From Cradle to Grave (17 page)

‘I’m sure you are,’ said Morgan in a reassuring tone.

‘Noreen would not be happy if she thought I went out and left the door standing open,’ said Berenice.

‘It’s not worth mentioning,’ said Morgan in a reassuring tone.

Berenice nodded as she stepped over Rufus who was lying in the hallway. ‘No reason to make her worry,’ she said.

Morgan stepped over Rufus as well, and bent down to scratch his furry head. She was almost home free. In a few moments she would be out the door, with the disc in her bag. ‘No,’ Morgan agreed, smiling. ‘She has enough to worry about.’

TWENTY-TWO

T
he image on the screen was flat gray and white, a woman sitting alone in a chair at a desk. A male voice could be heard questioning her, but no one else was visible on the screen. In the corner, white numbers indicated the date and time. The woman was slumped in the chair, her eyes vacant, her face slack. One of her hands rested, trembling, on the desktop.

‘All right,’ said the male voice. ‘This is Detective Roland Heinz and I am here with Detective Jim Curry. We are interviewing Mrs Claire Bolton. Now, Mrs Bolton we’re going to go over the events of the evening which ended in the death of your baby son, Drew, and your husband, Guy. Before we begin, have you been apprised of your rights?’

‘Yes.’ Claire nodded.

‘And you are making this statement of your own free will?’

Claire nodded.

‘Can you say the word “yes”, Mrs Bolton? We need it to be audible.’

‘Yes,’ said Claire.

‘Now, you told us earlier that on Saturday night you went to a family dinner at the home of your in-laws. And what was the purpose of this dinner? Just a get-together?’

‘My husband’s . . . daughter was there. Eden.’

‘So, the dinner was in her honor. Eden’s honor.’

Claire grimaced. ‘Sort of,’ she said.

‘You agreed to go even though you were angry about this long-lost daughter.’

‘Yes. I didn’t want to go. We weren’t really speaking.’

‘Who wasn’t speaking?’

‘Me and my husband,’ Claire admitted. ‘But it wasn’t Eden’s fault.’

‘It was
his
fault, for not telling you about her. Is that correct?’

‘I suppose,’ Claire whispered.

‘And how did the evening go?’

‘Terrible,’ said Claire.

‘Now according to witnesses, your baby had been crying, and carrying on intolerably, is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ Claire whispered.

‘Did he do that during the dinner?’

‘Yes,’ said Claire with a sigh.

‘You weren’t able to soothe him.’

‘No,’ said Claire. ‘Nothing I did . . . worked.’

‘Were you . . . embarrassed by this?’

‘Embarrassed?’ Claire asked.

‘Well, you appeared an incompetent mother in front of your husband’s family.’

Claire frowned as if she were trying to remember. ‘I guess so,’ she said.

‘After dinner you and your husband went home. And how were you feeling that night when you went to bed?’

‘Very, very upset. And tired,’ said Claire. ‘Very tired.’ Claire sniffed, and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

‘You and your husband were not sleeping in the same room.’

‘No. He was sleeping in the guest room.’ There was no emotion visible in Claire’s face. In her eyes.

‘Because of this ongoing argument.’

Claire nodded, and then realized that she had to say the word. ‘Yes.’

‘The baby woke you up again at what . . . four a.m.’

Claire hesitated, as if balking at the question. ‘I think so.’

‘Is that a yes or no?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You heard the baby and got up,’ the man’s voice instructed her.

Claire sighed, and slumped over. ‘Yes, I must have.’

‘You took Drew, who was very small – only seven weeks old – into the bathroom adjoining your bedroom, and ran water in the tub.’

Claire frowned, and a few tears ran down her face. She wiped them away. ‘I don’t . . .’

‘This is what you told us, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Claire. ‘I think . . . yes.’

‘With the intention of drowning the baby to silence him.’

Claire shook her head in misery, and lowered it on to her arms.

‘Mrs Bolton? Isn’t that true?’

‘I was so tired . . .’ she said.

‘You put the baby face down into the tub.’

Claire raised her head and looked pleadingly at the man who was speaking to her. ‘I don’t remember doing that. I must have just wanted to wash him up.’

‘We’ve been over this, Mrs Bolton,’ the man’s voice said impatiently.

‘Yes,’ said Claire hopelessly. ‘For some reason, I guess I did . . .’

‘For some reason?’ the man asked in a mocking tone. ‘You didn’t know that a newborn infant would drown if he was placed face down in the tub?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. Her voice was choked with tears. ‘Of course.’

‘Now, Mr Bolton, hearing the baby’s cries, came downstairs and found you drowning your own baby.’

Claire stared straight ahead, not speaking.

‘Mrs Bolton?’

Claire did not turn her head to look at her questioner. ‘He was shouting at me. He wanted to get the baby . . . He . . . pushed me away,’ Claire’s eyes seemed to be peering at some dimly remembered scene.

‘That infuriated you, didn’t it? After all, he had caused the whole situation. You were so mad at him that you wanted to kill him.’

Claire started to shake her head in protest, and then she stopped.

‘Weren’t you, Mrs Bolton? We’ve talked about this, remember?’

Claire began to cry. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him. But then he fell and hit his head on the edge of the tub. There was blood everywhere . . .’

Claire began to sob, lowering her head on to her arms again.

‘You called nine-one-one,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember what you said?’

