I t is the sort of riddle Agatha Christie would dream up. It is the early hours of Sunday 24 May 1987, in Toronto, Canada. A 23-year-old electronics worker called Kenneth Parks falls asleep on the sofa in his house while watching Saturday Night Live. The time is 1.30am.
When he opens his eyes, it is still dark outside. But Kenneth is standing in a different house. He has a knife in his hands. His mother-in-law is dying in front of him. He has no memory of what has just occurred or how he travelled the 14 miles from his house to the home of his parents-in-law. All he sees is the blood on his clothes. In a state of shock, Kenneth flees and drives to the nearest police station and arrives uttering the chilling line: “I think I have killed some people.”
