I fell in love with you from the moment we first touched. When we danced, I felt like nothing else existed—like time froze. I spoke about you with so much passion, I inspired others around me.

I can’t remember the last time I had a dream that you weren’t a part of. I gave my life to you. But regardless of how much I’ve sacrificed to be closer to you, you seem to distance yourself just enough to appear so close.

I’m exhausted. But, as addicting as you are for me, I’ve found a new love. She wears a glass slipper and says my name so elegantly, I almost feel an uncontrollable urge to give in every time she’s around.

I hope you can understand. She waits for me when I get home, and every time our lips touch, it’s euphoric. I often dream about the time I spend with her.

I’ve tried to run back to you. I have. But I never seem to get too far before realizing I’ve been away from her for too long.

She’s no good for me, but I’m trapped, and I know it. I couldn’t escape if I tried. But do I really want to escape?

Is my love for her stronger than my love for you? Do I still love you? Is she all I need?

I feel broken in half. I’m not alright, but she drowns my sorrows.

I guess time will tell.

I’m not alright, but she drowns my sorrows. She’s killing me slowly but numbs the pain.

As of now, I continue to spend my nights giving in to temptation.

I miss you and hope I’ll find you again.

Until then, I dance with the devil.

To those who read this letter, likely long after I have passed beyond - I do not ask for forgiveness or for absolution. My days continue to draw to a close and I am ill of health, but in the face of it all I am at peace within myself.

I know that with this I will face the ire of a few and the judgement of many, but some things cannot go unwritten in perpetuity. I write this so that there may be absolutely no doubt as to what occurred in June of 1937, to wit: a thing so heinous in nature that records of it are, at best, extremely difficult to find and likely no longer exist.

———————

I was a man of the law then, under the auspice of the New South Wales police service - as I was for near-all of my working years. Specifically, at that time I was a Sergeant. It may be hard to imagine, but the late nineteen-thirties were good times. Hard times to be certain - the depression had left its mark on us all in some form or another - but by and large we all got by without a lot of ado. There were troublemakers of course who were dealt with with as the law saw fit, but rarely did it proceed beyond a harsh word or a swift kick up the backside._

In those early years I imagined that there was a measure of goodness in every man. However, I have long since learned that is not the case. The day I encountered Robert James Farden, I knew at once that he was guilty of each and every one of the heinous crimes he had been accused of. To pass judgement on a man’s innocence - or lack thereof - may have been an improper judgement from somebody of my station, however to this day I remain steadfast in my convictions.

In all my years, I have scarcely forgotten young Annie Dixon. As I recall, she came from good stock - a working class family of fine morals, a father who tilled the earth and a mother who devoted herself to her family and the church. They were of meager means but that never seemed to darken their horizons.

I was, in fact, the officer who first received word via telegram that she had not returned home. At first it was thought to be a simple incident of misadventure. That perhaps she had gotten herself lost, as children are wont to do - that she may have wandered into the the thicket of bush surrounding her homestead. It was not until some time later that she was found, on the edge of the Dixon’s property. I loathe to put into this writing the things that I witnessed on that day, but suffice to say that for all of my years I have never again seen such cruelty and malice.

I can still recall the unease that seemed to overcome the townsfolk - as if a darkness had descended on us all, myself included. The response was swift of course. We were all angry - something had to be done, and we couldn’t let such a thing go unpunished. Times might have changed, but an eye for an eye was how the world worked in 1937.

I first met Robert Farden on July the 12th of that year, and from that day forward I knew he was the individual who had committed such a shocking and unthinkable act. He seemed to be a drifter, which wasn’t uncommon at the time and certainly didn’t raise suspicion initially. I soon discovered, however, that he had been living in the bush that surrounded the Dixon’s property. He also matched the description of a man who had been seen several times loitering near the local primary school; not only that, but he also possessed a criminal record for improper conduct with a minor. I wasn’t able to glean exactly what that entailed, however I had no doubt that it was something very unpleasant to say the least.

Of course he was thick with denial. I posited the question of his culpability to him directly, and was met with nothing but a sneer. Despite my certainties things had reached an impasse, and all we had was suppositions. The days continued to pass, and I knew something had to be done. When Annie Dixon’s meager belongings were later found amongst his personal things, no more than a kilometer from her home, there was no further doubt in the minds of the townsfolk that he was guilty beyond reasonable doubt.

