Little Lies

by Heather Gudenkauf

  “Hi,” I say. “What time is practice done today?”

  “Practice? El, we have a game. I’m on the bus on my way to Waterloo. We won’t be back until midnight.”

  “Right,” I say apologetically. “I forgot. I just have some work stuff that came up. I’ll call my mom and see if she can come over.”

  We hang up and before I can analyze why I didn’t tell Adam that the work stuff that had come up included Joe, I call my mother who is happy to come over and babysit. My father recently passed away and my mother has been struggling a bit. A pang of guilt comes over me. Sometimes it gets so busy we don’t see or talk to each other for days, so it will be good to set eyes on her.

  * * *

  While waiting for my mother to arrive, Leah and Lucas work on their homework at the kitchen table and I sit at the computer holding Avery and do some internet searches. The first thing I search for on Google is Leto, the goddess in whose image the sculpture from the park is made. I learn that Leto is the goddess of motherhood and the protector of the young. She was bride of Zeus, and the mother of the twin gods Apollo and Artemis. She was also known as a goddess of modesty. Thirteen years ago, as a new social worker, I missed these details, not making the connection between Leto, mothers and Nell Sharpe. I read further and learn that Leto was pursued by many: the jealous wife of Zeus, giants and other monsters. Leto’s two children, Apollo and Artemis, were skilled hunters and often came to their mother’s rescue. Interesting, I think, as I rub Avery’s back in small circles. Beneath the goddess of motherhood two mothers are found dead. Murdered. How could that be a coincidence? A serial killer fixated on mothers? My body gives an involuntary shudder and the sudden movement causes Avery to squawk in dismay. “Shh,” I say. “It’s okay.” Is it really considered a serial killing if the cases are thirteen years apart? Maybe there weren’t only two cases. With one hand I awkwardly plink at the keyboard: Cedar City, Singer Park, murders. Instantly, hundreds of results pop up. I start to scroll through them, but quickly give up. There are too many. I can’t believe that our Cedar City had that many murders, but quickly find my mistake. There is certainly more than one Cedar City in the United States and more than likely more than one Singer Park. I amend my search to Cedar City, Iowa, Medwyn Singer Park, murder and for good measure I add Leto.

  Only two links appear. A story recounting the murder of Nell Sharpe and this morning’s newspaper article about Marissa Newkirk.

  The doorbell rings and both Leah and Lucas scramble to get to the door first. “Grandma!” they shout and Avery’s arms flail in fright at the sudden sound.

  “Poor Avery,” I whisper into my daughter’s ear. “How are you going to survive these wild animals?”

  “Mom, thanks for coming,” I say, leaning in for a hug made awkward from the bags hanging from her wrists and the casserole dish in her hands. I give a silent prayer of gratitude that my mother brought food. All we have in the house is a frozen pizza, leftover fish sticks and a few boxes of macaroni and cheese.

  After giving Leah and Lucas long hugs she turns to me. “Here, let’s trade,” she says, and somehow I safely hand Avery to her and end up with the tater-tot casserole, fresh fruit and chocolate cake in my arms.

  I show my mother where I keep Avery’s bottles and diapers and she shoos me away. “Go have fun,” she tells me.

  “It’s not fun, Mom,” I remind her. “It’s work.”

  “I know, I know, then go and let me have fun,” she orders.

  I thank her again and as I pull on my coat I pause in front of the computer. With one finger, I delete one word from my earlier search. One additional news story pops up. I lean in close and click on the link. Got it, I think as I scan the article and scrawl a few key details down on a scrap of paper. A third woman.

  Joe is already at the Blue Moon when I arrive. He waves me over from the table in the far back corner and stands to help me off with my coat. He is freshly showered, his hair still damp, and is dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. He still looks exhausted and I’m certain he hasn’t slept more than a few hours in the last forty-eight.

  The waitress comes to take our drink order. Joe orders a beer and though I vowed to have only a soda, when the waitress arrives with Joe’s beer and a frosty mug I ask for one, too. After we order our food, and Joe asks after the kids and Adam, and I ask about his black lab, Hawkeye, Joe pulls out two thin files.

  “Do you want to talk about this before or after we eat?” he asks. I know exactly what he is referring to. Marissa Newkirk’s autopsy.

  “Let’s do it,” I say gamely though my stomach flips over.

  “This is Nell Sharpe’s autopsy from thirteen years ago,” Joe says, handing me the first file. I open it and on top is the medical examiner’s report.

  The body is that of a normally developed Caucasian female measuring 67 inches and weighing 118 pounds, and appearing generally consistent with estimated age of twenty years. The body is cold and unembalmed. Lividity is fixed in the distal portions of the limbs. The eyes are open. Time of Death: Body temperature, rigor and livor mortis, and stomach contents approximate the time of death between 10:30 p.m. and 12:30 a.m.

  Immediate Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma. Manner of Death: Homicide.

  Beneath the report are several photos, each showing Nell in death in various angles. In some of the photos she just appears to be sleeping, in others the brutality cannot be missed. She was so young.

