A few clicks of the mouse and the woman’s face and the scene around her became progressively blockier and more heavily pixellated.
“It all looks even to me,” Sophie said behind me. “It all seems to match.”
“Yeah, the tone and color’s the same, and the overall quality and patterning of each block is consistent. Whoever she is, that’s not a face someone’s pasted in from elsewhere. That’s the real her.”
I pointed at the stills taken in the seconds the camera was in darkness, looking at what could be the edge of a table with light glinting from something metallic. “Can you lighten these up?” I asked. “Maybe we can see what the camera’s looking at.”
“Easily done. I’ll do the same with any of the earlier ones where the background is visible. Something might stick out of the gloom.”
Brandon spent another hour playing with the images at his disposal, brightening, sharpening, resizing. At the end, he ran off printouts of the results and handed them to me.
“Sorry,” he said. “Not much there, not with such a low resolution recording.”
I skimmed the results, passing them to Sophie as I finished with each one. The two pages that held my eye for the longest were blown-up and brightened stills from the shots in darkness. Even through the digital noise I could see a tabletop, what looked like a riding crop, a crude metal baton with wire running from one end, and a couple of spare sets of manacles.
“Someone takes their shit seriously,” Brandon said. “Wish I could tell you more about him.”
Sophie looked at the last of the pictures, then handed the whole bundle back to me. “Are you going to go through it frame-by-frame just in case?”
“Yeah. It’ll take me a day or two. I doubt there’s anything else there — haven’t seen any sign of it if there is. But you never know, huh?”
21.
Half an hour after saying goodbye to Brandon, Sophie and I sat in Gattuso’s, an Italian restaurant not far from the river. Not especially large, brightly colored, subdued lighting. A distant clatter of noise from the kitchens, murmured conversation from the tables around us. The aroma of garlic and tomatoes hanging in the air.
“Can I ask you a question, Alex?” Sophie said, laying her fork down.
“Sure.”
“Why is this thing eating at you like this? I mean, I know it was your case originally, and I know you think Holly’s still alive. But you’re becoming obsessed.”
I thought about spilling all again like I had with Rob, give up on holding on to the lie, but that was crazy. Rob was an old enough hand to at least understand how these things could happen even if he didn’t agree. Sophie was young and I didn’t know if she’d handle the news the same. I said, “It was my case, and I thought I’d got the right guy. But if Holly really is still alive then I made a mistake, and she’s paid for it with seven years of her life and God knows what kind of trauma. In the end I’m responsible for that. I’ve shot and killed several people in my career.”
“Yeah, but…”
“People I’ve arrested have had families, innocents who’d only get to see their father or mother, kids or parents, on the other side of a sheet of glass for the next ten-to-twenty. But when it comes to it, I’ve only ever done that kind of shit when someone’s done something to deserve it. Holly Tynon didn’t, and the fact she’s faced what’s she’s faced because of me and a mistake I made is killing me.”
She nodded and fixed me with wide eyes. “The FBI don’t believe she’s alive,” she said softly. “And if there was a mistake it was as much their fault as yours. That footage might just be someone’s home porno video.”
“Agent Downes never had to face Holly Tynon’s parents and try to find some way of telling them that their only daughter had in all probability been raped and murdered and was lying in a shallow grave somewhere. She never had to see the look in their eyes like their entire world had collapsed around them. She’s confident, but can’t be entirely sure, that Holly is dead. I can see the same odds, and all they mean to me is that there’s a chance she’s alive, a chance I never realized existed before now. So I’ve got to try.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes more. The cannelloni was good, so was the wine. Truth be told though, I wasn't paying much attention to either. Too much else on my mind.
Eventually, Sophie finished her spaghetti and reaches for her glass. “How’re you doing, Alex?” she said. “I never get the chance to ask at the office.”
“I'm OK.”
“You look thin. Really tired. Is anything bothering you, or is it just having to look at the old case again?”
I swilled the remaining Merlot around the bottom of my glass before downing it in one and reaching for a refill. Sophie nodded when I offered her one. “It’s mostly nothing, or at least, nothing unusual. Yeah, the whole Williams thing is a part of it. There's some other stuff as well that I can't talk about.”
“No?”
“No. But in any case it’s mostly just, well, me I suppose. I wouldn’t expect you to understand it at your age.”
“You're thinking of going through a mid-life crisis then?” she asked with a mischievous look on her face. “You've already got the flash car, so I suppose you’re halfway there already. Just need the ponytail and the twenty-year-old girlfriend.”
I smiled. “Hey, I’ve had the 'Vette for years. Way too long for it to be a vain attempt to recapture my youth.”
“And I don’t think the ponytail would really suit you either.”
“Yeah, not my style.”
“Somehow I can’t picture you with anything apart from the cut you’ve got now.”
“You should have seen me in my college years. My first year I had long hair, scruffy t-shirts, the works. Even tried a beard at one point. Well, I say ‘tried’, but in reality I was just too lazy to shave.”
Sophie laughed. “Please tell me there’s photographic evidence somewhere. That I have to see.”
