by Amy Lloyd
‘I have to go.’ She turned her back on him. By now all eyes were on them, and a guard was moving towards Dennis.
‘Don’t go!’
She looked at Dennis as he banged the divide with the heel of his hand. She couldn’t tell if he was upset or angry. The guard had his hands on Dennis’s shoulders, trying to force him back into his seat. Dennis’s chains sounded like smashed glass.
‘Marry me!’ he shouted as Sam burst into tears. ‘I love you! Marry me!’
‘Can I tweet it? Holy shit, we need to get you a ring! Will you wear a wedding dress?’ Carrie pulled Sam in and hugged her again.
‘Yes! How do we do the ring thing? I don’t know about wedding dresses, I thought I’d just buy something colourful?’
Sam and Carrie got into the car and shut the doors. The radio switched on as Carrie turned the key but she turned it off. Sam had told her everything: how she’d said yes, how the guard had loosened his grip on Dennis’s shoulders and patted him, congratulated them quietly but sincerely. How she hadn’t seen Dennis smile like that since she met him.
‘Maybe we should get the ring first and then we’ll tweet it, with a picture.’
‘Do I buy the ring?’
‘Fuck off, we’ll work it out, you will not be buying your own engagement ring. How did he propose? Tell me about it again.’
Sam glowed. She edited the part about the argument, unwilling to peel away the costume of sanity she wore around Carrie, feeling they were getting closer and worried if she revealed herself in her true form she might drive her away. On the way to the Danson house, to interview Dennis’s father, they passed the sights that were becoming familiar: the field of solar panels reclining in the heat, the stretch of water along the side of the road in which they’d seen a tail slink quickly underneath, so quickly they weren’t really sure if they’d seen it at all. They drove through town and onwards, off the main road and on to a dirt road, thrown about in their seats, wheels slipping on loose gravel. The trees whipped the windows as they passed and stones plinked against the underside of the SUV.
Sam’s stomach started to weaken. She’d seen the Danson house in Framing the Truth but hadn’t been prepared for how isolated it truly was. The only thing that kept the trees from growing over the road completely was the path forged by cars. Now that Dennis’s father, Lionel, was disabled, the only cars that came through were those of the nurses who cared for him by day.
Everything seemed to be creeping towards them, enveloping them, suffocating, then they were released into a clearing, grass worn from car tyres, the one-storey house so familiar to Sam from the pictures she saw on the internet that she could place Dennis, aged nine, standing in the patch of dead grass by the garage, unsmiling, blond fringe combed forward over his eyes, squinting in the sun. Except now, across the front of the garage, the word ‘MURDERER’ had been sprayed in red paint. Signs of more graffiti were all over the house, sloppily painted over in the same off-white the rest of the house used to be, now greying with neglect.
They parked outside, the first to arrive, and waited for the rest of the crew. ‘You ready to meet your new father-in-law?’ Carrie asked, which made Sam more nervous than she’d expected.
The house, Sam thought, had an Amityville type of presence, its image weighted with horror, as though it knew what you were thinking. Lionel haunted the place and refused to move on although he was unable to look after himself, relying on more care than he could afford, Medicare barely contributing at all. Instead Lionel made money selling stories here and there, as well as a cheap website capitalising on the ‘Christian spirit of giving’ that allowed people to donate to help pay for his care. Occasionally he would sell family items on eBay, old T-shirts of Dennis’s or half-finished schoolbooks. He was not ashamed to profit from his family’s notoriety. Lionel argued that there were plenty of sites donating money to his murdering son while he was left to rot out in the sticks.
Sam and Carrie were reluctant to go inside and so spent more time than necessary fiddling with equipment from the SUV and taking exterior shots on a handheld camera. Eventually a woman called from the front porch. She was a nurse in light blue scrubs. She asked them if they’d like anything to drink and if they wanted to wait inside. The sheepish expression they shared with her made her laugh, so she walked over with her arms crossed and told them, ‘I know he’s bad but he isn’t that bad.’
