From Cradle to Grave (18 page)

‘No,’ he said.

Morgan stood up, clutching the plastic box to her chest. ‘OK. Then, she’s OK . . .’

‘She was lying about the baby,’ he said.

Morgan wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and put her hands over her ears. ‘You don’t know that,’ she pleaded.

Professor Douglas was thinking aloud, and did not seem to hear her. ‘They led her by the hand through the part about the baby. That came through clearly on the tape. She wasn’t recalling any of that.’

‘How could she not remember it?’ Morgan demanded angrily.

Oliver Douglas shrugged. ‘Trauma. And guilt. You can’t discount guilt.’

Morgan felt completely frustrated. ‘Guilt? I don’t understand. First you say she didn’t do it. Then you say she did it. Which is it?’

Professor Douglas arched his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I’m not saying she felt guilt about
killing
her baby. No. She felt guilt about being depressed after the baby’s birth. Guilt because, from time to time, she was so frustrated that she had given birth to this child, and couldn’t seem to care for him. Tremendous guilt about that.’

‘So you think that she feels . . . guilty about what happened to the baby.’

‘Of course. She’s his mother. And, I think she’s trying to somehow make her perceptions consistent with the facts. But they don’t actually . . . agree.’

‘I’m lost,’ said Morgan, throwing up her hands.

Professor Douglas frowned. ‘Claire agreed that the baby was in the bathtub, and that her husband must have heard the baby’s cries and come running. But that doesn’t make any sense. People come running when they hear something unusual. Guy was used to hearing the baby’s cries. Probably wouldn’t even wake him up. I mean, wasn’t that part of what precipitated Claire’s depression? The baby’s constant crying? Guy had been hearing that night and day for two months solid. Why would he come running for that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Morgan miserably.

Professor Douglas shook his head and tapped his lip with his index finger. ‘No. He wouldn’t.’

‘We know he came running. It doesn’t really matter why.’ Morgan said wearily.

Professor Douglas smiled. ‘Oh, but it does. Guy came running because he heard something unusual. It wasn’t the baby he heard screaming. He heard his wife screaming.’

Morgan frowned at him. She shook her head. ‘Why would Claire be screaming?’

‘Claire was screaming,’ he said slowly, as if visualizing the scene in his mind, ‘because of what she saw in the bathroom. When Guy rushed in and found her there, and the baby lying face down in the tub, he jumped to the obvious conclusion. Claire had snapped, and tried to drown the baby. Of course the two of them struggled. He was in a panic. Angry and horrified. Trying to get to his son. To save him. And Claire was probably desperate, trying to make him understand.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Morgan pleaded. ‘Understand what?’

Oliver looked at her calmly. ‘The truth, of course. That she found her baby like that. Drew was already drowned when Claire went into the bathroom. The baby was already dead.’

TWENTY-THREE

I
n that moment, Morgan could see it, in her mind’s eye. Her baby godson’s death was suddenly more brutally vivid to her than it had yet been. Bile rose in her throat, and she thought she might have to vomit. She took a deep breath and mulled over what she had just heard. And then, in the next instant, Morgan felt almost jubilant. Such an evil deed was perverse, frightening. But if it was not Claire who had committed it . . . ‘Professor Douglas, if that’s true . . .’

Professor Douglas looked back at her and nodded. ‘If it’s true, then someone else drowned the baby.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Morgan thought about this for a moment and then peered at him. ‘But who?’ she asked.

Professor Douglas shook his head. ‘Sorry. I don’t know anything about these people. I can’t help you with that.’

Morgan tried to organize the possibilities in her head. Her thoughts again turned to Eden – the rejected child who arrived on the christening day of a cherished baby. Eden. Who probably wanted to make her father suffer as she had suffered. Could she have chosen such a heartless way to retaliate?

‘There’s probably forensic evidence that can help determine who else was in that bathroom,’ Oliver Douglas said.

‘Yes, but . . . the police would know that by now, wouldn’t they?’ Morgan asked.

Professor Douglas demurred. ‘You forget. They’re not looking for anyone else. They have a confession.’

‘But if you were to tell them what you found out . . .’

‘Morgan, you’re an academic. You know the difference between a hypothesis and facts based on tangible proof. This is a hypothesis. The confession, by their lights, is proof.’

‘We can’t just leave it like this . . .’ Morgan protested. ‘They need to be looking for that other person who . . . came in and killed the baby.’

Professor Douglas smiled. ‘I’m glad you like my theory so well. As I told you, when Claire gets to trial, the confession may be discredited. There’s every hope of that. It may be suppressed even before she gets to trial.’

‘No. That’s not good enough. The police need to be looking for another suspect. Can’t we force them to collect more evidence? And test it?’

