NSFW (do not enlarge photos if you wish to avoid gore) but if you scroll to the bottom of this page about "The Boot Lace Killer" you'll see some potential younger victims listed
http://theresaallore.com/2013/08/quebec-1977-who-was-the-bootlace-killer/
A personal note, maybe Off-topic or maybe related to any Canadian unsolved cases:
These cases from this part of Canada as well as cases from New England in general I try to follow pretty closely.
When I was a young girl, I was at the ocean of a seaside vacation community in Maine that had a very large French Canadian population. especially during tourist season. It was in the early fall, I was there because my family was working on a vacation rental cottage they owned- shutting the water off, making small repairs. We'd go up on the weekends from central MA to do this. I'd walked 3/4 mile from the cottage near the railroad tracks to the beach. I remember the day clearly- it was warm enough for me to wear shorts as long as I stayed moving. The beach was deserted except for some fishermen dotting the shoreline. I chased waves for a little while, and as I was picking my shoes back up from the sand to head home a man approached me. I remember very clearly what he looked like. I think he was middle-aged (but as a kid, everyone over 30 is middle-aged). He had a very square face with some deep lines like someone who spent a lot of time on a boat may have. His features may have looked ever-so slightly slavic or italian or greek. His hair seemed unnaturally thick, and it somehow seemed wrong- in retrospect I think he was probably wearing a hairpiece or full wig.
He told me his dog had run away and asked me if I'd seen it. I hadn't. He then offered me some money if I'd help him find his dog. That seemed like a good deal to me I agreed to help him look.
It's hard for me to type that even to this day without feeling deep shame. I was poor, and I was wearing a new shirt (well, it was new to me, my mother's best friend's daughter outgrew it) that had just enough stretch that it showed off my barely developed bust, and I'd been *frolicking* at the water's edge and feeling as sexy as a prepubescent child could only moments earlier.
Nearby was a creek that feeds into the ocean. At low tide you can usually cross the creek (although the sands shift yearly) and large rocks run along it. If you walk up the creek a little ways you can get to a road. He told me we should split up I should walk up the creek calling for the dog, and he'd search another route and reconvene up at the road.
As I started walking along the rocks and calling for the dog I began to feel more and more uncomfortable. I was confused as to why the man would think that the dog would head back up to the road, it would make more sense for us to search two different directions of the beach if that's where the dog was last seen.
I started to scan the rocks ahead of me, afraid the man could have somehow made it to the creek before me and was lying in wait. The creek was deserted, and when I got near the road I scrambled up the embankment in relief, and then immediately felt silly about my overactive imagination.
I stood in the road and couldn't see anyone, and then suddenly he appeared further down the road, nearer to houses, close the old sump pump station shed (since replaced).
He looked-- fairly aggravated?
But I may have mistaken agitation for aggravation, or maybe it was simmering rage that he didn't hide well. I'm not sure, but I immediately felt like I'd done something wrong and hadn't followed directions correctly.
He started motioning me to get over there, and as I reached the point where he'd been standing I saw he'd turned and started about 50 feet down the long, brambled path next to the pump. I knew from experience those paths were overgrown in places and led into the woods, I'd sometimes go down them to pick wild blueberries and raspberries.
"I think I saw him go down here!" he called.
I felt like I was sleepwalking as I followed him into the mouth of the path a few steps. Every hair was standing up on end but I still took a few steps forward. "I can't help you, I have to go", I said.
"I'll give you $5 for helping me so far", he said, turning and making a motion like he was reaching for some money, walking back a couple more steps further into the woods at the same time.
I took a few backward steps toward the road in response. "No, thanks, I need to go home", I said.
"How old are you?", he asked.
I wish I can remember what I said because then I'd know what year it was, was it 1978?or 1979? But the blood was rushing in my ears making a howling noise that drowns out the memory of my own voice replying. "12", I'm pretty sure said. (maybe 13?)
"You know what I want, don't you?"
The next thing I remember is looking at his hands. I think I probably was subconsciously looking for a dogleash, and I can't remember if he was holding one. On the one hand, I knew he should have one, but on the other, seeing him with a leash in his hands at that moment would have been terrifying.
I felt like time stopped at that moment, as cliched as that sounds. It's like when you trip and take an unexpected bad fall and the ground comes rushing up at you in slow motion.
I managed to turn and run, even though I felt like I couldn't breathe. I remember running down New Salt Road and how all of the houses were closed up for the off-season/ I remember trying to scream and not being able to. I ran down another street and came upon a man out in his driveway washing his car. I tried to scream for help, and nothing came out. I just stopped and stood in front of him and tried to to keep saying the word help over and over and nothing came out.
He realized something was terribly wrong and yelled for his wife to come outside. They brought me into the house and closed the door and after I stopped hyperventilating (which took quite a while and a full glass of water) they were able to get enough of the story to call the police, who put me in the back of the squad car and drove me all through the area trying to find the man, but of course we never did.
I always wonder if there were other children who weren't as lucky as I was. I imagine there were. I also wonder every now and then what would have happened if I hadn't gotten away- if he was a actually a murderer rather than "just" a child rapist. I'm pretty sure that experience is why I spend so much time here- I'm a little obsessed with serial murderers being caught before they can inflict any more suffering on anyone.
The meeting spot (on street view you can see the path. It's been cleared more in the intervening years, when I'm in Maine I sometimes jog down it as a way to reclaim it on my run):
https://maps.google.com/maps?q=new+...hnear=Old+Orchard+Beach,+Maine+04064&t=m&z=17