From Cradle to Grave (14 page)

SEVENTEEN

T
he nurse at the ER desk looked up at Morgan with a hint of impatience in her eyes. ‘Yes?’

Given her recent, jarring reminder about the medical privacy laws, Morgan knew better than to simply ask for the information she wanted. Although she was not in the habit of being deceptive, she did know how to do research. She had stretched the truth on occasion to gain access to rare documents. She was ready to do it now, for Claire’s sake. Luckily, she was still wearing her good black suit from the funeral. She pulled her university picture ID from her handbag and flashed it at the nurse. ‘My name is Morgan Adair. I’m an investigator from the prosecutor’s office. I have a question pertaining to one of your recent admissions.’

Immediately the nurse looked less hostile, as if she liked the idea of participating in a legal matter. ‘Yes?’

‘Sunday morning, a gentleman by the name of Guy Bolton was transported here by ambulance.’

The nurse nodded.

‘There seems to be some question,’ Morgan continued. ‘Was Mr Bolton still alive when he arrived at the ER? Could you look it up for me?’

The nurse looked at her warily. ‘This isn’t about some lawsuit against the hospital, is it?’

‘Oh, heavens, no,’ said Morgan. ‘I work for the county.’

The nurse nodded. ‘OK. When was that, again?’

Morgan gave her the date and time.

The nurse punched a few keys on the computer. Then she shook her head. ‘Nope. He wasn’t brought here. Are you sure you have the right hospital?’

Morgan frowned. ‘I . . . don’t know. I thought so.’

‘Did the incident occur here in Briarwood?’

‘West Briar,’ said Morgan.

The nurse cocked her head. ‘Well, they should have brought him here.’ She frowned at her computer screen. ‘But they didn’t. I don’t know. But you can find out from the EMTs on the Rescue Squad.’

‘Are they here in the hospital?’ Morgan asked.

The nurse shook her head. ‘They work out of the Briarwood Fire Department. You’ll have to ask there.’

‘I will,’ said Morgan. Her search was narrowing. ‘Thanks.’

The Briarwood Fire Station was housed in a small brick building which adjoined the several bays where the hook and ladders and ambulance were parked and serviced. Morgan parked in a lot behind the bays, and entered the brick building. It looked more like a men’s social club than a city service building. There was a pool table, a bunch of small tables and chairs, and a serving bar through which you could see the long galley kitchen. A couple of men wearing dark blue work clothes were playing cards at one of the tables. Another man was busily cooking something in the kitchen redolent of tomato sauce. The door leading to the bays was open, and Morgan could see that there were several men working on the equipment out there.

The card players looked up as she entered. ‘Can we help you?’ a fit-looking, white-haired man asked pleasantly.

‘My name is Morgan Adair. I’m looking for an EMT from the Rescue Squad.’

The white-haired man instantly threw down his cards and stood up. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’m sorry, no, not like that,’ said Morgan gesturing for him to sit back down. ‘I just had a question for someone who was on duty on Sunday.’

The man gave a little sigh of relief and resumed his seat. ‘That was us. My partner and I were working Sunday. We work twenty-four hours on, and then forty-eight hours off. So, we just got back today. How can we help you?’

‘I was wondering. Could I ask you about a call you made on Sunday morning?’

Instantly the man looked wary. ‘What call was that?’

‘Um. It was in West Briar. A man named Guy Bolton and his infant son.’

The younger man, who had a shaved head, set down his cards. ‘Are you a reporter?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Morgan innocently. ‘I’m a friend of the family.’

When he spoke again, the white-haired man’s tone was chillier. Clearly, he still suspected Morgan of being a reporter. ‘We can’t give out information about the calls we make.’

Morgan pressed on. ‘Oh, I understand. The media is looking for every scrap of information. The family is being pestered night and day by reporters. But, I thought if I came here, the news vultures wouldn’t make the connection.’

The two men exchanged a skeptical glance. ‘What are you after?’ the younger man demanded.

‘OK, look, the family’s in shock from all that has happened, as you can imagine. It was such a . . . terrible thing . . .’

‘That’s for sure,’ murmured the younger man.

‘Nothing I can say is of any real comfort. But it occurred to me that Guy might have had some last words for the family, you know? Some few words that they could take comfort from. I was figuring he might have spoken to a nurse or a doctor or even an orderly. Someone. So I went and asked at the ER in the hospital in Briarwood. I was just assuming that’s where you would have taken him. I mean, it’s the closest hospital to the Bolton’s home. But they looked it up and said he was never admitted there. The nurse told me to come over here and ask you which hospital you brought him to.’

