The Innocent Wife

by Amy Lloyd

  It was an isolating existence. Through elementary and into middle school, Dennis arrived alone, spent days segregated from his classmates, and went home by himself. As he entered high school he became more intriguing to his peers, less of an outcast and more of a misunderstood loner. He was popular with girls, though he didn’t date much, and started as a running back on the football team. The Red River High School football team were decent players but underfunded and lacked any real dedication. The coach testified for the defence at Dennis’s trial, describing him as ‘kind of a lone wolf’ but ‘a good kid’fn3 who just needed a little discipline in his life. Coach Bush was an important witness, a respected man within the community who could confirm Dennis was with him at the school between four and five the day Holly went missing. The last time she had been seen was riding her bike away from her house at roughly four thirty. It meant Dennis couldn’t have taken her, or, at least, the timeline should have cast his guilt into reasonable doubt. But when asked to provide the roll-call for that practice the coach was unable to do so, though he had registers for all other practices dating back a year, and the prosecution called another player who couldn’t recall Dennis being at the practice that day either.

  Several boys remembered him being there but others thought he left early. He usually did, they said, as he wasn’t one to hang out after the practices or games. He was popular but formed no close friendships with the other players. Instead, he spent most of his time with other misfits in the school, notably Howard Harries, son of Officer Eric Harries, and Lindsay Durst. This was something his team and his classmates couldn’t understand, why he still felt so attached to these perceived ‘losers’. But this, the defence’s psychologist argued, was a classic symptom of abuse. ‘[Dennis] feared being exposed and vulnerable to his peers […] that they might see what his home life was like.’fn4 Dennis couldn’t escape the feeling he was a loser, even if, outwardly, he wasn’t perceived as such.

  Life at home was becoming increasingly difficult. Twice Dennis found his mother unconscious after an attempted overdose. His father was a violent drunk. When he was away from the house Dennis could relax. But when he returned he would beat Dennis for the smallest of infractions. Once, Dennis recalls, he had been eating his food in the TV room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, when his father appeared behind him and punched him in the back of the skull. Dennis spat the mouthful of food on to the floor and as he turned to ask what was going on his father hit him again in the mouth, kicked him in the stomach, unhooked his belt and whipped him three times. ‘You were chewing too loud,’ he said eventually, breathless and sliding the belt back through its loops.fn5

  To earn money, Dennis took a job at a retirement home cleaning rooms and washing clothes. Over time the residents started to enjoy his company. He was funny and quick, they said, never spoke down to anyone, always listened. He helped organise the entertainment and events, served food and talked with some of the people who didn’t have as many visitors. Some of the residents showed him their keepsakes. He saw photos and medals and furs. They showed him jewellery. As he cleaned rooms he saw shoeboxes under the beds, belonging to the residents who didn’t trust banks. At first he only took a few hundred bucks here and there, enough to squirrel away for a plane ticket, a month’s rent in New York or Los Angeles, food. Next it was jewellery, which he took to a pawnshop for a disappointing amount of cash. Then a resident’s daughter visited and wanted to borrow her mother’s antique brooch for a wedding. The brooch was tracked to the pawnbrokers in town and they told the police straight away: Dennis Danson sold it to them.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking. I needed to be gone. At the time I figured, you know, there weren’t really any victims. That stuff was just sitting there, waiting for them to die and their shitty families to come and sell it off.’ Dennis sighed. ‘I guess if I knew that everything I ever did in my life would one day be analysed like this, like everything would be used as evidence to decide if I was a monster or not, I would have lived differently.’

  Three

  ‘So?’ Carrie asked Sam, eyes on the road ahead of her. ‘How was your first date?’

  Sam laughed; she’d barely stopped smiling since their visit yesterday. She’d slept well for the first night in days and when Carrie came to pick her up at the motel for the drive to Red River she was waiting outside, eager to talk about it all.

  ‘It was good – it went well.’ Sam tried not to ask if Dennis had said anything, her instinct to appear aloof still strong, even after travelling across the globe just to meet him.