Professor Douglas stood up and buttoned his jacket. ‘I don’t know. I’m not an attorney. It may be that Claire’s attorney can request that new tests be made. Look, Morgan, I’ve got another class, so I’m going to have to run. Ask Mark Silverman about the evidence when you meet with him.’

Morgan nodded, her mind racing. She shook hands with the professor. ‘Yes, you’re right. I will do just that. And I can’t thank you enough, Professor Douglas. Thank you. Really. You’ve given me hope.’

On the ride back to town from the campus, Morgan felt both excited and sickeningly anxious about this glimmer of possibility for Claire’s vindication. Professor Douglas’s reconstruction of the events made sense in a way that nothing else did. If she really thought about the improbability of proving him correct, the anxiety took over. She tried to force herself to focus on hope. As she turned down Claire’s street, she saw a yellow van parked in front of the cottage. The name Servicemaster was painted in red on the side of the van. For a moment, she thought it might be some sort of delivery service. Then, as she drew closer, she saw a trio of workers in uniforms unloading vacuum cleaners, buckets and mops clustered at the front door of the cottage. The foreman of the crew, a muscular man who looked to be about forty, was inserting a key in the lock.

Morgan pulled up behind the van, threw the car into park and jumped out. ‘No,’ she cried out. ‘No. Stop. Don’t go in there.’

The foreman looked up at her in confusion. ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

Morgan’s heart was pounding as she ran across the lawn to where the crew stood waiting, armed with their cleaning implements. ‘NO. You can’t clean that house.’

The foreman reached into his pocket and pulled out a copy of a receipt. ‘We have a work order, here,’ he said.

Morgan waved it away. ‘I know. I know you do. Mrs Bolton told me that you were coming.’

The crew foreman looked at Morgan suspiciously. ‘So, what’s the problem?’

‘The situation has . . . changed,’ said Morgan. ‘There’s . . . evidence that needs to be protected in that room. This place needs to be sealed up again.’

The man frowned at her. ‘Are you from the police?’

‘NO,’ said Morgan. ‘But . . . I know I’m right.’

The foreman shook his head. ‘Sorry, ma’am. We were hired to come and clean this place today. Unless Mrs Bolton tells us not to . . .’

‘OK,’ said Morgan. ‘Wait. Just wait one minute. I’m going to call her. OK? If she says that you should wait . . .’

The foreman glanced at his watch and then looked at Morgan skeptically. ‘I’ll call her,’ he said in a tone that indicated he did not trust Morgan. He pulled his phone from his pocket, flipped it open, and tapped in a number from the receipt. He avoided Morgan’s gaze as he waited. Finally he said, ‘Yeah, Mrs Bolton. This is Steve. From Servicemaster. Yeah. We’re at your son’s house, and there’s a lady here who doesn’t want us to clean it. Yeah. I don’t know. Just a minute.’

The foreman turned to Morgan. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Morgan Adair.’

The foreman repeated her name into the phone and then listened to the voice at the other end. After a moment, he held the phone out to Morgan. ‘She wants to talk to you.’

Morgan grabbed the phone gratefully. ‘Astrid?’ she said.

‘Morgan, what is going on?’ Astrid demanded.

‘Look, it’s a long story but . . . The bottom line is this. I’ve been talking to an . . . expert who analyzed Claire’s confession. He thinks that someone else may have killed the baby.’

‘What?’ Astrid cried. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Look. I know. I know. It sounds . . . bizarre. But if it’s true . . . If there’s any truth to it, the police need to go over the crime scene again and look for evidence of someone else being there. Once these people clean it up, every trace of evidence is going to be gone.’

Astrid was silent for a moment. ‘Did you speak to the police about this?’ she asked. ‘This idea of finding new evidence?’

‘No. Not yet,’ Morgan admitted.

‘So this is just some . . . crazy scheme of your own,’ Astrid said caustically.

‘I know it sounds crazy,’ said Morgan. ‘But, I need a little bit of time to take care of all this. I mean, surely you can understand. If Claire is . . . if she didn’t do what they said, I have to try and help her.’

‘She admitted she did it,’ Astrid said flatly. ‘She confessed.’

Morgan was silent for a moment. She wasn’t about to say the word’s ‘false confession’ to the family of the victims. ‘Astrid, she’s my best friend. All I’m asking for is a little time.’

‘I don’t see how you can ask another favor of me on Claire’s behalf,’ Astrid said. ‘As it was, she turned the funeral into a horror show. Really, Morgan . . .’

‘Look, I understand and I don’t blame you. I’m not asking you to leave the house like that for good. I’m only asking for a day or two. What difference will a day or two make in the overall scheme of things?’

‘It smells foul in that house,’ Astrid protested. ‘Flies are starting to buzz around in there . . .’

