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LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

I NMATE 82145

Mr. Folcrum,

You know, you’re a hero to some of us. There’s three of us that go to a cabin each winter and spend a weekend together, sharing our stories. Each of us does one event during the year, and that reunion is where we share our stories.

I haven’t picked the source of my event yet, but I have to say, you’re my biggest inspiration. The drama of the setting in yours ... it had bite, man. Theatrical effect, if that makes sense. I mean, it’s been twenty years and people are still talking about it. You’re being listed next to Lizzie Borden and the Black Dahlia, dude. If that’s not iconic, what is?

I don’t plan to be iconic. The problem with iconic is that it typically involves getting caught, and I got to tell you—I don’t think I’d do well in prison. That is one of the things I don’t understand about you, man. Why didn’t you just get out of there? Why wait, when you had to know that they were coming?

United in solidarity,

Your friend

Redd was off, which meant I was delivered to the interview room by the thin guy with the lisp, whose name I’d never remember if it wasn’t printed on the front of his uniform. I glanced at his name tag as we got on the elevator. P ERDUE .

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Shut the fuck up, Folcrum.” He stared dead ahead, his right cheek bulging with a wad of gum. “I’ll be so glad when you’re dead.”

The doors opened and I stepped out, lifting my chin at a passing prisoner who I sometimes played dominoes with.

We journeyed the rest of the way in silence. It was probably this prick who’d told Valden about my cancer. “You know who’s in visitation?” I asked as we entered the left wing.

“What the fuck I look like, your social coordinator?” He stopped at the door and glanced up at the camera, waiting for the buzz. It sounded, and he pushed the door open.

Yeah, definitely a possibility.

As we passed the visitation room, I glanced in the window. Tim Valden sat at a table, his knees pinned together, his back straight, a paper bag and drink in front of him.

“Enjoy that food,” Perdue said under his breath as he passed me off to Johnson. “I spit in it.”

I ate the Big Mac without hesitation, and if Perdue spit in it, I couldn’t tell and didn’t care. As I chewed, I watched Tim, who seemed on edge.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

I finished chewing, then swallowed. “I’m good at giving advice. Don’t have shit else to do in here.”

“Okay. I guess I’m frustrated. I’ve met with you four times now and don’t have anything to show for it, except for a bunch of junk food receipts.” He tapped the top of his folder. “You just grunt and argue and talk in circles. Just let me know if I’m wasting my time. I have other inmates I can talk to. You’re not the only person in this building who has killed someone.”

I shrugged. “Not sure why you picked me to begin with. I haven’t talked to anyone in twenty years, and you think I’ll start babbling to you?” I wiped at my mouth with the napkin. “Why would I?”

“You’d think a man would want to purge his soul before death.” He met my eyes. I bet the women fall all over this guy. He probably has some hot treat of a girlfriend. “There’s some relief in confession, Leewood.”

I chuckled and picked the double-decker sandwich back up. “Really? How do you know?”

“It’s been proven in the field of psychology.”

I took another big bite, chewed for a spell, then spoke. “I got a confession for you.”

He sighed.

“No, no.” I held up my hand. “I’m serious. I’m going to tell you something that is true.”

“What’s that?” His voice was dry, but I could see the interest in his face. He was hooked to whatever I was about to say.

I leaned forward. “I didn’t kill those girls.”

His mouth flattened and he rolled his eyes. “Okay.”

“Listen!” I slammed my palm on the metal table, and the sound reverberated in the small, enclosed room. Tim flinched. The motherfucker was actually listening.

“I. Did. Not. Kill. Those. Girls.” I said it slowly and without any ire. “I swear on my daughter and my wife and whatever entity is up there listening. If you came here to understand why a killer kills, I’m not your guy. I don’t care what the evidence says and what the jury believed. Look at me, Tim. Look into my soul.” I paused, my eyes boring into his. “I did not kill those girls.”

There was a moment after that, one where he didn’t speak and I didn’t breathe and the tie between our eyes was as strong as wire.

And in that moment, even if it only lasted a beat, I think he believed me.