  ‘Is that it? I’m not going to tell you what he said until you give me a little more than that.’

  ‘Fine. At first it was awkward and I think that’s my fault, really, I just got a little … overwhelmed, I suppose. But he was so sweet.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘Completely.’ Sam got along easily with Carrie. She was short, with thick brown hair that stopped just above her chin and stuck up wildly when she ran a hand through it. ‘And, you know, he’s handsome and stuff, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘I was so gutted when I had to leave. It was like we’d only just started to get to know each other outside of the letters.’ Sam didn’t mention the woman, the confrontation. There was a silence.

  ‘And?’ Carrie teased.

  ‘Stop it! Oh my God.’ Sam burned. What she felt for Dennis felt so different to the last time she’d started something new, to that secret fumble at the staff Christmas party, to Mark telling her quietly, ‘I’m not looking for anything serious. No strings?’ And she’d said yes, of course, because what else could she say? His hands already inside her clothes, months of longing and shy glances culminating in this. Sliding his fingers inside her, painful, too soon, her body stiff and cold with the effort not to cry. Are you OK? And she said yes because you had to be. OK with being fucked but not wanted. OK with being a consolation prize. OK with being OK.

  ‘Well, he thinks you’re totally hot, obviously,’ Carrie said.

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘His exact words were, “Samantha’s totally hot.”’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘And he loves your accent. He was bummed out it had to end so soon too but he’s really excited about seeing you next week. It’s so cute I can’t even handle it. My little Dennis, finally dating.’

  Sam committed his words to memory, tried to hear how he would say it, only half listening while Carrie told her about her first visit with Dennis, how scary walking into the jail for the first time had been. She talked about the death threats and hate mail she received, how they hadn’t been able to work up any funding for the first documentary so she and her co-producer Patrick had to work nights just to get it made.

  ‘You put me to shame,’ Sam said.

  ‘It was essentially totally selfish. It was a story that needed to be told and so we made the film. Like, I always cared about Dennis, right from when Patrick first told me about the case. Of course everyone thinks I’m in love with him.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘A woman wouldn’t make a documentary about a guy otherwise, right? The fact that I’m gay doesn’t seem to matter. I get it all the time. It was just the case, it seemed so unfair, this kid who obviously didn’t do it. I couldn’t get it out of my head.’

  Sam thought of how close they were, how Dennis spoke about her. ‘It’s so overwhelming, though. I can’t even believe I’m here and all I’m doing is visiting. It’s like a really weird holiday,’ she said.

  ‘It’s huge what you’re doing! Before you, Dennis was really starting to give up. It’s amazing you came out here. Don’t put yourself down, you’re a strong woman.’

  Sam flushed.

  ‘Ugh, I hate that though. Strong woman. What does that even mean? Like, a strong man is a guy who can drag an eighteen-wheeler along by his testicles but a strong woman is like …’ Carrie clicked her fingers, searching for what she meant.

  ‘A mum who petitions for a new road sign after her son gets knocked
down by a boy racer.’

  ‘Right!’

  ‘Maybe that’s less stupid.’

  ‘Well, yeah, when you say it out loud. But you know what I mean. It’s some bullshit thing people always say. I mean you’re brave, is what I mean.’

  Sam opened her lips to protest but remembered how Mark had said she never accepted a compliment and it drove him crazy. Item number thirteen on the list of reasons he couldn’t love her. She turned to Carrie. ‘Thank you.’

  The houses in Red River weren’t uniform like the ones Sam had seen as the plane came in to land, with pools like surgical dishes and terracotta roofs. It was as if they were all built one at a time by people who ended up there by accident. The streets were wide and the houses spread apart; there were discarded sofas and chained-up dogs that barked as they drove past. There was a town hall, modest and white, and a central street with a convenience store, a hardware store and a diner. Most places were closed, with wood panels bolted over the windows.

