The Innocent Wife

Prologue
 

The girl was found seventy-six hours after she was reported missing. The fingertips had been removed with cable-cutter pliers, a calculated attempt to hide DNA evidence, the flesh of her attacker gathering beneath the whites of her nails as they dragged over his skin. Her body had been moved shortly after death; wherever she was killed had been private enough for a prolonged and violent attack, followed by the mutilation of her corpse. Holly Michaels was dumped in the dark water of the bayou, in the northernmost part of Red River County, Florida, ten miles from her home.

In the photos of the crime scene she was lying face down. This made it slightly easier to stomach the first time Sam studied them, alone, in the unlit living room of her terrace house in Bristol. At first the photos seemed indecent, not so much because of the gore, the blood matted into fine blond hair, but the sight of Holly naked from the waist down; Sam wanted to lay a blanket across her to protect her modesty.

Over time she stopped flinching at the sight of her. The more she browsed the forums and saw it again and again, it became less about the body, the waxy pale skin and dark patches of blood, and more about the details around her. Now her eyes focused on the edges of the picture, the patch of ground circled with a red line. Sam squinted. It was a footprint. But, as the forum members discussed, there were no casts of footprints taken or discussed anywhere in the files surrounding the case. The questions started: was this footprint purposely omitted during the investigation? Overlooked? Or are we looking at evidence of some club-footed Red River police officer who potentially disturbed the crime scene? They debated late into the night, Sam unsure what to believe except for one thing: that whatever had happened, it left the real killer free.

Her obsession started eighteen years after the first documentary.

 ‘Seriously, I know it’s not your type of thing but you’ll love it, it’s unbelievable, it’ll make you so angry,’ her boyfriend Mark had said, his face lit up by the glow of the monitor.

Sam was sitting next to him in his bed, in the house he still shared with his parents. As the story unfolded on screen everything else started to fade away. At the heart of it the boy, too young for the suit he wore in court, blue eyes blinking confused at the camera, alone and afraid. It hurt her to look at him, beautiful in an ugly room, harsh light and severe edges, his own face so soft with sadness. Dennis Danson, barely eighteen years old, alone on Death Row.

After the film ended she wanted more, she wanted answers.

 ‘I told you,’ Mark said, ‘I told you it would make you furious.’

Soon Dennis occupied her waking thoughts and lingered on the edges of her dreams, always too far away to speak to, or hold, his fingers slipping from hers.

So she joined online groups, a dedicated fandom that pored over every photograph, witness statement, court transcript, coroner report and alibi. They debated minute details until Sam felt exhausted but unable to stop, digging for a truth that could right all the wrongs that had led to this point.

There were subgroups who passionately defended their theories. They suspected Holly’s stepfather, or the sex offenders who lived in trailer parks on the outskirts of town. They drew comparisons with other unsolved murders across America, which conjured an image of a transient evil, a trucker fuelled by dark fantasies, a man who lived by night and killed alone. Then there were the conspiracy theorists, those who thought the whole Red River police force were covering for a ring of local paedophiles who had some kind of hold on them.

Sam believed it was simpler than that. A week before the murder a short man had been reported outside the middle school.

He’d been stopping the children as they walked past, asking them for the time. He said he’d lost his watch and asked if they would help him look for it, with the promise of a reward. A mother who was picking up her boys approached him, telling the police later that he had made her suspicious, that he had been acting cagey, his eyes darting as he spoke. He was unknown in the relatively small community and had fled the scene before the police arrived. The man’s presence had left the parents feeling uncomfortable and teachers patrolled the school gates each morning and afternoon as an added precaution. With very little to go on, the police filed the incident and put it to the back of their minds. No crime had been committed and the man didn’t return to the school. A week later, Holly was reported missing.

On the message boards they referred to him as the Short Man. The police interviewed the mothers again and a composite sketch of the Short Man was published in the paper and posted around the town. But the search turned up no suspects and no leads. Eventually the police dropped the line of investigation entirely and, seemingly under pressure to make an arrest, focused on other rumours.

Still, the forums followed up the Short Man theory, comparing mugshots of recently arrested sex offenders to the police sketch. Sam read the threads obsessively and marvelled at the investigative skills of the fellow posters, the way their minds could identify the clues that the police had once missed and create stories that seemed so much like the truth that had been missing.

