“You know about post-partum depression.”
“I read, Clancy. I know about it.”
“Did you ever experience post-partum depression yourself?”
“Sort of a personal question, is it not?”
“Don’t mean to pry, just trying to get at the bottom of this whole thing.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Mary said.
“There’s a theory that exists that says that certain women who fit specific criteria are adversely affected by a full moon.”
It sounded dumb when I said it to her. I’ve generally considered myself an intelligent woman, but the words I had just uttered belied any intelligence I had believed I had.
“You think that this was why my mother behaved so strangely during the full moon phases when I was a child?”
“As implausible as it sounds, it might be connected.”
“What are the criteria according to this theory that’s out there?” Mary said.
“Women who are depressed after giving birth, or what we now call post partum depression, women who are dominated in some manner by their males, and the occurrence during a full moon cycle are the criteria listed.”
“That’s a lot to take in.”
“Your father dominated your mother most of the time.”
“I believe that to be true.”
“And I think your mother might have been depressed.”
“That’s also possible, but... we don’t have any proof of that.”
“Yeah, we do. There was a young man who came to Riley Corners after your brother died. He was writing a story for a newspaper and researching the unusual deaths of infants. He talked with your parents and with others in the community. He took copious notes. I have read his notes. His observation was that your mother suffered from severe depression at that time.”
“Grief would explain that,” she said.
“To a degree, yes. According to his notes, he asked her if she was depressed before all of this happened, and she told him she was blue a lot. He wrote down with quotation marks around the phrase down in the dumps and put her name by it.”
“Interesting,” Mary said.
“As in odd or distasteful?” I asked.
Mary smiled at me. “You have a salacious memory.”
“Sometimes. You do admit that your mother might have fit the criteria.”
“The possibility is there, but there is simply no way to prove beyond a doubt that she killed my brother with this evidence.”
“True. But what about you?”
“Me?”
“Did you suffer from post-partum depression after Robby was born?”
“I told you that I did not kill my son.”
“Did Billy Bob abuse you?”
“Who on earth have you been talking to?”
“No one that you would know. I’m just asking questions.”
“I’ve a good mind to ask you for my money back. You have a lot of nerve coming into my house and asking these personal questions.”
“I do. Goes with my profession.”
“No wonder people shoot at you.”
“And worse.”
“Worse than shooting at you?”
“There are other ways to kill people, but you already know that.”
“I do not like your insinuation.”
“I went back to Dr. Cranebottom’s office before I came here. Roscoe and I conducted another search.”
“Oh, what were you looking for?”
“Anything he might have on you.”
“I’ll sue you.”
“You could. Medical records are private these days.”
She stood up and walked to the window that looked out on her larger-than-necessary side yard full of trees, shrubs, and flowers.
“Well?” she said after a minute or so.
“He kept a file on you and your mother. Paper clipped them together. He thought that they belonged together.”
“You can’t make anything of that.”
“True. But the notes he left attached to both of your files regarding the post natal depression you and your mother suffered are a strong affirmation that you both had some difficulties after childbirth. He also had several entries on both records that documented the physical abuse that you both endured for many years – broken bones, bruises, and cuts. He even made reference to some scars not visible.”
She had her back to be and remained silent for longer than I thought she would. I waited for her to reciprocate with strong language. Perhaps she would even usher me out of her home. It would have been an excellent time for me to vacate the premises. Being the tenacious investigator, I waited to see what would happen next. Obstinacy in visible form.
Finally she turned back towards me and it was then that I could see that she was crying. Mary sat down on the sofa, leaned her head back, and gazed at the parlor ceiling. The crying continued. It was soft and steady.
“It’s all true,” she said after several minutes of tears.
“What’s all true, Mary?”
“Is this where I confess?”
“Do you have anything to confess?”
“What’s going to happen to me? I’m an aging woman and I don’t think I would do well in a prison.”
“I doubt if you spend anytime in prison,” I said.
“But you know I am guilty.”
“I believe that you are guilty. Proving your guilt is another matter. I have some strong evidence, but nothing that would be substantive in court.”