‘I know it,’ said Morgan. ‘It’s disgusting. I’m going to leave here myself and get a room. But I need these people to back off for a day or two. Please, Astrid, I’m begging you. Just a day or two. It can’t matter to you.’

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. Then Astrid sighed. ‘All right, let me speak to Steve.’

Morgan handed the foreman the phone. ‘She wants to talk to you.’

Steve put the phone to his ear. ‘Yeah,’ he said. He listened for a moment. ‘OK. OK, I’ll call you when I’m back in the office and we’ll reschedule.’

Morgan closed her eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks.

‘Let’s go.’ He turned to Morgan. ‘We’re going to clear out of here, for now,’ said Steve. He closed his phone and put it back into his pocket. He led the other workers off the front step and down the path back to their van.

Morgan sank down on the front step, relieved and exhausted. Now that they were gone, she wasn’t sure what to do next. Dusty came slinking silently out from one of the flower beds, and sat down on the step beside her. Morgan reached out a hand and Dusty allowed her to pet him, as if it were a sacrifice, meant to offer her moral support. Morgan rubbed a hand absent-mindedly over the soft fur, warm from the midday sun.

If she had arrived back a few moments later, she thought, the scouring would already have begun. Any trace of the baby’s killer would be removed. Morgan did not question her acceptance of Oliver Douglas’s theory. It now seemed to her that it was the only plausible explanation. She tried to imagine that night. Claire arguing with Guy, who went upstairs to sleep in the guest room. Someone sneaking into the house, past Claire who was exhausted and probably in a deep sleep. It took nerve to think that one could get away with such a heinous act – drowning an infant – without waking that baby’s mother. Morgan tried to imagine the killer, tiptoeing through the room, picking up baby Drew and . . . That was the point at which she could no longer bear to imagine it. The idea of taking that tiny, innocent baby and holding his face down in the water. Morgan shook her head as if she could shake the thought away. How much hate would that despicable act require? Was Eden capable of that kind of depravity simply to punish Guy?

Suddenly, Morgan realized she was assuming that Drew’s killer was trying to hurt and punish Guy. But there was another possibility, of course. The possibility was that the killer’s hateful act was directed at Claire. After all, Claire was Drew’s mother. No matter how depressed she might have been after his birth, Claire loved that baby with all her aching heart. If someone wanted to hurt Claire, what better way . . .?

A silver SUV pulled up in front of the house, and stopped. The driver got out and started to walk across the brown grass toward the step where Morgan sat. Sandy Raymond’s T-shirt was untucked beneath his hoody, his hair was uncombed, his hands in his pockets. When he saw her staring at him, Sandy gave her a brief wave.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Morgan nodded, and looked down at the cat, her heart pounding. She felt as if she had summoned Sandy Raymond with her thoughts. She had seen Sandy hiding in the shadows at the christening, and sitting in the congregation at the funeral. She had found Sandy sitting by Claire’s hospital bedside, willing Claire to survive, and that had seemed rather touching. But now, as he came towards her, Morgan wondered. Was that what he was really doing at Claire’s bedside? Was he worrying? Or was it possible that he was enjoying the results of his own vengeful acts?

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘You never came back to the hospital.’

‘No. I’ve been busy,’ said Morgan evasively.

‘Look, I called Mark . . . Silverman. The attorney,’ he said.

Morgan found herself doubting his simplest statement. She reminded herself that this was good news. ‘You did? What did he say?’

‘His secretary told me he’s tied up in a big trial right now. I told her that I needed him to get back to me. ASAP.’

Morgan nodded, thinking about the murder house, the crime scene, which loomed behind her. Unsealed. The crucial evidence which might save Claire was in there, available to anyone who might wish to destroy it. And Sandy, promising an attorney whom, now, it seemed, he couldn’t deliver. ‘Well, OK,’ she said.

‘OK what?’ said Sandy.

‘Well, if he’s not available, I might need to get someone else,’ she said calmly.

‘Hey, keep your pants on,’ said Sandy angrily. ‘I told you. This guy is the best. He’ll call me. I promise you.’

Morgan nodded. She avoided his gaze.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Sandy asked. ‘You’re acting weird.’

‘Nothing,’ said Morgan defensively. ‘It’s just been a strange day.’

‘Hmmph. That’s for sure,’ said Sandy. He leaned over and reached out a hand to Dusty. The gray cat hissed, and raked his claws down the back of Sandy’s hand.

‘Jesus,’ Sandy cried, jumping back and rubbing the blood off of his hand.

Dusty bolted off the steps at the sound of Sandy’s cry.

‘That little bastard,’ said Sandy. Then he frowned at Morgan. ‘I never liked that cat. Can I come in and wash this off?’ he asked.