Free The Darkness Inside: Writer's Cut by John Rickards

unidentified woman said. “Harassing an innocent man while he’s dying. Keeping him locked away without any genuine evidence. You’re nothing but scum.”
    I sighed. “Lady, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Cody Williams is the most unpleasant human being I have ever met and the thought of him rotting in hell for what he’s done keeps me warm and happy at night. Goodbye.”
    I hit ‘end’ and dropped the phone in its cradle.
    The same thing happened twice more before I unplugged it, coming to the inevitable conclusion that people were idiots.
    “Leave the poor man alone! Just like the government – can’t even let a man die in peace!” Click.
    “You framed him, you and the FBI.”
    “What?”
    “He didn’t kill Clinton Travers. Why would he? And he was trying to protect that poor little girl, probably from someone like you! So you fixed things to send him to jail. But God knows what you did, Mr Rourke, and you’ll get what you deserve.” Click .

    Next day I drove back out to MCI-Ashworth, once more under gray skies. The crowd outside the prison gates was larger than before; the newcomers probably saw the protest on TV and showed up to get their faces on the news. In addition, a second smaller gathering had clustered a little closer to the main highway. This group of a dozen or so had a couple of placards with them, one of which read ‘CHILD KILLER ROT IN JAIL’ in bright red letters. Williams’ supporters further along shouted and jeered from the roadside, some moving closer to my car to vent their spleen in full voice while I waited for the gate to open. I couldn’t make out any of their words; I’d cranked up on the stereo for just this occasion. None of them looked happy, and neither was I. A couple of TV crews filmed the one-way exchange of views. I let them slide past me as I entered the comparative tranquillity of the prison complex.
    That was how it went for the next two days. The news cameras didn’t bother turning up again, but the protesters maintained their vigil with dwindling numbers. Every time I visited the jail we endured the same pointless face-off with the same lack of results. By the second day, I’d lost my anger towards them and felt only a sour sort of pity.
    Inside, Williams kept talking, the two of us alone in the empty, hollow visiting room. He recounted the abduction and murder of Abbie Galina and, in turn, Joanne Tilley, broken here and there by wet, hacking coughing and other signs of his obviously weakening condition. Very little was different to what had happened to Kerry Abblit. I’d have preferred he talked about something helpful, but he’d only tell me what had happened to the victims who’d never been found after he’d relived what happened to the ones we already knew about. I let his eager ramblings about the girls run their course with minimal interruption and buried my disgust.
    Abbie Galina played Titania in her last school production of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. She had a rapidly growing collection of music and wanted to be a DJ when she grew up. She was throttled and buried in straggly woodland.
    In the evenings I left the phone off the hook. My dreams were plagued by flashes of dead children.
    Joanne Tilley was on the under-13s swim team and also enjoyed gymnastics. She'd spend her Saturdays shopping at the local mall with her friends. She used to enjoy skateboarding, but a badly broken arm had seriously dented her confidence. Cody broke it again, before strangling her with electrical cable.
    Then, on the fourth day, there was a letter waiting for me in the mailbox when I left for the prison. Handwritten address, Rhode Island postmark.

    Dear Agent Rourke,
    The FBI told us they were hoping to persuade Cody Williams to tell them where we might find Holly’s remains before he dies, but they never said they would be asking you to speak to that man again. After the work you did to catch him and the evidence you gave at his trial we wouldn’t