The white-haired man frowned and chose his word carefully. ‘We didn’t bring him to any hospital.’

‘I’m confused. You didn’t answer that call?’ said Morgan.

‘We answered it,’ said the younger man.

‘So . . . how come you didn’t take Guy to the hospital?’ Morgan asked.

‘There was no reason to transport him,’ said the white-haired man.

‘Why not? Are you saying that he was dead when you arrived?’

‘That’s correct.’

Morgan shook her head. ‘But, don’t you have to treat him anyway, just in case . . . I mean, in case he’s still alive? No disrespect, but you’re not doctors, right? I mean, don’t you have to try and treat him just to be on the safe side?’

The older man nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Unless it’s completely obvious – a decomposing body or something like that – even if the person appears to be dead, we begin treatment. And we call a paramedic to the scene. He administers an EKG.’

‘And what does that do?’ she asked, frowning.

‘Well, it determines if the person is alive or dead. If it’s a flatline the person is pronounced dead and turned over to the police for the Medical Examiner to determine cause of death.’

‘Just like that?’

The older man looked at Morgan as if she were some kind of crackpot. ‘At that point, there’s really no debating it.’

Morgan’s heart was pounding. ‘And that’s how you found him? That’s what happened with Guy?’

The older man nodded. ‘Yes.’

Morgan wanted to let out a completely inappropriate cry of joy. This was proof that the police had lied to Claire, played some kind of mind game on her. She didn’t know what it was worth, or if it was worth anything, but it lifted her hopes all the same.

‘Sorry we couldn’t help you,’ said the older man.

Morgan remembered to look sorrowful. ‘That’s all right. I was just hoping . . .’

The men seemed relieved that her question had been a simple one that they could answer without compromising their professional responsibilities. The white-haired man leaned back in his chair. ‘No, I’m afraid Mr Bolton was already well past the point of last words when we arrived.’

Morgan gave them a brave smile. She tried to remind herself that this was no proof of anything, other than that the police had stretched the truth when they questioned Claire. Claire had still confessed. There was no denying that. But, Morgan could not help feeling, in spite of everything, that something was finally, finally turning Claire’s way. ‘Well, thank you. Really. You have helped me. Believe me. It’s always better to know for sure.’

EIGHTEEN

N
oreen Quick was having a bath. Morgan said she would return later, but Gert indicated that Morgan was welcome to go into the bathroom to speak with the attorney in the tub. Reluctantly, Morgan opened the door, and a cloud of steam escaped. The room was lit by candles and smelled of verbena. Noreen was immersed to her shoulders in the jacuzzi-style tub. Morgan had expected the attorney to at least be covered with sudsy bubbles, but that was not the case. Noreen’s red hair was wet and plastered to her head. Her breasts and huge stomach were visible, seeming to wobble beneath the gently swirling water of the tub. Morgan didn’t know where to look.

‘Excuse me,’ Morgan said. ‘Gert said it was OK for me to come in. I thought you must be in a bubble bath.’

‘No, that bubbly chemical shit is not good for the baby. Oh, sit down there on the john and make yourself comfortable. It’s just us girls.’

Reluctantly, Morgan did as she was bid.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ said Noreen. ‘I was just going to call you to let you know that I have hired another shrink. It’s a woman this time. I talked to her at length and she has a very profound understanding of post-partum mental illness. I think we can be almost guaranteed of a favorable result. Especially after what Claire did at the funeral. What a scene. How is she doing anyway?’

‘She’s . . . critical,’ said Morgan.

Noreen shook her head and some of the droplets landed on Morgan. ‘Horrible. Tragic. But I have to say, this is becoming a no-brainer. Obviously, Claire needs psychiatric treatment. I hate to sound ghoulish but this latest stunt is nothing if not helpful to our case,’ said Noreen. ‘With all this, our expert will have the jury in tears.’

‘Maybe,’ said Morgan.

‘No maybe about it,’ Noreen asserted. ‘This is going to work to our advantage.’

Morgan hesitated, and then decided to be frank. ‘Things have changed. Look, yesterday Claire told her minister that she didn’t remember killing Guy and the baby. She now has doubts that she was the one responsible.’

Noreen smiled wryly and paddled the bathwater with her hands. ‘She has doubts.’

‘Yes,’ said Morgan eagerly. ‘And it turns out that the police lied to her.’

