The Instruments of Darkness: A Thriller

Chapter IX

Before leaving Twitchy’s, I raised with Moxie the possibility of the Fulci brothers keeping an eye on Colleen Clark, both at home and when, or if, she chose to venture out. To my surprise, he made no objection, but perhaps he could see what was coming down the line and regarded the Fulcis as apt to discourage all but the most committed or foolhardy from attempting to interfere with our client.

The afternoon sky remained gray, shading to white and black at the extremes, like being trapped under a pigeon’s wing. I opened the car door for Colleen, then spoke briefly and quietly to Moxie once she was safely inside.

“Learn anything interesting?” said Moxie.

“She has few friends, and we should ask the Fulcis to drop her husband on his head.”

Moxie shrugged. “He thinks his wife killed their son. I’m prepared to allow him some leeway for trauma, if not for being an asshole.”

“He doesn’t seem in any hurry to consider other possibilities. If they put him on the stand, he won’t help her cause.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Did she tell you about his affair?”

“We discussed it. I imagine you’ll also bring it up if he testifies against her.”

“I can hear the cries of ‘Objection!’ already,” said Moxie. “They’re like music to my ears. What about the woman he slept with, Mara Teller?”

“I’ll find her,” I said.

“I don’t doubt it. I can’t see too many loose threads yet, but she looks like one.”

Moxie hummed to himself as he yanked a weed from a crack in the concrete. If someone had handed him a broom, he’d have begun sweeping the lot clean.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” I said, “you’re very relaxed.”

“This is what I do,” said Moxie, “and I like it. The more difficult the case, the happier I am. We may have that in common.”

“It depends on how you define ‘happy.’?”

Colleen Clark was sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, her sunglasses once again concealing her eyes. I wondered how much longer she would be able to hold herself together, because my sense was that she was close to breaking. Her imminent incarceration, even if only for a night or two, might do it. I’d seen it happen before. At least Moxie and I both had contacts in the Department of Corrections and the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Office, and could make sure she was kept safe.

“You haven’t told me whether you think she’s innocent,” said Moxie.

“I still don’t know enough about her, or what happened.”

“But first impression?”

“She didn’t do it.”

Although she couldn’t have heard me, Colleen peered in our direction at that moment. Of course, she was aware that we were talking about her. What else could it have been? Her fate was now in the hands of two men she barely knew, but I doubted that was the main focus of her attention, not when her every breath contained the whisper of her son’s name.

“Discovery might produce some surprises,” said Moxie, “but for now it looks like the physical evidence against her amounts to a bloodied blanket that could easily have been planted in her car, and not much else. If I can’t shoot that down, I ought to find another line of employment. The rest is circumstantial, but it worries me more. It introduces an unpredictable element.”

I knew what he meant. We were back to Colleen’s depression and the conflicted feelings she had expressed about her son while enduring the worst of it. Many states had proven resistant to limiting charges against women alleged to have committed crimes while suffering from depression or psychosis. Other countries, recognizing these conditions as a form of mental illness, had introduced infanticide laws that permitted more lenient penalties for new or recent mothers convicted of killing their children, including probation, hospital orders, and supervision. In the United States, depending on the jurisdiction, a new mother convicted of killing her child, even if suffering from postpartum psychosis, could be jailed for anything up to life, or even face the death penalty. Like the rest of the judicial system, it was a lottery, and like all lotteries, it was loaded in favor of the house.

“Take Colleen home,” said Moxie. “Tell her she can use the bathroom, have a shower, and freshen up. I wrapped her sandwich”—he handed me a brown paper bag, stained slightly with grease—“so see if you can get her to eat some more of it. I can’t vouch for the food she’ll be given in jail. It’s a pity we can’t wait until morning before bringing her in, but they’re sure to come for her at first light, and there’s no percentage in waking her before dawn. It’s not as if she’s going to sleep soundly tonight either way, but better to get the stay behind bars over with.”

He checked his watch.

“I’ll give you two hours,” he said, “but don’t worry if she needs more time. I’ll park as close to the Portland PD as I can get. Call me when you leave, and I’ll be ready and waiting.”

“Nowak and Becker are going to be angry at you for spoiling their show,” I said.

They might yet get coverage out of Colleen’s transfer to jail, but it wouldn’t be the same. They would lose the impact of a home arrest, which would rankle. Meanwhile, Moxie would be priming his contacts in the media to ensure the right message got out.

“They’ll be pissed at both of us,” said Moxie. “If Nowak is elected governor, and Becker makes AG, we should think about relocating to Cuba. They’ll have a long list of scores to settle once they come into their kingdom, but we’ll shoot right to the top of the list.”

I’dnever met either Nowak or Becker, though I’d glimpsed both of them from a safe distance. It was enough to know that they didn’t like me, and therefore it would be better if I stayed out of their way. That luxury was about to be denied me.

“I don’t want to live in Cuba,” I said. “I don’t like heat.”

“Stock up on sunscreen,” said Moxie, “just in case.”