“I’m afraid not. Over the years, a series of unexplained thefts and fires have conspired to destroy as much of it as possible. And I’m not telling you where I went to college — no class or department photos for you either.”
“I’m working for a detective agency, Alex. I’m sure I can find out.”
I shook my head. “I may have to resort to threats, bribery, or extortion if you try.”
“If it’s any consolation, I spent a month at high school walking around with an awful spiky punk cut.”
“Only a month before you came to your senses? You were lucky.”
“I found out how bad it was when the guy I had a crush on told me I looked like a porcupine that’d been struck by lightning in a paint factory.”
“Everyone’s a critic.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She smiled. “I’m glad you’ve lightened up a little, Alex, even if it’s just for now. It’s not good for you to let things get on top of you all the time.”
“Yeah,” I said.
After dinner, Sophie and I said our goodbyes and I headed for home, the image of the woman’s face in those stills never far from my mind. Sharpened, image-enhanced, magnified as much as possible. Eyes wide, glassy, scared. And the more I thought about them, the more I was certain it was Holly staring back at me.
22.
I was in a long, high-ceilinged room. Red velvet wallpaper and wood panelling, dim bulbs in sconces way up on either side. A vast table of polished walnut sat at its heart, surrounded by high-backed chairs. I walked forward, into the light, head bowed. There were tears drying on my cheeks.
“You know why you're here,” Brooke Morgan said as I reached the head of the table. A child sat in each chair, each wearing an oversized gown made of black garbage sacks. They were all watching me.
“We know what you did,” Abbie Galina said. Some of the girls had bruised faces, red-black marks around their necks. The hands peeking from the hems of the robes had purple welts and torn nails.
“You know what we want.”
I ran my eyes over the faces staring at me. Holly Tynon was the only one missing. There were no empty seats.
A shuffling sound behind me, feet sliding uncertainly against the carpet. I brushed my face with my fingertips, rubbed at the tear tracks, and came back with red smears, drying blood still tacky to the touch. I knew that if I turned around I’d see Travers lurching towards me, skull shattered and bloody from the bullet I put through it. He was coming for me and there was nothing I could do to stop him.
“No,” I said, but the dead girls just shook their heads. The wallpaper collapsed and shredded behind them, the wooden panels rotted and warped as I watched, the surface of the table bubbled and peeled, and finally the girls themselves began to shrivel and decay. A hand hit my shoulder and I woke up, screaming.
I found myself fully dressed, on the couch, and the phone was ringing. The drapes were closed and my watch said it was nearly eight in the morning.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Mr Rourke? This is Detective Sergeant Jack Gilbert from Hartford Police Department. Sorry to call you so early, but I was hoping to catch you before you left for work. I understand you're being kept busy at the moment.”
“That's OK, no problem. What can I do for you?”
“Just a courtesy call, really. Thought I'd give you the heads-up that we've had a couple of reporters call the last day or two, asking about one of our old cases.”
“The Clinton Travers rapes.”
“Good guess.”
“Only case I've worked in Hartford, Sergeant Gilbert.”
“Yeah. Well, they were interested in the whole saga really, but especially his shooting. Wanted to know what we found at the scene, things like that. How we linked it to your boy Williams.”
I kept my tone non-committal. “Uh-huh.”
“Just thought you should know in case they come calling on you too.” The cop paused, and I wondered how much of his build-up had been for effect. “Not that I had much to tell them, just that there were signs of a struggle at the scene, and the guy's gun was missing. No prints, no usable trace evidence we could identify the intruder with. Some witnesses reported hearing a gunshot, but no one saw anyone leaving or arriving at the house.”
“Yeah, I remember. Too bad no one kept him under surveillance.”
“Well, after what he did to Detective Carson, we would've nailed him before long. Guess we were just lucky your guy took such a dislike to him. Why'd you think he did that?”
“Williams is a fucking psycho, Sergeant Gilbert. Who knows why he does anything?” I said. “Is that all? Only I've got to get ready for work.”
“Yeah, that's all. Just an FYI, in case anyone bothers you. Frank Sutherland from the, ah, Herald News, and Jason Curtis from the Connecticut Post. Take it easy.”
I hung up, trying to figure out if Gilbert had just been making conversation, satisfying idle curiosity, or if we was inferring that he suspected what had really happened. And if it was the latter, what he thought of it.
23.
Boston, MA. 1998.
Winter, and a Boston courtroom. High ceiling bathed in the blue-white glow of fluorescent strip lights. That wood-and-red-carpet school of decorating so beloved of the justice system’s interior designers. The distant hum of the heating system, audible over the faint and muffled rustle of the crowd of people behind me. Every breath, every scrape of clothing on clothing was multiplied a hundred-fold, the white noise swirl of distant surf.
I sat in the front row watching proceedings, uncomfortable in a sombre graphite-colored suit. I’d been on the stand, said my piece, and now the prosecuting attorney was just finishing her summing up for the jury.
