Chapter LVII

Colleen Clark's therapist, Blaise Veilleux, worked out of a neat cottage in Pownal, a small town north of Portland. Veilleux was a stern woman with features that didn't settle naturally into an expression of empathy, and the blazing eyes of a zealot. She showed me into the room in which she conducted her sessions: a small, studiedly neutral space with two chairs, a couch, and a console table on which stood a box of tissues and a bottle of hand sanitizer shaped like a dove. She offered me a glass of water or herbal tea. I stuck with water. I didn't want to ask for the wrong kind of tea for the time of day and come off like a rube.

If Lyra Shapleigh had demonstrated a marked reluctance to be called as a witness in the impending trial, Veilleux was the opposite. Even during the call to establish a time for our meeting, she told me she was marking likely trial dates in her diary. From my research, I knew that she worked with various women's support groups and family charities across Maine. She was frequently quoted in newspaper and magazine features about domestic abuse, coercive control, reproductive rights, and issues related to motherhood, including postpartum depression. I'd even caught her on a couple of news shows. If she wasn't quite a celebrity, she was becoming well-known, and gave every impression of relishing it.

As soon as I sat, she began asking when she might be required to provide a deposition and why Moxie Castin himself wasn't present to hear what she had to say.

"I mean," she concluded, "sending an employee suggests a possible lack of engagement on his part."

Moxie, I thought, had dodged a bullet, and not only because he didn't drink a lot of water, or go in for herbal tea. Still, there was some element of truth to what Veilleux had said—in general terms, if not specific. By taking care of the preliminary interviews, I could save Moxie time that might otherwise have been wasted in recording statements from witnesses with nothing useful to offer, but my impressions would also help lay the groundwork for his own line of questioning. I tried to explain some of this to Veilleux, emphasizing the second part over the first, but she wasn't convinced. She poured me water from a jug, accompanied by a lot of sighing and frowning. I wouldn't have wanted her as my therapist. I wouldn't even have wanted her standing too close to me in line at the post office.

"How long have you been treating Colleen?" I asked, once she'd quieted down, and I'd made it apparent that I wasn't uncomfortable with silence.

"About a year," said Veilleux. "Colleen also gave me permission to consult with her physician."

"Lyra Shapleigh."

"That's right. Have you spoken to Lyra?"

"I have."

"And?"

"She was helpful."

Veilleux arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Within certain limits," I conceded.

"She doesn't want to get too involved."

"Are you asking or telling me?"

"Both, if you wish."

"Then, yes, I think that's a fair summary of her position."

"Do you know why?"

"Regardless of the ultimate verdict, there'll be fallout from this case," I said. "I wouldn't condemn anyone for preferring not to be drawn into it."

"Which isn't answering the question."

"No, because I gather you might have an opinion of your own."

"Not an opinion," said Veilleux, "but knowledge. Lyra's an admirer of Paul Nowak and would like to see him elected governor. She's planning to make the maximum contribution to his campaign once he officially announces his candidacy. Her wife will do the same."

That would amount to at least $3,900 between Shapleigh and her spouse, which was a considerable financial commitment. But if what Veilleux was saying was true—and it could easily be checked—it also represented a potential conflict of interest should Shapleigh be required to testify, which was something on which Moxie would have to adjudicate. I was annoyed with Shapleigh. She was entitled to support whomever she liked. I just wished she'd been open about it from the start.

But Veilleux's information raised another question, which was why she had elected to share it with me at this early stage of our conversation. It might have been an issue of conscience, which would make her a better person than I was inclined to give her credit for; but in my experience, people didn't offer this kind of intelligence without an ulterior motive.

"How do you know this?" I asked.

"Lyra and I have mutual acquaintances. Her political affiliations are hardly worth keeping secret. It's not like she's joined the Klan."

"What about you? Are you in the Nowak camp?"

"The two-party system has failed our country," she said. "I favor Hannah Russell."

Russell routinely ran as an unenrolled candidate and was always quickly eliminated. I tried to keep abreast of politics, and regarded myself as reasonably well-informed, but even I struggled to figure out exactly what Hannah Russell stood for, apart from better holistic veterinary care for pets.

"She seems like"—I searched for the right words and failed—"a nice person," I concluded, lamely.

"She's a dog with three legs," said Veilleux, "but her heart is in the right place."

"And Dr. Shapleigh?"

"What about her?"

"Is her heart also in the right place?"

"That depends on what you can do for her. I've known Lyra for many years now. She's a pragmatic person, which makes her a pretty good physician. In the case of Colleen Clark, she wouldn't want to do or say anything that might damage Nowak's chances, but her preference would be to avoid saying anything at all. As you pointed out, there'll be blowback if it goes to trial, whatever the verdict. If Lyra were to testify, and that testimony aided the prosecution, a small but vocal community, some of whom she considers friends, might view her as perpetuating a system that penalizes psychologically troubled women. On the other hand, if she were to help Colleen get off, there'd be people prepared to throw bricks through her window, and it wouldn't help Nowak's cause either. So Lyra will try to stay out of it, even if she has to lawyer up. She won't go out of her way to assist you, but she'll do her damnedest not to damage your cause either."