There were other forums, about other cases, with other victims. There were other documentaries and podcasts and TV shows but Framing the Truth: The Murder of Holly Michaels, was the one that spoke to so many people, that grabbed them and wouldn’t let go. Sam read everything she could on the internet, signed petitions to get new evidence admitted in court (the footprint, a statement from a family member about the stepfather’s alibi) and found the message boards she now browsed obsessively. They were all driven by the desire for the truth, to free the man at the centre of the case, a victim of a gross miscarriage of justice.

The fans connected with Dennis on a deep level. In part because, after his arrest, over the years they watched him change from a troubled eighteen-year-old boy to the man he became in prison. There was something almost holy about him, the way he looked in bright white overalls. Serene like a monk, his hands and feet bound together with I‑shaped chains as if in some kind of penance. Though he never accepted the sentence and consistently protested his innocence, he was calm. ‘I don’t want to think of it in terms of fighting,’ he said at the end of the documentary, ‘fighting exhausts you, fighting breaks you. I’m handling it. I’ll get there.’ When his image faded from the screen Sam felt a pull in her guts. Overwhelmed by helplessness, she felt the crush of all the unfairness in the world, and wept.

Sam felt that the people on the message boards were the only ones who understood. They’d all experienced the same sense of impotence the first time they watched Framing the Truth, years ago, and welcomed her to the community. Some were sarcastic: ‘Uh, where have you been? Welcome to 1993.’ But overall she felt at home there, and contributed as herself, shared her thoughts and feelings not only about Dennis but about her personal life, on the General Discussion board. They were the people she turned to when Mark left, when she returned home to find the house stripped of his things, no note, only his toothbrush resting with her own, entwined like the necks of swans in the cup on the sink. The others on the message board soothed her, messaged her with their Skype details if she needed to talk, assured her she didn’t deserve it. They were all she had.

Most of the group were American but there were British members who sometimes arranged meet-ups and events. Still, it was the Americans who drove the discussions and organised protests. Twice, Dennis had been given a date of execution and the members had gathered outside the Red River County courthouse and the Altoona Prison, protesting and talking with the media to raise awareness of the cause. They slept in tents, handed out information leaflets and collected signatures for petitions until another group formed across the street with signs that read ‘MURDERER’ and ‘WHERE ARE THE BODIES’. The groups shouted back and forth and barriers were placed on the kerb on each side of the street to separate them. Police officers stood in the middle staring straight ahead with neutral, indifferent expressions.

When Dennis was granted a stay of execution the national media published photographs of the group crying and holding each other. Sam read through the blog posts and the threads about the protests and posted to the Brits in their private forum about how she would love to be able to do something that amazing but it was hard living so far away.

‘They didn’t really do anything,’ one member replied, ‘it’s just the way the system works. People are on Death Row for forty years and never get executed. So did they actually do anything to help? Debatable.’

It seemed to Sam that the British members were less serious than the Americans, that for them it was a hobby. On one meet‑​up they’d all visited the London Dungeon, bloody waxworks posed in eternal agony with rusted medieval torture devices strapped to their necks, a chorus of screams played on a loop over the speakers. As the group shrieked and laughed she’d felt a disconnect, as if they were more interested in the morbidity of the case than the human elements. To them, she thought, Dennis wasn’t even a real person. It didn’t break their hearts as it broke hers. There was a British cynicism, a poisonous lack of emotional investment, that made Sam want to distance herself from them. She felt better surrounded by people who ached the way she did and needed to do something.

The American members were the closest friends she’d had in years. She stayed awake to chat to them, her laptop perched on bent knees in her bed. A lot of them wrote to Dennis and scanned in the responses. Sam still felt an awkwardness about the familiarity with which they spoke to him. It took her months to write a letter and weeks more until she actually sent it.

29th January

Dear Dennis,

My name’s Samantha. I’m a 31‑year-​old schoolteacher from England and I know you’re innocent. It feels weird to write to you, I’ve never done this before, written a letter to someone I haven’t met. I know people must write to you all the time and say the same things, like, ‘Your story really moved me,’ and, ‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ but your story really did move me and I really can’t stop thinking about it. There are so many people out here, Dennis, all working hard to prove you’re innocent. I wish I could help but I just don’t know what I can do. If there’s anything you need please tell me, even if it’s something small; I’ll do my best.

It feels strange to know so much about you and you to know nothing about me, so I’ll tell you a bit just so we can even things up a little. I live alone; my grandmother died three years ago and left me her house, so my mother hates me even more than she already did (if that’s possible). Like you I’m a bit of a black sheep in my family. I hope that doesn’t sound bad, I mean people don’t understand us because we’re different to them, not because we actually did anything wrong. My grandmother always understood me, she was more like a mother to me, really, and I haven’t healed from losing her yet. Maybe this is why your story hit me so hard. I’m newly single (it wasn’t a good break‑up) and I hate my job. Some days I wake up early and I can’t even move, I just lie there wishing it could stay that inky-​light time of day forever. I’m probably saying too much but it feels good to actually be saying it to someone.