Inside the air was thankfully cool. An air conditioner rattled in a corner, though there was a medicinal stink of sickness and antiseptic cream. Lionel was in a wheelchair pointed towards the television. A bag of yellow fluid hung behind his shoulder, and it was unclear whether the fluid was leaving or entering his body. He didn’t turn when they entered but stared fixedly at the television.
The nurse came back with two glasses of iced water, flipped off the television and said, ‘Lionel, come on now, you knew we had company today. Least you can do is offer them a chair or something.’ She turned him around. Sam tried not to stare at the leg that stopped halfway down, or the swollen foot covered in a bandage, or the missing big toe.
‘Carrie,’ he said, not extending a hand.
‘Mr Danson,’ Carrie said. ‘How have you been?’
He gestured, sweeping a hand like a girl presenting a prize car on a game show. ‘Just great, thank you. Diabetes, in case you were wondering.’ His voice was rough with smoke.
‘Well, I’m sorry.’
‘Probably get more sympathy from you if I was in prison though, right?’
‘Come on, this again?’ Carrie smiled. He reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes.
‘You’re new,’ he said, putting a cigarette between his lips. His eyes rolled upwards, shark-like, looking at Sam.
‘Yes. Hello! I’m Sam.’
‘You’re the girl,’ he said, exhaling. ‘Yeah, I know things. You’re the one who’s visiting. English girl, they told me. I thought, What kind of woman would want my Dennis after all this? They said you seemed normal.’ He laughed. ‘Normal? Well, it’s not like I can tell if you’re any different. You gonna say anything?’
‘It’s, um, nice to meet you,’ Sam said.
‘And I’m Myra,’ the nurse said, taking each of their hands in turn and shaking firmly, ‘but he’s too rude to tell you that. I’ve heard of your film but I’ve never watched it.’
‘That’s why I like her,’ Lionel said.
‘I didn’t know Lionel was a celebrity when I started working here.’ She winked. ‘It explains why he’s so much of a diva.’
Lionel seemed to soften when Myra teased him and Sam was more thankful to her than she could express. Even Carrie seemed subdued in his presence. Sam thought how intimidating he must have been when he was younger, what a brutal force he would have been in this tiny house. Hate burned in her throat but she sipped water and talked with Myra while Carrie moved chairs to make room for the lighting. The rest of the crew arrived and alleviated the pressure with their fussing and shouting.
Sam stepped back into the hallway and looked around, noting the layer of grime that seemed to cover everything, the dead flies trapped behind the screen on the kitchen window. Inside you could feel the misery, as if everything were soaked in it. She checked to see no one was looking and made her way down the hall, glancing into Lionel’s room: medical equipment left stagnant; the bed surrounded with bars so he couldn’t roll out. She moved on to the room at the end, knowing what it was. The door was shut so she checked over her shoulder again before turning the knob, opening it slowly. The room was tiny, a single bed squeezed in and piled with boxes of miscellaneous junk. It smelled damp. She imagined Dennis cramped in this room, door closed, listening to the sound of his father’s boots in the hall outside and praying they wouldn’t reach his door. She opened a drawer and looked at the clothes. Not many; mismatched socks.
She took a notebook from the shelf and flicked through until she came to the final page with any writing on it, about halfway through: an unfinished essay about the Second World
War, the corners of the page filled with skulls and misshapen swastikas. It looked like the notebooks she marked as a teacher, from boys who masked their fear with meanness, boys who were twitchy and suspicious as snakes. They were the boys who came to school with holes in their jumpers and frayed ties, who scratched at their heads and pretended not to care when chairs screeched away from them, or when someone said, Miss, he stinks! Any pity she might have felt at the first sight of Lionel vanished, replaced by a sickening hate, and the taste of acid at the back of her throat.