  I rearrange the photos back into the file and reach my hand for the second. Marissa’s. Joe sits quietly sipping his beer while I read. It doesn’t take me long. “They read almost exactly the same,” I say, reaching for my own drink. “All you’d have to do is change the victim’s name and the date and we could be reading the same autopsy.”

  “It is kind of bizarre,” Joe agrees.

  “I know, but thirteen years apart? What did Marissa Newkirk have in common with Nell Sharpe? She was, what, six or seven years old when the first murder occurred?”

  The waitress brings our burgers and fries and Joe quickly sweeps the autopsy files and photos aside. “I did a little digging myself,” I tell him as I squeeze ketchup onto my plate. “Nothing dangerous,” I assure him. “Just an internet search.” I explain the meaning behind the sculpture of Leto. “The statue obviously has some meaning in all of this. Leto is the goddess of motherhood and two women with children are killed and placed at her feet.”

  “Could be,” Joe says. “Nell and Marissa have more in common than we thought. I looked more closely into Marissa’s past and it’s not all butterflies and sunshine.”

  “What do you mean? Marissa’s mother didn’t mention any problems.”

  “Moms are pretty protective,” Joe says. “Plus, she’s really broken up about Marissa’s death. She probably only wants to think about the good side of her daughter. According to the detective I talked to in Sioux City, Marissa was a party girl. Was arrested for underage drinking four times, possession of marijuana two times and shoplifting three times. Got pregnant with Mason when she was sixteen, dropped out of high school, would stay with her mom, they’d clash, she’d run away, then go back home. Finally, about a year and a half ago, when she was nineteen, she got her act together, got her GED and moved here to go to the community college.”

  “Has she been arrested in Cedar City for anything?” I ask curiously.

  “No, record is clean as a whistle. She’s worked at Philomena’s, the gift shop near the courthouse for fifteen months, has been enrolled at the college for the past year.”

  “So both victims, by all accounts, have had a troubled past.” I push away my plate, suddenly no longer hungry. “Nell was a homeless drifter and, according to the autopsy, a heavy drinker and drug user and Marissa was a runaway who dabbled in alcohol and drugs. Both had children whose fathers weren’t in the picture.”

  “So m
aybe the killer has a thing against bad mothers,” Joe suggests.

  I reach into my purse and pull out the piece of paper with the results of my internet search scribbled messily across it and hand it to Joe.

  “Devin Fallon,” he reads out loud. “Who’s this?”

  I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Devin Fallon was found murdered in Singer Park five years ago.”

  “Yeah, but what makes you think it’s connected to these other two murders? I checked. No other women were found dead beneath the statue. And no other women were found dead with their toddler sitting next to them.”

  “True,” I say. “But what if the killer got interrupted? What if something happened and he couldn’t finish the job properly? Nell and Marissa were killed somewhere else than where they were found, right?” Joe nods. “What if someone surprised the murderer and he had to leave Devin somewhere else? In this case at the south entrance of the park. Maybe he panicked and dumped her there.”

  “Okay,” Joe says skeptically, “But there was no kid left at the scene. How do you explain that? I’m just not seeing a tight connection.”

  “One, according to this article Devin had a history of drug and alcohol abuse and was homeless.” I hold up one finger. “Two, Devin was killed by a blow to the head. Three, she was found in the park, somewhat near the statue.”

  “Yes, but what about the lack of a child? That’s a huge detail.”

  “Four,” I say, waggling my fingers at him, “Devin Fallon was seven months pregnant when she was killed.”

  We spend the next hour discussing possible suspects. Joe suggests a deranged man who either loved or hated his mother too much. I offer the possibility of someone in the business of caring for children: a doctor or nurse, a social worker even. Someone who would be disgusted with a mother who raises a child amid homelessness, drugs and alcohol. Finally, Joe broaches the subject I know he’s been avoiding all night, but the true reason he wanted to talk: Jonah Sharpe.

  “Jonah Sharpe has suddenly disappeared,” Joe says.

  “What do you mean, disappeared?” I ask.

  “I mean he’s nowhere to be found. We went to his work site and then to his apartment this afternoon. His boss said he hasn’t been to work in two days and his roommates said he just packed up his stuff and up and left early yesterday.”

  “Maybe, he’s just gone on a trip. It doesn’t mean he ran away.” Joe doesn’t say anything. “What?” I ask testily. “You think that a kid who lost his mother the way that Jonah did would suddenly start killing women in the same manner? That’s really grasping at straws.”

  “We showed the roommates a picture of Marissa. They knew her. Jonah knew her. She’d been to their apartment before.”

  My heart starts pounding so hard I can hear it thrumming in my ears. It couldn’t be Jonah. It couldn’t be the sweet, lost little boy who drew me pictures for my office. Not the poor boy that was so hopeful in finding a family that would adopt him only to have his hopes dashed time and time again. “I don’t believe it,” I say with conviction. “Besides, what about Devin Fallon? Jonah would have only been thirteen years old at the time Devin died. Do you think that he killed her, too?”

  Joe sighs heavily. “I don’t know, Ellen. I don’t know. I’m just trying to keep my mind open to all the possibilities. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  My anger dims rapidly. Joe looks so tired. “I know you’re just doing your job. I just have a soft spot when it comes to Jonah. I watched him grow up.”