I’ll understand if you don’t write back, you must have so many letters, but I just wanted you to know there are lots of us thinking about you. We’re all really excited about the new documentary: it sounds stupid to say but as soon as I heard about it I just felt this new sense of hope, almost a certainty that this time you could get your retrial. Are you excited? (Sorry if this is a stupid question.)

I hope I hear from you, you always write such thoughtful letters to people (they post them online, people really love to know you’re doing well, in spite of everything) and I would love to write to you again, if you wanted me to.

Yours sincerely,

Samantha

She didn’t mention it to anyone in case he never replied, and then didn’t post about it when he eventually did because she wasn’t sure if this letter just felt different because it was written for her, or if it really wasn’t like the letters he’d sent to everyone else.

4.14

Dear Samantha,

Sorry for the delay in writing you. You’re right, I get a lot of letters and it takes me some time to read through what is sent to me. But even though I have a lot of time I do not reply to them all. Something about your letter stood out to me. I’m sorry to hear you are lonely. I’m lonely too.

Carrie tells me about the support online, it’s a great comfort to me. It’s difficult to understand sometimes. When I was in school we had one computer and we would type in the coordinates on a screen and it would make this robot move around the classroom. It was really slow. I think it was supposed to be a tortoise. One day we came back from recess and it was broken. The teacher didn’t even ask who it was. She just said my name straight away. I didn’t do it but everyone thought I did.

There. That’s something you didn’t know about me. I haven’t written that to anybody. It is strange that people know so much about me. I think they know more about me than I do.

Thank you for your offer but there’s nothing I need financially. Carrie – I keep mentioning her but I’m not sure you know who I’m talking about, she co-produced and directed the documentary and she remains a great friend – visits and arranges for my commissary. I’m fortunate to have her. A lot of inmates don’t have anybody. To answer your question, I am excited about the new series but I have had my hopes up before only to be disappointed. So I’m trying to remain level-​headed.

I would love for you to write again. I like the way you write. It’s very sweet. I get some strange letters. I’m sure you can imagine. I’d like to know more about you, please write, if you want to. Please recommend me books. That is always helpful. You don’t need to send them, I will be able to get them.

I hope to hear from you again soon, Samantha. Your letter brightened an otherwise dark day.

Best,

Dennis

She read it again. He’d told her something he’d never told anyone before. It felt like having a piece of him. She took the letter with her everywhere. Each time she felt lonely she read it again. As the letters continued she felt lonely less and less. It was like falling in love, she thought, more like falling in love than she’d ever felt before. There was no pretending to be too busy to reply, or struggling to appear aloof, or agonising over the number of kisses at the end of a text message. It felt natural, right.

9th October

Dear Dennis,

Now I feel excited every time I hear the letter box or get home to see an envelope on the doormat. Is that pathetic?? I just love reading your letters so much. I know you’re just being nice, though. That photo of me is not great but it was the most recent one I could find that wasn’t completely awful. Lots of people love taking photos of themselves (they’re called ‘selfies’, ugh) but I just absolutely hate it. I didn’t used to. It’s not that I thought I was beautiful or anything but my ex definitely made me paranoid about photos. There were things I didn’t even know to hate about myself until he pointed them out.

I’m doing it again, moaning! I’ll stop. They’ve delayed filming again? You must be so frustrated. I want them to get on with it. The sooner the better. I know you’re cautious but I don’t have to be, I can just fully believe for the both of us.

The nights are drawing in here. This is when it used to be hardest, being alone, but now I don’t feel so lonely any more, knowing you’re there, waiting for your letters. It’s so good to have someone I can be honest with. When I’m teaching I have to fake this strength all the time or the kids just go feral, it’s exhausting. I don’t really get along with the other teachers. They’re all married with kids, they look at me like there’s something wrong with me because I’m not like them. I couldn’t tell them about writing to you, they wouldn’t understand that either. I saw one of them reading that book about your case the other day – When the River Runs Red, by Eileen Turner, and I almost said to them, ‘I know Dennis Danson! We write to each other like every week!’ but I knew it would end up being gossip. Besides, there’s something nice about people not knowing.

Love,

Samantha