‘About what?’

‘They told her that Guy had implicated her as the killer before he died. But I asked the EMTs who were in the ambulance. They told me that Guy was dead by the time they arrived at the scene.’

‘Morgan, you’ve got to stop this.’

‘But what the police told her just wasn’t true,’ Morgan protested.

‘I saw the tape of her confession,’ said Noreen.

Morgan was taken aback. ‘You did?’

‘I have a copy of it. It’s in my office files. The prosecution sent it over as part of the discovery process. So, yes, I’ve seen it. There’s no mention by the detectives of Guy implicating her. This is just another thing Claire is imagining.’

Morgan’s heart sank. ‘But why would she say that? Why would she tell Father Lawrence that she doesn’t remember killing them now?’ she persisted.

Noreen’s eyes widened. ‘Why does she say anything? Claire is mentally ill. Look, I’m not a shrink. But you don’t have to be a shrink to see it. Morgan, you have to accept this. Claire is not the same gal you used to go shoe shopping with. This woman killed her own family. Then she stabbed and critically wounded herself today. She is suffering from severe post-partum depression. She told you herself that she did it. What does it take to convince you?’

Morgan sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Claire needs help. She’s not a criminal. She’s sick. She almost succeeded in killing herself. She needs serious, professional help. As her friend, I should think that’s what you would want for her. That’s certainly what I intend to convince the court.’

‘How can you even go to court?’ Morgan asked, frowning at Noreen’s large, freckled belly.

‘Don’t worry. By the time this gets to trial,’ Noreen said, patting her stomach, ‘this guy will be cutting his first tooth.’ Noreen planted her hands on the rim of the jacuzzi and began to lift herself up. ‘I got to get out of here. I’m getting pruny.’ The water began to cascade down as she rose. ‘Grab me that towel there. Can you help me?’

Morgan jumped up. ‘Wait. Be careful,’ she cried. ‘Let me call your partner.’

‘Just give me a hand,’ said Noreen.

‘No, I’m afraid,’ said Morgan. ‘What if you slipped? Let me call her.’

Noreen scowled, and sank back down, parting the waters in a mighty splash. Morgan escaped from the steamy, candlelit bathroom, yelling to Gert for assistance.

Hungry and weary, Morgan returned to the cottage, and let herself in. Dusty purred around her legs as Morgan went into the kitchen. First she pulled out her phone, and checked it again to see if she might have missed a call from Simon. There were no missed calls registered. With a sigh, Morgan called the hospital. The nurse would only say that there was no change in Claire’s condition. Morgan put her phone back in her pocket and rummaged in the refrigerator until she found the fixings for a sandwich and something to drink. She slapped together her sandwich, placed some food in the cat bowl and then carried her plate and glass out to the empty dining room table. She sat down to eat, although the food tasted like cardboard in the mouth. She had swallowed two bites when she heard a knock at the door. Cursing beneath her breath, Morgan got up, walked to the front door and opened it.

Fitz stood at the door, his face drawn, his eyes wary.

Startled at the sight of him, Morgan considered slamming the door, but didn’t.

‘Morgan, I need to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’

‘I’m busy,’ she said.

‘Look, I’m sorry about the other night . . . About what I said . . .’

Morgan turned away from the door and returned to the table and her sandwich. Fitz hesitated, and then stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He walked carefully to the table where she was sitting as if he were traversing a field of landmines.

‘Mind if I help myself to a beer?’ Fitz asked.

‘I don’t care what you do,’ said Morgan, chewing, avoiding his gaze.

Fitz went into the kitchen, and then returned to the dining room with an open bottle of Heineken. He sat down opposite Morgan.

‘How’s Claire doing?’ he asked.

Morgan gave him a cool, level gaze. ‘Like you care,’ she said.

‘Hey, it’s been a tough day for all of us,’ he said, staring at the beer bottle he rolled between his hands.

Morgan was about to make a sarcastic remark when she remembered that Fitz had watched his best friend be buried today. She let it go, and continued to eat her sandwich. The thought of offering Fitz a sandwich crossed her mind, but only fleetingly. She was not feeling hospitable. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘I shouldn’t have been so rough on you. I’m sorry,’ he said.

Morgan did not look at him or reply.

Fitz took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know if you noticed, but Eden was at the funeral today.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Morgan. ‘Eden. The innocent kid.’ She remembered seeing them at the church, Fitz clearly trying to reason with the wild-eyed girl.

‘Are you interested in hearing this?’ he asked.