“So why come here and tell me all this? Why put me through this?”
“You asked me to find out the truth. You said you wanted to know what happened. I am simply telling you what I have discovered. Sooner or later, it is therapeutic to face our demons.”
“Mostly speculative. Little of the substantive nature.”
“I can’t argue with that; but, I can tell you that I believe you and your mother killed your baby boys. I believe that you and your mother fit the profile established by a strange German physicist. I also believe that you have no memory of hurting your son Robby.”
Mary Carpenter removed her gaze from the ceiling and looked into my eyes. Surprise had consumed her.
“My mother never remembered either. I saw her do it. I saw her suffocate my little brother. I watched her. I tried to stop her, but I couldn’t. She was too...I don’t know. Possessed is a word that comes to mind. I had no idea what was happening, I just knew that it was not right. Then later, she was okay again. She remembered nothing after a few days. It was as if it had never occurred, that she did nothing, or someone else had actually come into the room and suffocated him.”
“And you recall nothing of your story,” I said.
She shook her head.
“Your curse,” I said, “is that you saw your mother do it. You remember what she did, and I’ll bet you that that memory is what keeps attacking you, causing you to have glimpses of your own crime. Those purple shoes that you keep seeing were likely your shoes.”
Mary buried her head in her lap. She was not merely crying. She was sobbing now.
The sounds of her pain grew louder and echoed out of the parlor. I walked toward the doorway just as Azalea was coming into the parlor. We both stopped. She looked toward Mary and then at me.
“She’s had a bad day, but she’ll be okay. Might even be cathartic for her,” I said.
“Some folks might call it confessing your sins.”
I judged from this comment that Azalea might have been listening to our conversation. Maybe she had been listening to all of them.
“Yeah, that would be a way of phrasing it as well. But, tell me what you think. If you can’t remember committing the sin, should you confess that?”
“You better,” Azalea said.
“To save your soul?” I said.
“Or just clean the slate. Is it ever too late to start over?” she said.
“I’ll show myself out,” I said and headed towards the front do
or. “Thanks for the tea and spearmint.”
“You headed to Sheriff Tanner’s office?” she asked.
“No.”
“You’re not going to tell him she confessed and have her locked up?” She seemed surprised.
“No.”
“Where is the justice then?”
“The justice has already been meted out. It’s time for mercy.”
“Mercy? I don’t understand. If she killed her son, doesn’t justice demand some punishment? Maybe the same thing ought to be done to her,” Azalea said.
“Tempting to think that way.”
“You bet it is.”
“Lot to think about. Talk with your mother. She’s a smart woman.”
I opened the door and moved through the threshold. I reached back to close the door behind me.
“I don’t see any justice here, Miss Evans. Neither do I see any allowable mercy,” Azalea said.
“Allowable mercy. Interesting way of qualifying that word. You don’t have to kill someone to show mercy, even if they suffer more than you can bear. And maybe once in a great while you may believe that you have to take a life because it is merciful to do so. Then again, sometimes you have to give life for mercy’s sake. Mercy is greater than justice.”
“You have an odd way of viewing things, Miss Evans.”
“Odd indeed. Thanks for noticing,” I said and closed the door to the house on Bridge Street in Riley Corners.
Watch for more find Christian mysteries from M. Glenn Graves and Wolfpack Publishing.
M Glenn Graves has been writing fiction since graduating from college in 1970 but did not begin to work on novels until 1992. Born in Mississippi, he has lived in Tennessee, North Carolina, Missouri, Virginia, Costa Rica, and the Dominican Republic. He graduated from Mars Hill College with a BA in English and Religion. He received a Master of Divinity in 1977 three years after he finished his four year tour in the United States Navy. Married to Cindy, they have three grown children – Brian, Mark, & Jenn. They also have three grandchildren – Jonathan, Matthew, & Phoebe. Glenn, Cindy, and Sophie, their Lab, currently reside in the mountains of western North Carolina where he is the pastor of a local church.
Mercy Killing: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 2) Page 27