From Cradle to Grave by Patricia MacDonald

Author:Patricia MacDonald
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Publisher: Severn House Publishers Ltd
Published: 2009-10-01T07:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN

Oliver Douglas’s wife, a slim woman with a cap of short gray hair, greeted Fitz and Morgan at the door and directed them to a studio out behind the house. They picked their way carefully across the dark backyard, and knocked at the screen door on the small, brightly lit, peaked-roof building at the rear of the property.

‘Dr Douglas,’ Fitz called out.

The inner door to the studio opened, and a white-haired man in stained overalls and a flannel shirt peered at them over the top of his half-glasses. He pushed out the screen door. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, stepping aside.

Fitz went in first. ‘Dr Douglas, thanks for seeing us.’

‘Happy to. How are you doing, Earl?’

‘Good. This is my friend, Morgan . . .’

‘Adair,’ said Morgan.

The old man wiped his hands on his overalls. ‘I’d shake your hand but I’m covered with glue,’ he said. He pointed to a beat-up sofa against the wall. ‘Have a seat.’

Fitz and Morgan sat down on the sofa. Morgan could feel the sofa springs through the well-worn cushions. She looked around the walls of the studio. They were covered with collages, odd and whimsical, fashioned from calendar pictures, leaves and pebbles, pipe cleaners and newspaper lettering. Somehow she had expected piles of books and a computer.

‘What do you think of my work?’ the old professor asked.

Morgan gazed at the collages. ‘They’re so . . . joyful.’

Professor Douglas looked around fondly at his bright, fantastical creations. ‘My field of expertise is rather grim. It deals with the dark side of the moon, if you will. People who spend their lives preying on the most vulnerable among us. Well, Earl knows. He’s involved in this same sort of thing. But one needs a break from it. This is how I get away from it all.’

Morgan studied his creations. ‘I see that.’

‘How’s your work at the high school going, Earl?’ Professor Douglas asked.

‘It’s tough, but I feel like I’m doing some good. I’m thinking about going back to get my PhD though, so I can open my own practice. Work with adolescents.’

Oliver Douglas, who was amassing an assortment of colorful photos into a file folder, nodded. ‘Wonderful idea. There’s a great need.’

‘That’s the truth,’ said Fitz.

‘So,’ said Douglas, picking glue off the tips of his fingers. ‘What was so important you had to see me tonight?’

Fitz looked at Morgan. ‘Well, I explained to Morgan that one of your books was about authorities getting people to confess to crimes they didn’t commit . . .’

‘Interrogation Techniques in False Confessions,’ said the professor, his avuncular manner disappearing as he recited his title.

‘Exactly,’ said Fitz. ‘Well, Morgan’s best friend from childhood is in jail. She confessed to killing her husband and her infant son.’

Professor Douglas turned one of the worktable stools to face the sofa, and sat down on it, folding his arms across his chest. ‘The Bolton woman?’

‘That’s right,’ said Fitz. ‘You know about it?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve been reading about it. The woman with post-partum depression.’ He turned to Morgan.

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