  Joe insists on paying the bill, but I refuse. It would make this feel too much like a date. We split it down the middle and both leave a generous tip. I tell him that I have a connection at the Sioux City Department of Human Services and that I will give her a call tomorrow. See what else I can find out about Marissa’s past. Joe says he will look into the death of Devin Fallon to see if there are any more connections between the murders. Joe sees me safely to my van and we both agree to talk in the morning.

  It’s only nine o’clock, but it feels as if it could be midnight. My mind is spinning with the thought that Jonah could be involved in this mess. The entire case is baffling. I pull into my driveway, turn off my headlights and just sit for a moment. Guiltily, I hope that my mother was able to feed, bathe and put the kids to bed already. All I want to do is tumble into bed myself. A sudden movement and a flash of color catch my eye through the van window. I frantically press at the automatic locks, but I’m not fast enough. The door is open and a hooded figure slides into the passenger-side seat. I scramble to open my door but a cold hand latches on to my wrist and I can’t squirm away. With my free hand I try to reach my phone, but it’s stowed away in my purse on the floor next to the intruder’s feet.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” a frightened voice says. “It’s just me, it’s Jonah.” I stop struggling and peer through the darkness, but the night is starless and the light from the streetlamps is too weak.

  “Jonah?” I say breathlessly.

  “It’s me,” he says disconsolately. It’s then that I recognize his voice. Jonah, always so sad sounding. I used to call him Eeyore after the melancholy donkey from the Winnie the Pooh stories.

  “What are you doing? You scared me to death,” I exclaim.

  “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. And I can tell that he is near tears. “I had to talk to you. The police think I had something to do with that girl’s death.”

  I think of what I learned about Apollo and Artemis slaying others to protect Leto. In some twisted way, did Jonah think he was protecting the memory of his mother, maybe protecting Mason by killing Marissa? I’m tempted to ask, Did you? Did you kill Marissa? But I stay silent. I don’t want him to run away.

  “I know her. Knew her,” he amends. “But barely. I told her mother that. I told her I barely knew her, that Nichols was who she hung out with. I told her I didn’t know anything about Marissa taking drugs, but she didn’t believe that either. I didn’t hurt her. The police think I did, but I swear I didn’t.”

  “Why do you think that, Jonah?” I ask softly. “I’m sure the police are talking to everyone who knew Marissa.”

  “Because I saw her that night. I saw her! But I didn’t kill her.”

  “What time did you see her? Where?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even and calm.

  “At the park, just before. Just before it must have happened.”

  “You were in the park? You and Marissa were in the park?”

  “Not together.” Jonah sniffs loudly. “Yeah, she was in the park and she was buying.”

  “Buying? You mean she was buying drugs? From who? Jonah, you have to talk to the police. You could help them find who really did this to her.”

  “No,” he says resolutely. “I can’t. They won’t believe me. They think I did it. Because of my mom,” his voice cracks. “Because of the way my mom died, they will think I did the same thing.”

  “No,” I say, but it comes out weakly because that’s exactly what crossed Joe’s mind.

  “I could never do that. Never.”

  “I know, Jonah, I know,” I say soothingly. “I could go with you. We could go talk to the police together.”

  “No,” he says and reaches for the door.

  “Wait!” I exclaim. “I can help you.”

  “I just wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know...” Jonah says as he pushes the door open and the overhead light goes on. Jonah looks so much younger than his eighteen years, but he has seen more than most have in a lifetime. His eyes are wild and wide, a trapped animal.

  “I know,” I say, looking at him levelly. “I believe you.” Before he is completely out of the van a thought strikes me and I ask, “Why would she be out in the park without her shoes?” Jonah’s eyes fill with confusion and then he is gone.

  On weak legs I climb out of the van and scan the str
eet trying to see what direction he ran off to. He’s disappeared into the night. “Be careful,” I whisper after him. “Be safe.”

  I don’t want to alarm my mother or the kids. I take gulps of fresh wintry air and try to compose myself before going into the house. After a few moments I know what I need to do. With a heavy heart I pull my phone out of my purse and call Joe. It’s not that I’m sure that Jonah could have done this. I don’t believe he has. I’m more afraid that Jonah will get himself into more trouble by running away.

  “Missed me already, huh?” Joe asks by way of greeting.

  “Joe, listen,” I begin, “Jonah was here.”

  Instantly, Joe becomes serious. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say impatiently. “He’s scared to death. He said he saw Marissa in the park the night of the murder. She was buying drugs.”

  “Did he say who she was buying from?”

  “No, listen. I’m trying to tell you Jonah didn’t know about Marissa’s bare feet. He’s not running because he killed her, but because he’s afraid of you. Or maybe he’s afraid of the person that did kill her. He mentioned a guy named Nichols or maybe Nicholas, I don’t know. The drug dealer maybe. He must have seen him, too.”

  There is silence on the line. After a moment Joe says, “I have to send a car out looking for him.”

  “I know, but treat him like what he is—a witness, not a suspect.”

  “Fair enough,” Joe says with a sigh. “Thanks for calling me, Ellen. I know that wasn’t easy for you.”