Morgan was curious, in spite of herself, and realized that she had to modify her tone if she wanted to hear what he had to say. ‘Hearing what?’

‘Well, she said she had come there to spit on her father’s corpse.’

Morgan grimaced in surprise. ‘Eden said that?’

‘She said he deserved to die. She said he was an evil bastard.’

Morgan stared at Fitz.

‘I told her that wasn’t true. I tried to remind her of how Guy had been trying to get to know her. She told me that it was all a lie, that he was a terrible person and that I didn’t really know him. Well, I couldn’t help thinking of your suspicions,’ he said.

Morgan looked at him, wide-eyed.

‘I know it sounds crazy ’cause Claire confessed . . .’ he said.

Morgan felt as if she had been zapped with an electric current. ‘Did you ask her what she meant?’

‘Of course I asked her. But it was impossible to talk to her. She was very agitated . . . almost as if she was on drugs or something. She was very nervous. She said she had to leave. That she didn’t know what to do.’

Morgan began to tremble all over. She tried to put things together in her mind.

‘Why didn’t you go after her?’

Fitz rolled his eyes. ‘The funeral was about to begin, and I was a pall-bearer. I couldn’t exactly leave at that moment. I told her that I wanted to talk to her afterwards.’

‘So? Did you?’

Fitz shook his head. ‘I looked for her as we were leaving the cemetery. She was gone. Since then I’ve been trying to call her cellphone, but no luck.’

‘Did you try Lucy’s?’ Morgan demanded. ‘She was staying there.’

Fitz shook his head. ‘She wasn’t with Lucy. Lucy told me to try the Captain’s House. I went over there. She’s not there. Mrs Spaulding hadn’t seen her.’

Morgan stared at him. ‘I wonder what she meant.’

He sighed. ‘So do I. But in the meantime, I thought you should know about this. Maybe your suspicions weren’t that far off.’

Morgan hesitated. She wanted to tell him what she had learned on her own. But the last time she trusted him he had turned on her. In spite of her misgivings, she blurted out one thing that she had learned. ‘The police told Claire, before she confessed, that Guy implicated her as his killer, but it wasn’t true. It wasn’t true. I asked the EMTs. He was dead when they arrived on the scene.’

‘Really?’ said Fitz.

Morgan nodded. ‘I know what you’re thinking. It doesn’t really explain her confession. None of this does.’

He sat there staring at his beer, and for one minute, she thought he was going to stand up and ask her where the recycling can was, and wish her good luck with it. Instead, he began to absently peel the label off the bottle, frowning at it intently.

‘What?’ Morgan said.

‘Do you know anything about false confessions?’

Morgan immediately thought about her theory that Claire might have confessed to protect Eden. ‘You mean, like, if you plead guilty to protect someone else?’

Fitz shook his head. ‘No. That’s . . . no. You mentioned that last night. But no. Nobody does that.’

Irritated at being dismissed, Morgan said. ‘Well, what then?’

Fitz took a deep breath. ‘When I got my master’s in counseling I took a whole course on how to interview abuse victims. Kids.’

‘I thought you were a wrestling coach,’ said Morgan.

‘Part-time. My main job at the school is in guidance. I like working with kids. I’m hoping to have my own practice someday.’

‘Really,’ said Morgan.

‘Disappointed?’ he said. ‘Thought I was just a jock?’

‘No,’ said Morgan, flustered.

‘Anyway, in custody cases, kids are often coached to lie, or, sometimes, if the abuser is an authority figure, they lie because they’re afraid. And sometimes, they are so suggestible that they accuse adults when nothing really occurred. This course I took was about the techniques you use to get at the truth.’

Morgan shook her head. ‘What’s that got to do with Claire? Are you saying you think that Claire was an . . . abuse victim?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that . . . it’s difficult to get at the truth sometimes. There are all kinds of interviewing techniques professionals use, even well-meaning people – doctors and social workers – even when they’re trying to help – that cause children to admit to things that sometimes never happened.’

‘Claire’s not a child,’ Morgan said cautiously. ‘She knows the difference between reality and fantasy.’

Fitz frowned. ‘I know. Look, I have to admit I’m not an expert on this. And it was last year when I took the class.’

Morgan’s feelings of hope faded. ‘Right.’

‘But,’ he said, pointing the neck of the beer bottle at her, ‘my professor was an ace, and he’s written a couple of books about this. He would know. He’s the one to ask. Are you interested in talking to him?’