‘Tell us about your involvement with the police?’ Carrie started the interview and was looking at the iPad, one leg swung over the other, relaxed. ‘You spoke to them twelve hours after Dennis’s arrest for the murder of Holly Michaels. Can you tell us what you said?’
‘They were asking me where Dennis was that night and I told them I didn’t know. I told them honestly: he was never home any more and that it didn’t surprise me he was up to no good. Of course then I didn’t know exactly what kind of trouble.’
‘Were you concerned they didn’t call you while he was being interviewed? He was, at the time, a minor. Still a few months from being eighteen. By law he should have had a parent or guardian present but they kept him for twelve hours before they even called you.’
‘Like I said, the boy was never around. So I didn’t know he was at the station until they called me. From what they told me they weren’t keeping him there. It was all informal and he was free to go any time, but he never asked.’
Of course Lionel didn’t know, Sam thought. He was just a drunk, selfish and cruel.
‘You don’t think he was intimidated?’
‘Nothing scared that boy.’
‘You scared him, didn’t you?’
‘That’s what he says.’ Lionel shrugged. ‘Never seemed scared to me. Didn’t scare him enough to keep him out of trouble.’
‘How did you try to discipline him?’
‘Same thing my dad did to me. I’d ground him, give him a clip around the head if he needed it. His mother, she was too soft to do anything. Right away, soon as he could walk away from her, he was walking into trouble. Broke her heart. I tried my best.’
‘So did the cops interview his mom at all?’
‘Kim wasn’t much for talking to people. She was pretty out of it by the end. She kept crying, telling them he was a good boy, always defending him. When she found out what he did she couldn’t handle it.’
‘Why did you believe he killed Holly?’
‘The cops were so sure. Wasn’t like they had any reason to lie about it. I don’t believe in these conspiracy theories.’
‘You let the cops in here, right? More than once. Without a warrant.’
‘That’s right. I didn’t have anything to hide. Now Dennis …’
Sam drove her nails into her palms. It was his self-righteousness that really got to her. When she watched the documentary he had been such a villain that she’d wondered how much the film had been edited to portray him as such. Surely no father could be so callous, so snide? Here she saw it happening, how real it was, and she’d question his mental faculties if it wasn’t for the slimy way he smiled every now and then, obviously enjoying it.
Carrie paused. ‘Why are you so willing to believe what the police say and not what your own son says?’
‘They’re the law. I believe they’re good people.’
‘And Dennis?’
‘Hm.’ Lionel stopped and looked towards the window. When he breathed his chest rattled with catarrh. ‘I never knew Dennis. Don’t think anyone could.’
‘Do you think you could have tried harder? Do you have any regrets?’
There was a pause. Lionel licked his dry lips and closed his eyes for a second.
‘Think maybe I coulda saved those girls, if there was something I could’ve done different.’
‘Girls?’
‘Well, that’s what they say. That he killed all those missing girls. I don’t know about that, but somehow it feels like I’m responsible. I pray for them, pray for forgiveness for my part in it.’
‘You seem so sure they’re dead. Why is that?’ Carrie asked.
‘It’s been over twenty years and not a peep from any of them. I’ve personally never met a woman alive capable of keeping that quiet.’
Carrie smiled and shook her head. ‘But seriously,’ she said, leaning in, ‘this is important. Why is it that this town is so sure those girls are dead? The investigations were all so sloppy, like they didn’t even try to find them. Don’t you ever wonder why, say, Kelly’s stepdad was never formally questioned?’
‘It’s a small town. We know each other round here. He was a good man, a good father to those kids.’
‘He also had a history of violence towards women. His ex-wife filed for a restraining order during their divorce.’
‘Bitterness. She was a bitter woman. His money was good enough for her though, right?’
‘What about Fintler Park?’
‘What?’
‘The trailer park home to about two hundred ex-cons. Most of them sex offenders. You know, guys who have to live one thousand feet from schools and playgrounds and stuff? Informally known as Fiddler Park. Well, after Jenelle disappeared the cops went door to door and asked guys where they were or if they might have seen anything suspicious. A couple of guys said, now you mention it, there was this new guy, kept himself to himself, packed up and left about one, two days after that night.