  They drove on to a prettier area, where the streets were shaded by large trees and the houses were painted different pastel shades, with love seats on the porches and big shining SUVs outside. They pulled up next to a pastel-yellow house, smaller than the others, the paint starting to peel around the white window frames. The mailbox read ‘Harries, 142’. According to Carrie, Officer Eric Harries had declined every request for an interview during the making of the first documentary in 1993. On this occasion he had contacted Patrick when it was announced Jackson Anderson was producing a new documentary series about the case.

  ‘The lure of celebrity,’ Carrie said, rolling her eyes. ‘Of course, he’s set us some serious restrictions.’ Carrie explained that if they even contacted Howard, his son, for an interview, he would see to it that their footage would never be released. ‘He wasn’t exactly dedicated or talented enough to rise up the ranks but he still holds a lot of sway in this town,’ Carrie said. ‘Honour amongst thieves. No one understands that better than cops.’

  The interview was crucial, as Officer Harries was the first cop to interview Dennis after Holly’s body was found. When asked why he called on Dennis he had testified, ‘Call it a hunch. Cop’s intuition.’

  ‘The nerve of the guy,’ Carrie said while they looked at the house from the car. ‘I’ve got serious questions about his story.’

  They stepped outside and Carrie unloaded equipment from the back of the car on to the sidewalk. She had a camera, which she loaded on to her shoulder; she put her eye against the viewfinder and scanned the street, Sam instinctively ducking as if its gaze were a bullet. Carrie held the camera by a handle on top and cradled it from beneath, sweeping it around in a semi-circle. She attached a pair of headphones which she hung around her neck and took a step back, cocking a hip to one side.

  ‘So how do I look? Jack wants us to be on camera now, like we’re part of the story ourselves. I don’t know, I feel like I’m on fucking Catfish.’

  Inside, the rest of the crew had already set up and were adjusting lights, rolling a blind up and down, while Officer Harries sat in an armchair, pinching to release the top button of his shirt, the collar tight around his loose neck. Sam noticed that he looked at Carrie as she entered but looked away again quickly. A gangly man emerged from the kitchen, ducking slightly under the doorway, and introduced himself as Patrick, Carrie’s business partner. Together they had researched and filmed the first documentary, acquiring a small team as the story grew. Patrick seemed, to Sam, a little shy, his handshake limp and palm moist. He talked without looking into her eyes, asked a few questions – ‘How was your flight?’ – but he didn’t seem to engage with her answers. ‘Good, good,’ he said, ‘Excuse me.’ When Sam turned around to talk to Carrie she was gone and so she stood awkwardly at the side of the room and waited for someone else to approach her.

  There were five people Sam didn’t recognise, all busy setting up. A man swooped a boom mic over her head, apologised. She watched them, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and starting to grow flustered with self-consciousness, feeling as if she didn’t belong. It was suddenly preposterous that she was here.

  ‘You can take a seat, you know,’ Harries said from his spot.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Sam said.

  ‘You look a little flushed. Do you need a drink?’ He made to stand up until Sam waved him down. She needed a drink but not from him. ‘Well, if you need anything …’

  With disgust, she noted the nose that swelled red with years of drink, open pores and the nick of a razor crusted with blackening blood on his cheek next to his moustache. His forehead was already shining with sweat, his belt buckle sinking into a gut which shone white through the gaps in his shirt.

  Officer Harries cleared his throat. ‘That an English accent I hear? How do you like the weather? Hot enough for you?’ Sam smiled politely, closed lips. ‘You move here or did you travel just for this?’

  ‘Just visiting.’

  ‘What did they bring you here for then? You must be pretty good at whatever you do if they flew you out here.’

  ‘Well, actually’ – Sam dared herself, feeling the tingle of confrontation – ‘I’m a friend of Dennis, actually. More like a girlfriend.’

  Harries’s smile dissipated and he sat taller in his chair. ‘They don’t got killers in England you can date?’

