4.
“Hello, Doctor Lawson.” His voice sounded hollow, raspy; the tone thick with sickness. He had not aged well over the past two decades, his face a map of wrinkles and scars, mementos from altercations with either guards or inmates. His hair, short and ragged, had turned peppery, not far from almost completely white. He had also bulked up. He may have been wiry when he first came to Crab Apple, but he had grown into quite a beefy man. But it was his eyes that chilled me. His eyes still had the youth of a twenty-year-old man about them. And they were smiling.
“Hello, Harry.” I had played this moment out in my mind hundreds of times over the past twenty years, maybe even thousands. The things I wanted to say to him, the conversations we would have, the things I could discover. But now that I was sitting here, the two of us sitting eye to eye, my brain betrayed my mouth by withholding every question I had ever contemplated asking. It was as if my brain didn’t want to accept that the moment had finally arrived.
“I hear the killer… has started… again.” His breathing sounded as if it had taken control of his body and was withholding the air from it, only allowing the barest amount through. He didn’t have the breath necessary for an entire sentence, so had to speak in bits and pieces.
“What do you mean the killer?” I asked. Harry had always maintained his innocence for years, adamant there had been someone else at the farm that night.
“Come on, Doc… you know exactly… what I mean. I was… just at the… wrong place at… the wrong… time.”
“You know, we aren’t here to discuss your guilt or innocence, Harry. A court made that decision twenty years ago. We’re here for any information you can offer us in relation to the new killings. You’ve heard of the new killings, haven’t you, Harry?” I said with a “yes you do” tone.
“Do you really… believe that, a… killer as sophisticated… as Lucifer, would simply… let himself be caught, the… way you caught me? He outsmarted you, James.” His tone had shifted to one of defiance and a touch of anger.
“It’s either Doctor Lawson or Jim, Harry. Not James. Only my mother ever called me James.”
“You deny the… name given to you by your… mother, James?”
“We aren’t here to talk about my mother either. Do you know anything about these new killings, Harry?” I began to doubt whether we would get anything solid from him, beginning to feel like he was playing me. I was about to repeat the question when Steph suddenly spoke up.
“We just want to stop whoever is out there, hurting the women of this town, Harry. If you know anything, please.” His eyes turned on her, seemed to look directly through her, then closed. He appeared to be meditating, or sleeping, I couldn’t work out which, but for a moment, I thought he was just going to ignore her. Then, to my total shock, he began to speak.
“There was… a man who… visited me… a few years ago. He… told me he… was a reporter… for a newspaper… in Sydney. I don’t… remember which, exactly. But… he returned a number… of times, asking me… all sorts of questions. He… told me he was… doing a piece on innocent… prisoners, people that had… been locked… up for lengthy sentences… even death sentences. He believed… my innocence and wrote a very… in-depth piece… about my story. What was his… name, again? Hank? Frank?” His forehead frowned, the deep lines growing, shadows running across his white face. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, coughed slightly, then continued. “He even let me… read the completed… article before he… submitted it to his… boss. Strange, very… strange.”
“What was strange, Harry?” Steph asked him, leaning forward in her chair. He opened his eyes and looked at her, his eyes looking tired, his breathing now heavier and more laboured.
“I never ended up… seeing the… finished article… in any paper, nor… did I ever… see him again.” He wheezed a couple of times, the sound drilling deep into his chest.
“What was written in the finished article? Did it read like a legitimate reporter’s article?” He nodded.
“It read… exactly, like some… thing straight out… of the Daily Gossip. It was… good. It… gave me… hope. Hope that… finally, I might be… able to get… someone to… listen.”
“What did this person look like, Harry?” Steph asked, now sitting forward in her seat, her interest peaked considerably.
“He was… maybe 40ish… small, clean shaven. He… had a bent… nose, kinda like… the ones boxers… have sometimes. Maybe… it had been… broken or something. He… was very well… spoken, educated.” Harry stopped, coughed into his hand, the gravel sounding considerable in his chest. When he pulled his hand away, I could see blood on his palm.
“You OK there, Harry?” I asked him, now also sitting forward. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood away.
“I’ll be fine, thank you, James.” I frowned as he used my name again but didn’t speak up. I didn’t see the point. I suddenly had the urge to leave, just wanting to stand up and walk straight out the door. I didn’t want to be in this room with this monster. I took a deep breath and fought the urge away.
5.
I had spent months, even years after Lightman’s arrest, perusing the records, everybody’s accounts; the entire library of court documents that were born from his trial. Even though he had been there on that farm, I always found that in the deepest recesses of my mind, there sat a tiny 1% of doubt whether he really was the Daylesford Devil. He was, after all, not exactly caught red handed. Everything was circumstantial. Even when it came to the evidence given by Tami Kennedy, it all came down to