Which was what Shapleigh herself had told me, if without the political insights.

"Does she often refer patients to you?"

"Sometimes, and always women. But Colleen's initial referral came from another client, not Lyra. My base is almost entirely female, apart from a few couples."

"Aren't you sympathetic to male problems?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Are you trying to bait me, Mr. Parker?"

"Perhaps I'm in the market for a therapist."

"From what I've heard about you, that wouldn't surprise me. I might even be prepared to make an exception out of inquisitiveness."

"I'll be sure to pick up a card on my way out. Tell me about Colleen."

"There's a limit to what I'm prepared to divulge," said Veilleux, "even with her permission. She's in a vulnerable position right now, but I have to take the larger picture into account."

"I appreciate that, so let's go with what you feel comfortable sharing. If you testify, much of the questioning is likely to revolve around whether Colleen displayed signs of hostile ideation toward her son."

"She did not," said Veilleux firmly.

"Never?"

"No. She was frustrated and depressed, and admitted to impatience with him, but on no occasion did she indicate that she had seriously contemplated hurting Henry. She worried that she wasn't a fit mother and would never be able to take care of him properly. She felt isolated—more so than usual, given that she's not naturally a sociable person—and believed her husband wasn't assuming anything resembling an appropriate share of responsibility for the child, especially as he was the one who wanted them to begin a family, perhaps before Colleen was ready."

I was tempted to go straight to the subject of Stephen Clark, but instead spent some time going into more detail about Colleen's difficulties, or as much as Veilleux was willing to offer. As far as she could attest, Colleen loved her son, but lacked confidence in her own emotional, psychological, and even physical capacities for motherhood. This, said Veilleux, wasn't unusual, but each woman who endured this kind of difficulty experienced it in her own unique way.

"Like grief," I said.

"Yes," agreed Veilleux, "like grief, like love, like despair. Like life."

"Had Stephen stepped up to the plate, do you think that might have eased that pressure on Colleen?"

"Certainly, but her treatment primarily involved developing the skills and mindset to cope with what she was going through. Altering her husband's behavior was out of her hands, and would have involved a different form of therapy."

"Couples therapy?"

"Yes."

"Did you raise that possibility?"

"I indicated that it might be beneficial," said Veilleux. "I'm not saying her husband was unaware of her suffering—that would imply emotional blindness verging on sociopathy—but he might not have been cognizant of its depth, or even the simple steps he could have taken to alleviate it. Also, it was obvious that he was working long hours and was very much engaged in his career. From what Colleen told me, he was intent on providing a certain quality of life for his family, but the emphasis was on financial security accrued from corporate success rather than emotional security arising from day-to-day engagement with his wife and child. Again, that's not uncommon, albeit, I think, a peculiarly male approach."

"And the therapy?"

"He declined to become involved, on any level. This was his wife's problem, and he had enough difficulties of his own, which was his position as articulated by Colleen. I should emphasize that fact: whatever information or insights I may have about Stephen Clark are refracted through the prism of his wife's experience. Were he to sit in that chair, we might be given a very different tale."

"Be careful what you wish for," I said. "I've met him."

"You didn't like him?"

"He wants to see his wife imprisoned. He's not prepared to countenance any narrative that precludes her from having harmed their child."

She turned her palms upward, like Christ displaying his wounds.

"I'm reluctant to condemn him for it," she said. "This is a terrible situation for any parent to find themselves in."

"I may be less reluctant to condemn."

"You find his certitude disconcerting?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's why you're a detective. You're trained to respond with suspicion. I'm trained to understand."

I wondered how many of her patients had been tempted to burn her house down. Not enough of them, I decided.

"Did Colleen speak to you about his affair with Mara Teller?" I asked.

"Yes."

"What were her feelings about it?"

"Sorrow, and to a lesser degree anger and shame."

"Why shame?"

"Because she blamed herself more than she blamed her husband," said Veilleux. "She felt that if she'd been enough for him, he would not have looked elsewhere to satisfy those needs. I mean, it's obviously more complicated than that, but as a bare précis of her position, it's adequate."

Veilleux tugged at her bottom lip with the forefinger of her right hand, the first time she'd displayed anything resembling a nervous tic. I let a distant clock count the seconds.

"You're very patient, aren't you?" she said.

"It's born of necessity. I spend a lot of time sitting, watching. Not understanding."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"Barely."

"And listening, too?"

"Yes."

"Then we may not be so dissimilar after all."

"I never intimated that we were."

