CHAPTER 11

LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

I NMATE 82145

My daughter's wanting to go into criminology, but Leewood Folcrum is one of the number-one reasons I'm trying to dissuade her. Years ago, he was in my pod at the prison. You'd look in his eyes, and it was like there was a human there, like he was just a normal guy. I mean, I liked him, as weird as that sounds. I feel like our inner gut should be able to recognize someone that sick, but I didn't. Out in the real world, I would've been friends with him, and it probably would have been my little girl he carved up.

—William Smith, Lancaster Prison corrections officer

Dear Lee,

Can I call you Lee? It's interesting how it never seems to be shortened, but I would guess that those close to you don't use the full Leewood moniker.

I'd like to be close to you.

You and I are alike in more ways than one.

Like you once were, I'm married with a young daughter.

Like you, I don't have a problem doing the things that need to be done.

Like you, I might even enjoy it.

I think you enjoyed it, Lee, and there's nothing wrong with that. The chase of pleasure is the fuel that drives our world.

I have just one question for you, Lee.

Do you regret it?

You shouldn't. You should just regret that you didn't finish the job.

Your biggest fan

I met Timothy Valden my last summer at Lancaster. They had given me three more months there, and the countdown was dragging on, each day more painful and uncomfortable than the prior.

He came on a Tuesday, during my yard time. I was sitting in the sun, enjoying its warmth, when Thompson, the CO who whistled the Andy Griffith theme song too much, tapped me on the shoulder and told me I had a visitor.

I didn't like to be tapped on the shoulder. Or touched. Or have anyone within ten feet of me, and I let him know it with my glare.

The scrawny officer snapped his gum, which was bullshit. Decades ago, when my prison uniform was still stiff and new, I woulda punched him. Or spit at him. Or done something to wipe that stupid smirk off his face. But I was old now. Old and almost out of there, so I stood and followed him into the building. I didn't say a thing, not as we walked through the halls and rode up the elevator and then down another elevator until we came to one of the private visitor rooms.

And there, sitting at a metal table that was right up to the glass, was Tim.

I first noticed the way he smelled. There were thin strips cut into the glass, enough to let air and sound through, and I took a seat and inhaled deeply. He was wearing a cologne I used to wear, and my eyes closed, my mind ticking with a memory of how my life used to be.

The scuffed wooden dresser in the bedroom, the cologne bottle on top. A fresh shirt, hanging on a hanger off the drawer pull. The steam floating in from the open bathroom door. The sound of little girls screaming in the other room.

"Hi." He cleared his throat, and I opened my eyes, meeting his through the thick plexiglass. There was a briefcase and a pad of yellow paper in front of him. He wasn't thin but wasn't fat—not as tall as me—and he looked like a man who would lose in a bar fight.

Our rooms were mirror images of each other, my table the same as his, and as the CO left the room and locked me in, I tried to figure what kind of visitor he was.

Right after it had happened ... I was Mr. Popular. But as time went on, the visitors dropped off, unless a podcast or TV show covered the case. Right about then, I'd get a slew of 'em. Then it was quiet again.

People loved to hear about little girls dying. They said they didn't. They made all sorts of sad faces and winced and waxed on about how horrible it was—but every one of them wanted a front-row seat. They wanted the details, and there were a few times, in the last twenty-plus years, when I'd shared pieces of it with them. Not all of them, but a select few. The ones who would give me something in return, even if that something was just them taking an interest in me. Them listening without interrupting. Currency comes in new forms in a place like this.

"My name is Dr. Timothy Valden. I have a card, if you'd like to see it." He half rose, reaching back to his pants pocket. I waved him off, then let my cuffed wrists rest on the table.

"And you're Leewood Folcrum," he said, as if I didn't know who the fuck I was.

I didn't let it bother me. I raised my hands, showing my palms. "Guilty as charged." Though I wasn't guilty—as least, not for the crimes for which I'd been convicted.

"I am a doctoral student from the local college. I'm doing my dissertation on—"

"I thought you said you were a doctor."

"Well, yes. I am a doctor already; I have a PhD in international affairs, but I'm getting a second doctorate in psychology."

"And you're doing your thing on what?" I shifted in my seat and tried to inhale a full breath.

"Confessions and deceptions."

Well, that was one I hadn't heard before. "And which side of that do I fall on?"

"Well, that's what I was hoping to talk to you about. I'd like to talk about what happened the night of the ..." He hesitated. "The night of December 6."

"Do ya, now?" I yawned and then sniffed deeply, trying to clear my airway.

"I do. I'm studying the mental triggers of—"

I stopped him with a raise of my palm. "You got a pen?" I nodded to his pad of paper.

"Uh, yes. I can record the conversation, though, if that would be eas—"

"Just a pen."

He patted the front pocket of his white dress shirt, then his khakis. Twisting in his seat, he popped open his briefcase and withdrew a silver pen. "Here. Got one." He quickly clicked it into action and then posed it over the page.

"Arby's Roast Beef 'N Cheddar, upsized, with curly fries and a root beer."

He looked up. "Excuse me?"

"Arby's Roast Beef 'N Cheddar, upsized, with curly fries and a root beer. You'll need to get the warden to sign off on the outside food. There's a form you have to fill out."

"I don't understand. This is something you ate the night of the murder?"

"That's what you're going to bring me the next time we talk. Write it down."

He digested the statement. "I'm not sure there is an Arby's in Lancaster."

"Then figure out where to find one." I stood, and my wrist shackles clanked.

"Wait, could I just ask you a few questions?"

I moved over to the door and nodded through the window at Thompson, who swung open the metal door.

"You want him approved for the visitor list?" he asked.

"Yeah." I glanced at the clock above the door, anxious to get the handcuffs off and return to the yard while I still had a few minutes left.

It was sad how my relationship with Tim began. Had I known where it would lead, I would have asked for more, and he would've given it to me.

He'd have given me anything.