As time went on, I began to see him as something less than human. He never did confess, but in the end it didn’t matter. After a swift but eventful trial, Robert James Farden was found unanimously guilty and was sentenced to be hanged on the seventh day of September, 1937.

Some - likely most - would say I went beyond my position as an officer of the law. Some things, however, are so far beyond the bounds of decency and goodness, that they shouldn’t be permitted to stand; such moral turpitude must not be permitted to prosper, lest it spread like a cancer.

I did what I thought was just and right and moral, and I have never wavered in that belief.

In the shadows of the night, a heart weighed down by a heavy burden, a soul torn by the choices made in the name of justice. The badge that once gleamed with honor now feels tarnished, stained by the echoes of a decision that haunts the depths of my being.

As I stand at the crossroads of right and wrong, the lines blur into a murky haze of doubt and regret. The evidence I planted, a seed of deception sown in the soil of truth, now blooms into a thorny bouquet of remorse that pricks at my conscience.

In the silence of solitude, I grapple with the ghosts of my actions, wrestling with the specter of my own morality. The scales of justice tip precariously, teetering on the edge of my conscience, as I confront the shadows that dance in the flickering light of my choices.

Oh, the burden of the badge, the weight of responsibility heavy upon my shoulders, as I navigate the treacherous waters of right and wrong, seeking redemption in the murky depths of my conflicted soul.

He was a murderer. Scum of the earth, the worst kind of man (or woman), you would ever meet. He tormented his wife, made her fear for her life every moment of every day, until there were no moments left. He killed her, that much I’m certain about it. But he was clever, more clever than I gave him credit for. Every track, neatly covered, every piece of evidence somehow pointing to nowhere and no one.

I knew he did, I could smell the death on him. Like an invisible scarlet letter, but representing something much darker than a woman’s supposive promiscuity, that few of us could see. But, I saw it. So did my partner. After years working Homicide, we knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would walk. I made a decision, in a moment of weakness, or maybe a deep seething regret for her, the one I couldn’t protect; the one who’s life was ripped away, because we let that son of a bitch go free.

We knew he killed that other girl, but the DA said the charges wouldn’t stick, and refused to prosecute. A week later, he hunted her down, like lion to prey. I still see her helpless, lifeless eyes, staring at me when I sleep. Golden brown, warm like autumn. They haunt my dreams. I hear her voice, or the voice I imagine she would have, asking me why I didn’t stop him, why did I fail her? It was those golden brown eyes I saw when I closed my eyes for a moment, to process the news that this shit head would walk too, when I made a choice that would alter the course of my life. It was that moment I decided, I would have to become a criminal, to catch a criminal. I wouldn’t let another woman die in vein because I couldn’t stop another monster.

I never thought I’d find myself in this position. A detective, trained to seek the truth, sitting here writing this… confessing to something I thought I’d never be capable of. It feels surreal, like I’m outside myself, watching a movie I didn’t want to star in.

When I first joined the force, I was filled with idealism. I wanted to make a difference. It was about justice then—a noble calling. But somewhere along the line, the weight of reality crept in. The pressure to solve cases, the endless headache of paperwork, and then there was the crime rate. It hung over our heads like a dark cloud. Each unsolved case a reminder of how the system can fail. Some days, it felt easier to bend the rules than to fight an uphill battle against a flawed system that seemed more interested in statistics than truth.

It all changed with the Harris case. Eric Harris was a small-time criminal—nothing serious, just petty theft and drug possession. But the night of the murder, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time—or so it looked. There was an uproar in the community, demands for justice ringing in my ears like a relentless drumbeat. Everyone wanted closure, and I was determined to provide that. I genuinely believed he did it. I mean, his history suggested he was capable of such violence. In the whirlwind of anger and unrest, I forgot one critical thing: suspicion isn’t proof.

I can still picture the moment when I made the choice to plant that evidence. It was a flash of desperation—a sickening moment when I thought I could end the suffering, both for the victim's family and for the community. I tucked that knife away in a place where it would ensure the case seemed airtight. I justified it with a horrible logic: sometimes you have to take shortcuts for the greater good.

But here’s the thing: there is no “greater good” when you violate the law. There’s only a deepening lie that spirals out of control. The weight of my actions crushed every shred of integrity I thought I had.