  Sam turned and walked away, back out into the wall of heat outside. Suddenly it seemed as though everyone in the house was thinking the same thing. It made her sick, like she was spinning. She had to close her eyes and count her breaths and remember who she was, what she was doing, why.

  She was standing in the shade, trying to bring herself back, when Carrie passed and handed her a bottle of water, dripping from the melting ice of the cooler in her trunk. Sam held it against the back of her neck and explained to Carrie what had happened.

  ‘This guy is the actual … fucking … worst …’ Carrie said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll tear him a new asshole. He said we couldn’t speak to Howard, he didn’t say we couldn’t speak about him.’ She coaxed Sam back inside. Sam stayed at the back of the room, as far away from Harries as possible, watching him sip from a cloudy glass tumbler and wipe his wet lips with the back of his hand.

  Half an hour later Carrie took a seat opposite Harries, an iPad balanced on her knees along with some notes, which Harries asked to see before they started. Sam watched his eyes move over the pages, smiling to himself, a cluck every now and then.

  ‘Happy?’ Carrie asked him as he handed back the papers.

  He nodded. Carrie gestured that she was ready; Patrick called for silence and counted down. Carrie started.

  ‘Can you tell us about your personal relationship with Dennis, Officer Harries. About his friendship with your son, Howard?’

  ‘I didn’t have any kind of personal relationship with Dennis. But he was around a lot, started when he was … seven, I suppose. Howie was always a caring boy and he saw Dennis as a kid in need so he would play with him in the yard. Kid was always in here eating all our food. I used to say to him, “Don’t your folks ever feed you?” Well, I guess they didn’t because he was always hungry, dirty, always stealing things. Though Howie would never say it was him, I knew it was him. Ten dollars here, a packet of cookies there. Nothing big. You ignore these things, at first.’

  ‘You never asked Dennis about it? Or visited his home to see if he was being properly cared for?’

  ‘We all knew what was going on at that house; it wasn’t a secret. Not much you can do. I go round there and give his daddy a warning and what happens? They probably stop him coming round – Howie won’t forgive me. Those boys, they were inseparable. I had my concerns right from the start but—’

  ‘What were your concerns?’

  ‘Howie was so impressionable. He was always trailing behind other kids his age. Never invited to the parties or to play ball games in the summer. So I was suspicious when some kid like Dennis starts hanging around. He seemed whip-smart to me.
He shook my hand like he was a grown man the first time I met him. Then Howie started cussing, and I knew he got that from him. Broken toys, buried in the garbage. Howie snapping his wrist after some stupid stunt, jumping off a bridge into the river. I knew who made him do this stuff, I saw him changing. But how can you take away your boy’s only friend? So I overlooked some things, I made exceptions. I had a quiet word with Dennis, told him, “Now, I don’t want a bad influence round my son, you need to adjust your attitude or you can’t come round here day in day out, you hear me?”’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Week later my vehicle was vandalised, a key scratch right down one side. I asked him but he denied it. Always suspected him though. That was my mistake, letting too many things slide, watching my Howard get dragged into delinquency.’

  Carrie sat forward, frowned. ‘Some people see it the other way round. Teachers say Dennis was better behaved before he met Howard; some locals say Howard was always a problem child, ever since his mother left he was, quote, out of control, end quote.’

  Harries grunted. ‘Well, whoever said that has an axe to grind. Howie reacted badly after his mother left – who wouldn’t? He was a little loud and prone to tantrums, but he was slow with language, he just got frustrated is all.’

  ‘By high school Howard was dealing drugs. Was that just caused by frustration too?’

  ‘That was Dennis’s doing.’

  ‘Did Howard tell you that?’

  ‘No, he didn’t need to: it was obvious. Where would Howie even get … Look, Howie wasn’t the brightest kid. He was covering for someone. He was a pleaser; he just wanted friends. There’s no way he was capable of orchestrating something like that himself.’

  ‘But he swore it wasn’t Dennis, even at the threat of expulsion.’