"No, you didn't, did you?" She clasped her hands and leaned forward, like someone about to share a delicious secret. "Did Colleen mention that she suspected Stephen of cheating on her previously?"

"It's a natural response to unfaithfulness, to suspect there may have been more than one instance of it."

"With me, she was more specific," said Veilleux. "You see, she thought her husband might have met this Mara Teller person before."

This I had not known.

"When?" I asked.

"At an earlier conference, before Colleen even became pregnant. She was convinced that she recalled the name, potentially from a document she'd seen, or notes made by her husband. She used to help Stephen with reports, because he was a lousy typist and a poor speller. Later, as she tried to keep her marriage together, she started to doubt herself, and ultimately she recanted. When I attempted to return to the subject a couple of months ago, she waved it off as a misapprehension brought on by the stress of all that had happened, and the name Mara Teller going around and around in her head, but I thought it was interesting. Our initial impressions are often correct: the first name that comes to mind upon renewing acquaintance with someone, for example, or the title of a film or song seemingly half-remembered."

I would have to ask Colleen about this when I returned to Scarborough. More and more, I was finding aspects of her conduct disquieting, although I still did not believe she had killed her son. Instead, I was reminded of a novel I had first read in college, and to which I had returned many times since: Ford Madox Ford's The Good Soldier, a book as steeped in irony as any I'd encountered. Colleen reminded me of its narrator, John Dowell, a character to whom things happen yet who does very little himself, a figure existing in a curious state of enervation. Even his name was only a letter away from dowel, a joint of wood in a wall to which other pieces are nailed.

"Would it be fair to describe Colleen's disposition as passive?"

"I think it might," said Veilleux. "The hardest part of our therapy has been convincing her to be something more than an observer of her own life. Even the decision to become a mother could almost be regarded as one made for her by another."

"Her husband?"

"Chiefly, there was also some pressure from her mother, however well-intentioned. The main driver, though, was Stephen. He was very eager to be a father. It represented a change of heart for him, since he'd shown little interest in fatherhood for much of their relationship."

"Why the transformation?"

"Colleen couldn't say, other than that a child was just something he'd suddenly decided he wanted. We could speculate, I suppose. The ethos in certain corporations requires men to present a set version of themselves, one that includes a stable family life, even if the burden of work, and the pressure to succeed, is destined to undermine that stability. Obviously, that doesn't apply to female executives, who are most definitely not encouraged to become pregnant and start families, but that's an argument for another day. And there's the simple biological imperative: Stephen might have wanted to pass on his genes, to leave something of himself in the world after he was gone. The truth, of course, may come down to some combination of the above, allied to motives of which we have no knowledge due to Stephen's reluctance to reveal himself, even to his wife."

I looked at my notes. I'd circled the names of Mara Teller and Stephen Clark before enfolding them in a larger oval. I felt the urge to check my phone in case Maralou Burnham had gotten back to me with news about the money order used by Teller to pay for her attendance at the forum. If she hadn't, I'd nudge.

I asked Blaise Veilleux if there was anything else she could think of that might be of assistance, but she skirted the question in order to return to the subject of her testimony. She wanted to be sure she'd have the opportunity to give evidence, and that zealot's gleam returned to her eyes. I phrased the next inquiry carefully, even disingenuously.

"It means a lot that you're so open to taking the stand," I said. "What you have to say could be important."

"It is important," said Veilleux. "It's a chance to set out publicly the reality of postpartum depression, and the way it is dismissed or, as in the case of Colleen, used against women for evidential or political gain. People have to be told. They must be made aware."

So there it was: Veilleux might have cared about Colleen as a patient, but she also viewed her as a resource, a weapon to be wielded. Veilleux was a crusader, and while I didn't doubt the righteousness of her cause, it wasn't for her to use Colleen to further it. Back in the fifteenth century, men and women not dissimilar to Blaise Veilleux had viewed Joan of Arc's immolation as collateral damage.

I thanked her for her time, and advised her that Moxie would be in touch to arrange a further meeting. But if she were to testify, I knew she'd need to be held in check. What she had to offer would be beneficial to Colleen's cause, but only if it wasn't accompanied by grandstanding. It would be up to Moxie to convince Veilleux that clearing Colleen's name would aid the larger cause without the need for any additional finger-wagging in court. Whatever else Veilleux had to offer could be included in the feature articles and television appearances that might follow the verdict.

She walked me to the door and waited for me to drive off before closing it, as though fearful that I might otherwise take up residence in her yard and seek therapeutic assistance in return for light gardening duties. In one of the flower beds stood a weatherworn lawn sign advocating Hannah Russell's candidacy for governor. I hadn't spotted it before, but I expected that if I returned to Veilleux's home anytime between now and the election, the sign would still be there, and might even be standing come the next set of primaries. Blaise Veilleux didn't strike me as a person who gave up easily, which wasn't always a bad state of being. As she said, we might not have been so dissimilar after all.