The trial came, and I watched as the prosecution laid out their case, based largely on my “evidence.” Eric, with his tired eyes and resignation, sat at the defendant's table, bearing the burden of my crime. I felt hollow. The cheers from the crowd when the verdict was read pierced me like a thousand knives. I convicted an innocent man—a man who would spend years behind bars because I acted in fear and desperation.

In the days that followed, the guilt became unbearable. Every night, I’d lie awake, haunted by the image of him, looking like a broken doll when he was led away in handcuffs. I saw my colleagues celebrating a “major win,” but I felt like I was drowning. Every moment of silence tormented me, each second stretching into an eternity.

I thought about confessing, but fear kept me silent—a fear of losing everything: my job, my family, my life. How could I admit that I became the very thing I swore to fight against? Yet, each day passed, and nothing changed. My soul felt like it was rotting from the inside out, and I couldn’t bear it anymore.

So here I am, writing this confession in the hope that it might start the long, painful process of making this right. I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way—jail, the loss of my badge, my reputation… it’s all deserved. I can’t stand by while another man suffers because of my cowardice.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this, it’s that the truth has a way of clawing its way to the surface, no matter how deeply buried. It will destroy everything in its path, and in this case, it’ll destroy me. But I welcome it. I hope it brings Eric Harris the justice he deserves, and I hope it serves as a warning to others. We should never allow ourselves to become the monsters we fight against.

I’m sorry, Eric. I’m sorry to your family. I’m sorry to my fellow officers who upheld the oath I broke. I’m sorry to every person who believes in justice because I shattered that trust. I know these words may not bring any solace, but it's all I have left to offer.

Nathan Parker Officer, City Police Department

Bad cop Good cop Let’s go Jail hop

I BELIEVE in these evidences that proved he is guilty. Therefore, I will stick to my original convictions. There is a possibility that it’s a crime with many people involved, he is the main suspect which we are gladly that he is under our control. The police will work together to solve this case with efficiency and justice. Thank you!

Dear Tommy,

Pastor Richards said if I wrote it all down I would feel better. I don’t believe him but I think if he sees me writing this it will make him feel better and he’ll get off gmy ass. So what to say, what to write on this blank sheet of paper that will be folded into an envelope and tucked in your coffin, bro. Should I say what a great guy you were? Naw, you were kind of a waste, dude. You knew it. Always high or drunk. Or both.

You don’t know how hard it is to be a small town cop/baby sister to the resident stoner loser. But you were my stoner loser. I couldn’t let anybody hurt you even you.

I’m glad I found you before Mom came home. I cleaned the gun. I mean I was pissed at you, sick of the trips to the emergency room, dragging you to rehab, seeing mom and dad killing themselves to save you. You didn’t want to be saved. Did you bro?

I watched you slip away. I held your hand, I don’t know if you could tell, I think you knew. I read your note instead of calling for the ambulance. Wow. But don’t worry I understand who hurt you. I understand so much now. I understand who made you hate yourself. I got you. Funny I always thought Pastor was the one good thing in your life.

I got you. During the repast I’m going to make an anonymous call about someone breaking into the parsonage. I knocked out the back door window pane and broken the latch on the church lockbox. I’ve already salted his with those photos of you two. I bet there will be other boys other secrets. I’ll make sure your gun is accidentally found. No worries Tommy.

Tommy I wish you told me. Just wished I knew what you carried. Maybe I could have helped back then instead of giving you a hard time, putting you down. I could have been your sister instead of your enemy. Part of me is still pissed you didn’t pull it together, man. Part of me is angry at myself for being such a bitch to you. I’m putting on a hard face but it hurts. I’m hurting, torn up on the insides. I kind of feel better that that filth is going down as a pedo murderer. I do feel better. Pastor was right. Anyway, love u Melanie

“I did what I had to do,” I murmured, not ready to have this conversation. “Yes, but what you did was illegal,” he responded. I had to plan my next words very carefully if I wanted to make it out of this conversation unscathed. “All I will say is you fully supported the idea of him being locked away until you found out I had planted the information.” Surprise overtook his face. I had this conversation in the palm of my hand.

I lost you and I found you I hurt you and I douced you Douced in my cologne The scent lingered on your clothes The feeling of your hair I wish it was still there I love your smile Although I haven’t seen it in awhile I miss your voice and how you could never make a choice I hope you miss me too And I hope you can cope I know its selfish but I hope that you don’t