I was desperate to leave, to get back to Frankie, but I was trapped. Meanwhile, Connie had the audience enraptured. This was my first proper view of how famous she was in her world. ‘Many of you listen to my podcast and other true-crime podcasts because you are fascinated by puzzles. Perhaps you are drawn to the darker side of human nature and want to know what makes murderers and other criminals tick. Maybe you long to see justice done. But let me tell you what drew me to this area.’
Money and fame? I thought, only realising I’d spoken it aloud when the woman beside me gave me a filthy look.
A grey-haired lady in front of me jabbed her companion with an elbow and said, ‘I wish she’d get on with it.’
But Connie was still doing her introduction. This was her stage and, for now, she wasn’t going anywhere.
‘I’m doing this to remember the victims. To honour them. How many victims of crime remain nameless? I bet I could point to any member of this audience and you could give me the names of ten serial killers.’
The woman next to me actually started mouthing their names.
‘We all know Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer. But how many of the poor innocent women and men they murdered can we name?’
The woman beside me shut her mouth.
‘I do hope,’ Connie said, ‘that when you hear the name Everett Miller you also think of Eric Daniels and Sally Fredericks.’
A murmur rippled through the audience.
‘Their lives were snuffed out right here, less than half a mile from where we sit. A little more than twenty years ago, they ate their last meal, smiled their final smile. They breathed their last breath. Who knows what they might have achieved, or what they’d be doing now, if they hadn’t attracted the attention of Everett Miller?’ She paused, letting the emotion swell through the tent like she was conducting an orchestra.
‘Tonight, we are going to honour one of those victims in particular. Sally Fredericks.’
I noticed there was a large screen behind Connie. Sally’s face appeared on it.
‘And we have a man who is going to tell us about her. The man who knew her better than anyone else.’ She paused again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage Sally’s widowed husband, Neal Fredericks.’
Neal walked on to the stage, his pink scalp shining beneath the lights. Connie gave him a hug while the audience applauded, then he shuffled up to the microphone. He held a sheet of paper in his hands and was clearly nervous. The applause died down and I wondered if the people here were disappointed. The victim’s husband? The man Sally had been cheating on when she was killed? A lot of the audience shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This was the big surprise? Maybe he had some new information to share. Once again, I failed to understand why he, the cuckolded husband, would want to put himself through this.
He said something that got lost before it left the stage.
‘Talk into the microphone,’ yelled the grey-haired lady in front of me.
‘Sorry.’ His voice finally became audible. ‘Is that better?’
‘Yes, honey.’
‘This isn’t easy,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Coming to the place where my wife – where my darling Sally was killed. When it happened, I couldn’t bring myself to visit this place. I didn’t want to see it. And I can imagine what some of you must be thinking. It must have been extra hard knowing she was cheating.’ He cleared his throat again. The crowd was hushed. ‘I’m not gonna lie. It was difficult to cope with for a long time. To lose the person you love most in the world and then discover she was in the arms of another man when it happened . . . Yeah, it was hard.’
This was agonising to watch.
‘But then I realised something. I was being selfish. Thinking only about myself. Of course, no man likes to think of his wife being made happy by another man, but wasn’t her happiness the most important thing? Some people said if she hadn’t been screwing around – pardon my French – she’d still be alive today. And yeah, maybe that’s true. But I realised something else. To be able to mourn her, I needed to forgive her. Once I did that, I was able to miss my wife. The woman I’d hoped to have children with. This place took my Sally from me. But tonight I’m here to celebrate her life.’
There followed a slideshow of pictures of Sally and Neal, with him narrating, describing the photos, telling stories about their time together. There were photos of Sally holding her baby nephew. Pictures from their wedding day. At first it was awkward and fumbling, but after a few minutes Neal hit his stride. Soon he had the audience both eating out of his hand and crying into their Kleenex. It was weirdly moving – and effective. I realised what he was doing. Not only turning her into a flesh-and-blood woman in front of this audience of dark tourists, but reclaiming her. She wasn’t Eric Daniels’ lover. Nor was she Everett Miller’s victim. She was Neal’s wife and also her own person. All around me people sniffled, including the woman who’d mouthed the serial killers’ names and the older lady who’d yelled at Neal to talk into the mic.