific condition, stitched and pinned together, barely clinging to life. While Misty fought for survival, the community realized a second tragedy was unfolding: Tanya Smith was missing. A massive search ensued, but the outcome was the one every parent dreads. Tanya’s body was discovered 20 kilometers away in the Vedder Canal. She had been raped, murdered, and her body desecrated with a distinctive bite mark—a “signature” that would eventually become a pillar of the prosecution’s case.
As Misty slipped into a coma, investigators were left with a cold trail. They had tire tracks and boot prints, but in 1995, DNA technology was still in its infancy, often taking weeks to provide results. The police needed a lead, and surprisingly, the killer provided one himself.
In an act of supreme arrogance, the killer began calling the police station. “Catch me if you can,” he mocked. These weren’t the ramblings of a prankster; the caller possessed “holdback information”—details like the bite mark that had never been released to the public. He was playing a game, watching the police from the shadows and enjoying the fear he had instilled in the town. He called from local phone booths, always staying one step ahead of the traces, even mocking the forensic teams: “Do you think I would be stupid enough to leave fingerprints behind?”
The psychological toll on the community was immense. The killer’s behavior was predatory and retaliatory. Profilers suggested he was someone who felt “hard done by” by the authorities—perhaps someone with a grudge or a failed history with the police. This theory gained weight when a blue envelope was found tied to a wrench. Inside was a letter where the killer claimed credit for several previously unreported assaults. The language was jarringly professional, using terms like “MO” and “attempted sexual assault”—terminology typically reserved for police reports. The investigation took a chilling turn: was the killer one of their own?
The breakthrough came from an unlikely source—the killer’s own arrogance. While he was careful to use gloves during his phone calls, he made a mechanical error while preparing the wrench package. He had used scotch tape, and as any investigator knows, it is nearly impossible to pull tape off a roll with gloves on. On the sticky underside of that tape, police found a clear, searchable fingerprint.
Simultaneously, the police launched “Operation Mouse Trap,” a city-wide surveillance effort. They broadcast the killer’s taunting voice on the news, hoping someone would recognize the rising and falling intonation. It worked. A woman called in, convinced the voice belonged to her son, Terry Driver.
Terry Driver was a 31-year-old married father of two, working at a local printing press. He was the son of a retired police officer and had been rejected from his own applications to join the force—a “police wannabe” with a hidden history of violent behavior in special care facilities. When police finally confronted him, Driver was indignant, refusing to provide DNA. However, believing he had been perfectly clean, he agreed to provide fingerprints in the presence of his lawyer.
It was his final mistake. The prints matched the tape on the wrench.
With the arrest made, the evidence flooded in. A search of Driver’s home revealed the computer used to write the taunting letters. Forensic dentists confirmed his unique dental structure matched the bite mark on Tanya Smith. Finally, the DNA results came back: a 1 in 1.7 trillion match to the evidence found at the crime scene. In a final, morbid discovery, surveillance footage from Tanya Smith’s funeral showed Driver in attendance, reliving his crime among the mourners.
Terry Driver was convicted of first-degree murder and attempted murder, labeled a dangerous offender, and sentenced to life in prison. For Misty Cochril, the conviction was more than just a legal victory; it was the moment she took her life back from the man who tried to steal it. The “Bible Belt” of British Columbia could finally breathe again, knowing that the “devil” who had mocked them was finally behind bars, silenced by his own pride.
