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Authors: John Rickards
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– a list of jobs he’s had to do.”
“Nothing more?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did you get a look at any of the ones on the days around the abductions?”
Agostini grinned. “Yeah, but I need a map. I don’t know where they are. You think it could have been him?”
I looked back at the house before climbing into the car. There was no sign of movement inside, but I imagined Williams standing in the musty interior, watching us. Staring through the windows, smiling crookedly. “Yeah, I do. I sure do.”
The disappearance of Abbie Galina two days later only confirmed my suspicions.
08.
Boston, MA. 2004.
“The FBI began last-ditch efforts to persuade ‘Fall River Killer’ Cody Williams to reveal the locations of four of his victims today, calling in the former federal agent who handled the original case in a bid to make him talk. Although he was never formally charged, Williams is alleged to have killed seven girls in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. Only three have ever been found.”
Cut to footage taken by one of the news crews at the prison that morning. Camerawork at distance, showing me and Downes walking into the jail. Someone at the station must have recognized my face and done their research.
“Former FBI agent Alex Rourke, seen here entering MCI-Ashworth prison earlier today, led the investigation into the crimes, interviewing Williams several times and testifying at his trial.” Cut back to the studio. Up came a pair of still photos. “Mr Rourke retired from the FBI not long after Williams’ conviction for the murder of suspected serial rapist Clinton Travers and the attempted abduction of thirteen-year-old Nicole Ballard, and now works as a private detective in Boston. Mr Rourke was brought in by the FBI’s local field office thanks to pressure from relatives of the missing victims who want the chance to give their loved ones a proper burial.”
Cut again, this time to a man just into his fifties. Dark sweater contrasting iron-grey hair. Square glasses. He was standing in front of his yard, a neatly kept square of green lined with shrubs. Joe Morgan, Brooke’s father. I still recognized him.
“We just want to give our daughter the peace she deserves,” he said. “I can't ever forgive Cody Williams for what he did, but it’d at least mean he was showing some repentance for it before he died. By keeping silent for so long, all he’s done is kept our grief fresh. It’s time we all got to move on.”
Back to the studio. A brief ‘no comment so far’ from the Bureau wrapped everything up and the anchor moved on to another story.
“They didn’t waste any time, did they?” I said to Rob as I leaned back in my seat, feeling a headache coming on.
“Do you think the exposure is going to give you any problems?”
“I doubt it. I’d guess a couple of calls from journalists – I’m in the phone book, easy enough to find. Maybe a few through to the office as well. But that should be it. And as I’m not saying anything except through the Bureau, and only when I’ve got something from Williams, they shouldn’t be too much hassle. I hope.”
“If you say so. I’ll field anything that comes into the office. Are you going to be in at all over the next couple of days?”
“Yeah, almost certainly. It depends how talkative Williams is tomorrow and what he says. If it’s anything like today, he won’t use up too much of my time.” And I was just fine with that, I figured.
“In that case, I’ll see you soon. Take care.”
I hung up and left the TV on. Made a cup of coffee, surfed channels, the remaining papers and photos in the Williams file abandoned for the time being. I’d made something bearing a passing resemblance to dinner when the phone rang again. I picked up, half expecting some journalist who’d just caught the news.
“You’re a sick asshole who’s going to burn in hell.”
I thought about hanging up, but didn’t. Said, “What?”
“You heard me,” the
“Nothing more?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did you get a look at any of the ones on the days around the abductions?”
Agostini grinned. “Yeah, but I need a map. I don’t know where they are. You think it could have been him?”
I looked back at the house before climbing into the car. There was no sign of movement inside, but I imagined Williams standing in the musty interior, watching us. Staring through the windows, smiling crookedly. “Yeah, I do. I sure do.”
The disappearance of Abbie Galina two days later only confirmed my suspicions.
08.
Boston, MA. 2004.
“The FBI began last-ditch efforts to persuade ‘Fall River Killer’ Cody Williams to reveal the locations of four of his victims today, calling in the former federal agent who handled the original case in a bid to make him talk. Although he was never formally charged, Williams is alleged to have killed seven girls in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. Only three have ever been found.”
Cut to footage taken by one of the news crews at the prison that morning. Camerawork at distance, showing me and Downes walking into the jail. Someone at the station must have recognized my face and done their research.
“Former FBI agent Alex Rourke, seen here entering MCI-Ashworth prison earlier today, led the investigation into the crimes, interviewing Williams several times and testifying at his trial.” Cut back to the studio. Up came a pair of still photos. “Mr Rourke retired from the FBI not long after Williams’ conviction for the murder of suspected serial rapist Clinton Travers and the attempted abduction of thirteen-year-old Nicole Ballard, and now works as a private detective in Boston. Mr Rourke was brought in by the FBI’s local field office thanks to pressure from relatives of the missing victims who want the chance to give their loved ones a proper burial.”
Cut again, this time to a man just into his fifties. Dark sweater contrasting iron-grey hair. Square glasses. He was standing in front of his yard, a neatly kept square of green lined with shrubs. Joe Morgan, Brooke’s father. I still recognized him.
“We just want to give our daughter the peace she deserves,” he said. “I can't ever forgive Cody Williams for what he did, but it’d at least mean he was showing some repentance for it before he died. By keeping silent for so long, all he’s done is kept our grief fresh. It’s time we all got to move on.”
Back to the studio. A brief ‘no comment so far’ from the Bureau wrapped everything up and the anchor moved on to another story.
“They didn’t waste any time, did they?” I said to Rob as I leaned back in my seat, feeling a headache coming on.
“Do you think the exposure is going to give you any problems?”
“I doubt it. I’d guess a couple of calls from journalists – I’m in the phone book, easy enough to find. Maybe a few through to the office as well. But that should be it. And as I’m not saying anything except through the Bureau, and only when I’ve got something from Williams, they shouldn’t be too much hassle. I hope.”
“If you say so. I’ll field anything that comes into the office. Are you going to be in at all over the next couple of days?”
“Yeah, almost certainly. It depends how talkative Williams is tomorrow and what he says. If it’s anything like today, he won’t use up too much of my time.” And I was just fine with that, I figured.
“In that case, I’ll see you soon. Take care.”
I hung up and left the TV on. Made a cup of coffee, surfed channels, the remaining papers and photos in the Williams file abandoned for the time being. I’d made something bearing a passing resemblance to dinner when the phone rang again. I picked up, half expecting some journalist who’d just caught the news.
“You’re a sick asshole who’s going to burn in hell.”
I thought about hanging up, but didn’t. Said, “What?”
“You heard me,” the
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