I’d told the court how Cody Williams might have felt so aggrieved at Clinton Travers’ expansive press coverage that he’d felt he had to eliminate him before abducting Nicole Ballard, trying to ensure maximum exposure for his own planned misdeeds. I couldn’t mention the other girls, because he wasn’t on trial for what he’d done to them. I’d explained how, in interviews with Williams, he’d revealed himself to be an arrogant, self-aggrandizing monster who loved to receive the attention he felt he had been denied in his normal everyday life. I’d run through the state’s preferred scenario for what had happened on the night Travers was murdered, and explained Williams’ role in the whole thing.
I hoped no one saw it all for the lies it was.
Now it was the defense’s turn to sum up their case. Cody Williams’ lawyer hardly seemed thrilled at the job he had, but he pushed on through. He was young, and from the looks of things knew that, unpleasant or not, this case was high profile and the TV exposure alone could make his career. No one could say that Cody Williams abducted and killed all those girls, but everyone was thinking it, and there’d been a regular media mob outside throughout the trial.
The attorney, whose name I vaguely remembered as Luther Ellwood, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he reached the climax of his monologue, saying, “The man you see before you is not the freak of nature, not the monster the prosecution would have you believe. Cody Williams is a good man, a decent man. He has never denied trying to seize Nicole Ballard, but he has shown throughout his testimony that he acted out of a misguided desire to protect her, having been so concerned about the stories about these poor children in the media. Irrational, certainly, but his motives were good. He is not a man deserving of your hatred, but of your pity. He is not a man in need of punishment, but a man in need of treatment and re-education. He is not a monster, but a decent soul who became caught up in events he was incapable of fully comprehending.
“That is his only crime.”
24.
Boston, MA. 2004.
For the next few days I stuck to my apartment. I ignored every phone call that wasn’t from someone I know. Checked no email. Asked no questions. Told no lies. I tidied. Cleaned. Hunkered down. Found a hairline crack in my bathroom mirror and taped it shut. Fixed things. Sent out for pizza. Avoided all thought of Williams as much as I could.
The first evening, Brandon called to tell me he’d finished checking out the footage frame by frame. “Sorry,” he said. “Nothing much more there than what you saw last night. Your friends at the FBI might be more use, but I doubt it — I didn’t see anything that might have helped, even if I’d been able to sharpen everything to photo quality.”
“What about any information buried in the footage itself — digital signatures, things like that?”
“If there’s anything there, it was hidden by someone who knows more than I do. Which wouldn’t be hard — kinda out of my usual department.”
“Oh well. Thanks for checking, I appreciate it. You okay to look at any more that turn up?”
“Sure,” he said. “No problem.”
He hung up, and I sat in my armchair thinking. There didn’t seem to be anything more to learn from the footage, and I still couldn’t know for sure it wasn’t just a clip someone found online and sent to me for a joke. Some piece of random porno with just enough suggested menace to make it work.
But what, I wondered, if the reverse was true, and the film’s maker had attempted to sell his footage to commercial porn distributors to make an easy buck off something he was doing anyway?
I fired up my computer and made a list of email addresses. A request for information, a few stills from the film, a suggestion of the seriousness of the crimes involved. A shot in the dark, but not much different to similar efforts we made in half the missing persons cases the agency handled. You had to try every possibility.
Over the following couple of days, a handful of people left messages — mostly reporters with the same line of crap they’d been spouting before. Rob called to make sure I was okay. I asked him to let the jail at Ashworth know that I was ill and wouldn’t be seeing Williams for a while. Apart from that, I circled the wagons and barely moved from my chair.
Holly’s picture stared at me from the coffee table, and I couldn’t think of any other way of tracing her, no mat
ter how hard I tried.
I didn’t want to face Williams again — both of us were locked into our individual courses, and I saw little chance of anything changing.
But I couldn’t give up on her, not like I had all those years ago.
In the files detailing Cody’s background, I found a mention of his first cellmate, Billy Perry. They’d shared for a couple of years before Perry’s release, and his last known address was in Boston.
If Cody had said anything at all after he was convicted, he’d have said it to Perry.
But the problem was that he no longer lived at his last known address. In fact, he seemed to have dropped off the radar entirely. I started chasing up every record I could find on Perry, calling everyone I could think of for scraps of information.
The only thing I got of any interest came from a friend in the BPD. At one point, three years ago, they’d had Perry as a suspect involved in loansharking for a mobster called Gabriel Heller. However, as far as the cops knew, that was all over and Perry hadn’t stuck his head above the parapet since. No one knew where he was.
On Tuesday, Tanya Downes called. “The image lab has finished analyzing your video clip, Alex,” she said. “I’ve got some stills they took from the footage, sharpened and magnified as much as they were able.”
“Do they show very much?”
“I’m afraid the results aren’t especially impressive — too much data was lost in the video compression. I’ve compared them to age-adjusted pictures of Holly Tynon and I’m still not convinced. Any similarities are extremely vague, if there at all. I’ll email them to you anyway.”
I thanked her even though I was convinced. “Is that all?” I said.
“Is Williams being any more co-operative?”
“I haven’t spoken to him for a few days. He wasn’t giving me much, nothing to confirm or deny the truth of what happened to Holly or the other girls. So I left him to stew for a while. If he thinks he’s lost the limelight, maybe he’ll be a little more forthcoming.”
The Darkness Inside: Writer's Cut Page 12