‘One guy even took it upon himself to go down to the station and make an official statement. We have a copy of that statement; the guy seemed to be genuinely concerned.
‘You’d think they’d follow this up, right? Maybe look at the records for recent releases, contact some parole officers, check the whereabouts of anybody suspicious, that kind of thing.’
‘I’m not sure what they’d do. I’m not a cop and I don’t watch those shows, either. But I assume that the choices the officers made were more educated than you or I can guess at.’
‘Well, you’d think that. But instead it’s just a lead they chose to ignore. It went no further. And there are literally dozens of examples of this stuff: witnesses who saw Lauren getting into a blue truck, family expressing concerns over a neighbour who paid too much attention to their teenage daughter, violent stepfathers. None of it was followed up. It’s like half the town knows something we don’t. Like they don’t want us to know what it is. It’s as if the town decided Dennis was trouble and that was enough, they didn’t want to look any further. Maybe they were afraid of what they might see if they did?’
Carrie looked him in the eye. Sam held her breath and felt the crew around her doing the same. Lionel looked right back, unblinking. He parted his lips to speak but changed his mind. Carrie had him, Sam thought. And for all Carrie complained about being in front of the camera she seemed to enjoy the drama. Lionel bent forward and held his face in his hands. He parted his fingers and looked up at Carrie. Sam’s skin began to prickle with goosebumps.
‘And we would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you pesky kids.’
Lionel laughed, his head flung back, the wheelchair creaking beneath him. The room collectively sighed, someone behind even emitting a low groan. Carrie didn’t smile, didn’t take her eyes off Lionel.
‘You think there’s some conspiracy?’ Lionel continued. ‘That all these people could keep something like this a secret for all these years? Let me save you some time; often, the most obvious answer is the right one, the one that’s right in front of you all along.’
‘It seems like you and I have different definitions of what’s “obvious” here.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘We aren’t talking about a conspiracy; we’re talking about incompetence. We’re not talking about hundreds of people, but a few people who didn’t do their jobs, who had things they needed to hide and who had a vendetta against a troubled teenage boy—’
‘This series is
supposed to be a sequel, isn’t it? Because all I’m hearing is the same old shit from your last movie. Looks to me like you’re making yourselves a reboot.’
Sam admired Carrie’s cool in the face of Lionel. She thought he might be the worst human being she had ever encountered.
‘We’re just trying to establish the facts, Mr Danson. Or people’s versions of the facts, as it seems.’
Lionel sighed and looked out of the window for a moment before turning back to her.
‘There’s no versions. No stories. There’s just what people around here know to be true. It’s something people from out of town will never understand because they weren’t there, they didn’t know the families like we did. And they didn’t know Dennis. Not as he was then, before you people made him what he is. Before he learned to look like the prey and not the predator.’
Eight
Extract from When the River Runs Red by Eileen Turner
The trial took place between April and July of 1993. By then, Dennis was eighteen and would be tried as an adult. This, Dennis knew, meant the judge could sentence him to the death penalty at his discretion. Combined with aggravating factors – such as the victim being under twelve years oldfn1 – and the emotional nature of the case, this meant that in the event of a guilty verdict the death penalty would be a likely option. However, as they entered the courtroom on day one of the State vs Dennis Robert Danson, a guilty verdict didn’t seem likely at all.
The prosecution’s case would rely entirely on witness statements that fell apart easily under further questioning. A key witness for the prosecution was a local woman named Bonnie Matthews who claimed Dennis had confessed to her, at her house, on the night of Friday 29 May 1992. It was a night when Dennis was at an away game against the Jacksonville High School football team. As the defence questioned her she backtracked, admitting that she might have the wrong date, even though she’d been so sure of it in her initial statement.
Transcript: Statement from Bonnie Matthews
to Red River County Sheriff’s Department
