Chapter V

We heard the sound of sirens approaching, and Colleen tensed. The noise passed on, but she didn't speak again until it had faded away entirely.

"If they come bringing news," I said, "it won't be with sirens."

"I'm afraid that someday I'll answer the door to find police officers standing on the step with their caps in their hands, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. I think I might prefer some warning."

I said nothing. I'd made those calls, and knew the procedure: always bring another officer; try to get inside and have the recipient seated before delivering bad tidings; and avoid platitudes, even at the risk of seeming uncaring. Disengagement was important, because there was still information to be sought. In a homicide, one might even be sharing intelligence with the killer. Should Henry Clark's body be found, that would be on the minds of the police who came to inform Colleen.

"We were talking about Mara Teller," I said.

"Stephen didn't give me her last name, only her first. I had to find the rest out for myself."

"How did you do that?"

"He met her at a conference in Boston. I looked up the names of the other attendees. There was only one Mara, so I knew it was her."

"What was the conference?"

"The National Gas and Petrochemicals Forum," she said. "No doubt it was as boring as it sounds, the affair apart."

"What was Mara Teller's role?"

"She was listed as an independent consultant on the website. I googled her, of course, but nothing came up, apart from a link to the consultancy. When I tried the link, it went to a homepage that said the site was still under construction. I returned to it a couple of times after, but the message remained the same, and then the homepage disappeared and the link went dead."

"Do you recall the name of the consultancy?"

"AlterRealm Consulting, but AlterRealm is an anagram of Mara Teller, so it may have been a one-woman operation. There was some bullshit slogan about ‘a new world of business opportunities,' but that was all."

"What about a phone number or an email address?"

"There was neither." She watched me writing all this down. "Wouldn't it be easier to use a recording device?"

"Easier," I said, "but harder to recall. Writing helps keep things fresh in my mind. Also, some people might become alarmed if I started recording them. Not everyone wants their comments preserved in that way."

The only sound for a time was the whispering of pen against paper.

"Do you think Mara Teller could have taken Henry?" said Colleen.

I stopped writing.

"Do you have any reason to believe she might?"

"No, but you're going to talk to her anyway, aren't you?"

"I will, if I can find her, but I wouldn't go reading anything into that." I put down my pen. "I don't know how familiar you are with my background, but I was a detective with the NYPD before I became a private investigator. When a serious crime is committed, a machine clicks into operation. It has established processes, and those processes require a great deal of manpower to complete. Huge numbers of people may have to be interviewed, and while virtually none of them will have anything useful to offer, they have to be spoken with anyway, if only to cross off a name and prevent any more time being wasted on lines of inquiry that go nowhere. The rest, that very small group of individuals with something worthwhile to contribute, have to be found through those same processes."

"Needles in haystacks," said Colleen.

"It's not quite that bad, but close."

"And you're just one man."

"I can call on others for help, if necessary, but I prefer not to. Reading someone else's account of an interview isn't the same as conducting it myself. Individuals are books to be interpreted, but their words are only part of the story. Right now, my resources are limited and I only have so much time to read. That's why I made it clear to you earlier that I have to be careful not to become distracted from my primary role, which is to aid your defense. The resources of the police and prosecutors are greater than mine, but they also have their limitations. One is that they believe they now have a culprit for your son's disappearance. Their focus has shifted from searching to proving, and their attention will be fixed on you. I have more latitude."

"But given the choice," said Colleen, "I'd still prefer you to be looking for my son."

"If it's any consolation, he will be in my thoughts at all times. If I find anything that might reveal the truth, I'll follow it to the end."

"Thank you." She scratched at the hair on her arms, the evidence of her body's efforts to compensate for her fragility by keeping itself warm. She blinked hard and said, "There was so much blood on the blanket."

"I haven't seen it."

"But you'll want to."

"Not ‘want,' but I'll need to—the pictures, at least."

"One of the detectives told Stephen that, with all the blood, there wasn't much hope for Henry. Being found alive, I mean."

Her voice didn't tremble. She fixed her gaze on me, and I saw near-unfathomable pain.