Claire shook her head. ‘No.’

‘You told the nine-one-one operator that they were both dead. You implied that you found them that way, didn’t you?’

‘Did I?’ Claire asked.

‘Even though that wasn’t true,’ said the voice, ambiguously.

Claire began to weep silently, wiping away the tears.

‘That wasn’t true, was it? Remember what we talked about?’

‘It wasn’t true,’ Claire whispered.

‘But they did both die. And it was your fault.’

Claire closed her eyes. There was a long silence.

‘Mrs Bolton?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes. It was my fault.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Bolton. This ends our interview . . .’

The screen went blank.

Morgan, who was sitting at a student desk in Oliver Douglas’s empty classroom, rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She had tracked Professor Douglas down, waited through his eleven o’clock class, and convinced him to skip his lunch hour in order to watch the tape. He had not been difficult to convince. His curiosity was piqued by what he had already learned from her and Fitz, and he had agreed to the plan. As soon as the classroom had emptied out, he had popped the DVD into the player.

It had been agony to watch the tape, even though Morgan knew what she was going to see. She took a deep breath, and looked over at the professor, who had been watching the DVD with her, and making an occasional note. He was staring at the empty screen, frowning.

‘What do you think?’ said Morgan.

Oliver Douglas shook his head. ‘This is not a confession,’ he said.

Morgan’s heart leaped in her chest as if she had just learned that she won the lottery. ‘Really? Why do you say that?’ she asked.

Douglas continued to shake his head. ‘Unbelievable.’

Morgan leaned forward, hungry for affirmation. ‘How so?’

‘It’s classic. They only film her – not themselves. It’s a proven fact that this technique of isolating the suspect in front of the camera suggests guilt to a jury. Plus, there was no narrative on the part of the accused. She didn’t actually say anything, except yes, or maybe. Her interrogator described the incident. He even described how she felt. She merely agreed with him.’

‘She could have said no,’ Morgan offered gingerly, trying to play the devil’s advocate.

‘Didn’t you hear him telling her that they had gone over this before? That’s virtually code for coercion. They were reminding her of her dying husband’s accusations. Accusations, it turned out, that he never actually made. There are witnesses who can testify to that. Correct?’

Morgan nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

Professor Douglas got up and took the DVD out of the machine. He popped it back into the case and handed it to Morgan. ‘I can’t believe her attorney hasn’t raised hell about this.’

‘Is it that bad?’ Morgan said hopefully.

Douglas, dressed today in sports jacket and tie, and corduroys, looked far different than he had in his workroom, among his colorful collages. He looked distinctly professorial as he hoisted himself up on the edge of the desk, keeping one Hush-Puppied foot on the floor. ‘It’s worse than bad, Morgan. This poor woman has been browbeaten to breaking point. Not a difficult task, given her condition.’

‘So, you don’t think she did it,’ Morgan exulted.

Professor Douglas raised a hand in warning. ‘I can’t speak about that. But she did not confess to the crime. That much is certain. Any respectable judge should throw this out.’

Morgan frowned. ‘You don’t sound sure that they will.’

‘Well, the prosecution may get it introduced, if Mrs Bolton’s attorney is incompetent, or has another agenda . . .’ he said raising an eyebrow in Morgan’s direction.

Morgan understood what he was saying. ‘I’m getting her a different attorney,’ said Morgan. ‘It’s already in the works. Some fellow named Mark Silverman.’

‘Oh, good. Good. I know Mark Silverman. He is a capable criminal attorney. Mark Silverman will have this confession suppressed. And even if the judge should decide to admit it, I’ll help Mark tear it apart on the stand.’

Morgan felt tears spring to her own eyes. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said.

‘Now,’ said Oliver Douglas, ‘that doesn’t mean that Claire couldn’t still be convicted. The circumstantial evidence is strong. And of course, there’s forensic evidence . . .’

‘But that could also exonerate her,’ said Morgan.

‘Although . . .’ Douglas said, gazing at the DVD player.

‘What?’ Morgan asked.

‘Some of it was true. I feel quite certain of that.’

Morgan stomach started to lurch. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s an impression. But my work revolves around analyzing these interviews.’

Part of Morgan wanted to take the DVD and flee, before he could say another word. But she found that she couldn’t resist asking, that she was rooted to the spot until she heard his answer. ‘Tell me what you mean,’ she said.

Oliver Douglas frowned. ‘Well, the business about the evening with the in-laws was obviously true.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Morgan. ‘They did have dinner together at Dick and Astrid’s.’

‘The baby was fussy and Claire was ashamed of her own seeming incompetence and very, very tired.’

‘Easily verified,’ said Morgan. ‘But that’s hardly a damning admission. The fact that she went out to a family dinner.’

Professor Douglas continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I think that she was also telling the truth about her husband coming downstairs and finding her with the baby, drowned in the tub. I think it went just that way. He was yelling at her. They struggled. He fell on a wet, slippery bathroom floor and hit his head on the edge of the tub. She didn’t really equivocate about that.’

Morgan slumped down against a desk. ‘This is no help,’ said Morgan. ‘You’re saying that she killed him.’

Professor Douglas shook his head. ‘It was obviously an accident. Given his size, her weakened physical condition, and the lack of any weapon, he could easily have overpowered her in a struggle.’

‘So, that’s good,’ said Morgan carefully. ‘That’s not a crime.’