"And your husband shared that information with you?"

"?'shared' might be too kind a way to put it."

A flash of anger at last. Good, I thought.

"The police may be operating on the basis that Henry is no longer alive," I said, "but we aren't."

"I have to hold on to hope," she said. "If I don't, I may as well crawl off and die."

"If there wasn't hope of some kind," I said, "I wouldn't be here."

"Okay," she said, before repeating the word, as much to reassure herself as to indicate agreement. "Okay."

"Can we talk about relations between you and your husband after Henry was born?" I said. "You mentioned depression."

"Yes. It started as postpartum, then turned into something longer-term. It was miserable, just awful. I even resented Henry."

"Did you mention those feelings to anyone else?"

"My physician, and the therapist I've been seeing."

The conversations with her doctor would be subject to the rule of doctor-patient confidentiality, unless Colleen chose to waive that entitlement. The therapist might be more vulnerable to legal pressure, although that would be a matter for Moxie. I'd have to talk to him about it later, but doubtless, he was already considering the angles.

"What about your husband?" I said.

"Stephen knew how hard I was finding motherhood. I hid nothing from him."

This wasn't good. A husband couldn't be compelled to testify against his wife, but from what I was learning about Stephen Clark, duress wasn't set to be an issue. I couldn't claim to be an expert on how the judicial system treated women alleged to have committed an offense while suffering from depression, but if it bore any resemblance to the way it treated women generally, especially those accused of a violent crime, Colleen could expect to be hauled over hot coals.

"I have to ask this," I said, "but were you ever unfaithful to Stephen?"

"No, never. He's the only man I've slept with."

We spent a few more minutes revisiting her movements on the day of Henry's disappearance, and what transpired after, but it didn't seem as though Colleen had a great deal more to add. With her assistance, I compiled a list of her neighbors along with any reflections she had on their attitude toward her. The Clarks weren't close to any of them, and only Mrs. Gammett had displayed actual solicitude since the finding of the bloodstained blanket. The rest were either keeping their distance or—by look, gesture, and intimation—communicating their hostility. I'd have to talk to all of them, chasing, like some sad dog, the trail left by the police.

"So what happens now?" asked Colleen.

"I know you were scheduled to speak with Mr. Castin—Moxie—later today," I said. "If neither of you objects, I'd like to be present for that meeting. We can do it here, or I can drive you to the office and back, whichever you prefer."

Her unease was obvious.

"Pictures are taken of me when I go out," she said. "They turn up online, and then people write bad things about me under them."

"I didn't notice anyone hanging around when I arrived," I said. "The police presence will discourage them. That doesn't mean they're not out there somewhere, but I think we can get you wherever you want to go without too much difficulty. You should also stop reading what people say about you and the case, online or anywhere else. It's not helpful, won't tell you anything you don't already know, and won't affect the outcome."

"I haven't been beyond the house in days," she said. "Is it cold out?"

"Not so much, but I'd bring a coat if I were you." If I were her, I'd have worn a coat in summer.

I'd have to call Moxie first. He would have an opinion on a venue for the meeting. By now, word might have filtered out that he was representing Colleen, which meant his office would become another site of interest. There was always the Great Lost Bear. Dave Evans would find us somewhere private to talk. Dave's instinct was to avoid condemnation—being judgmental didn't help when it came to owning a bar—and if Moxie and I were working for Colleen, he'd instinctively take her side. I was still patting myself on the back for my choice when I considered the optics of a young mother, about to be charged with the abduction and killing of her child, emerging from one of Portland's best-loved bars. I couldn't take a chance on her being seen there because it would do her cause no good at all. Yet it still seemed beneficial to get her out of the house, not only for the sake of her own psychological and emotional well-being, but also because location influenced tone and response, and I now wanted a glimpse of Colleen Clark outside her home environment. Perhaps new surroundings would jog her memory, or stimulate a fresh perspective on events.

"I don't know," she said.

"It might do you good to take some air," I said.

She stared at me.

"But what if Henry comes back and I'm not here?"

Then she started to cry.