Little Lies

by Heather Gudenkauf

“Will you call me if you find him? Joe, he’s so scared I’m afraid he might do something desperate.”

  Joe promises to call me the minute Jonah is found and I promise to call him back if Jonah tries to contact me again. When I turn the key and push open the front door, I find my mother sitting on the couch rocking a dozing Avery. The house is silent, all the toys have been stowed away, the kitchen is spotless. My mother is amazing.

  She puts a finger to her lips and murmurs, “She’s almost asleep.”

  “I don’t know how you do it.” I gingerly sit down next to her, trying not to startle Avery. “You make it look so easy.” She blushes with pleasure and waves the compliment away.

  “It’s getting late,” I say, looking at the clock on the wall. There’s a murderer out there somewhere and I don’t want to send my mother off to fend for herself. “Why don’t you just spend the night?”

  “It’s not that late. Besides, I can’t leave Dolly home alone all night.” I know better than to argue with my mother. Dolly is her ancient dog, a German shorthaired pointer that has become her best friend since my father passed away. I lay Avery in her crib and walk my mother out to her car. Once she pulls away I scan the street looking for any sign of Jonah, alternately hoping that the police have safely picked him up and that he’s escaped somewhere far away.

  Once in the house I check on the kids one more time; each is curled beneath their covers, sleeping soundly. I’m tempted to climb into my own bed, but I know that until Jonah is found safely, sleep will not come. I pad down the stairs, pausing to turn up the thermostat a few degrees and return to my spot in front of the computer. First, I pull up my email and send a note to my colleague, Christina Gordon, at the Sioux City Department of Human Services with an inquiry about Marissa Newkirk, and for good measure add my cell phone number, telling her she can call me at any time, day or night, to just please call.

  Next, I do another online search, looking for any other cases that even remotely resemble the deaths of Nell, Marissa and Devin Fallon. Nothing. I’m tempted to call Joe to see if there has been any sign of Jonah. I run our brief encounter over and over in my head. So Jonah knew Marissa—so did a lot of people. Jonah insisted that he barely knew Marissa, even told Marissa’s mother that. I sit up straight. When did Jonah and Judith talk? Must have been when Judith couldn’t get in contact with her daughter and drove from Sioux City to her apartment. Jonah also mentioned someone named Nicholas or Nichols.

  I open my Facebook account and search for Jonah’s profile. Unsurprisingly, like so many young people, Jonah has no protections on his account. With just a few clicks I’m able to search through his friends list. All nine hundred and four. I decide to check to see if Marissa has a Facebook page and am relieved to see that she only has two hundred and seventy-nine friends. Most of her contacts are other young adults around her age. There is a Nicholas, a Nick and a Ryan Nichols. I jot down each name on a piece of scratch paper. I also notice the photos of three older men. What had Joe said? Maybe it was someone who had something against bad mothers? The murderer, if he had killed Nell, Marissa and perhaps even Devin, would have to be at least in his thirties. I write the names of the three men and try to click into their profiles. Two are locked, but I’m able to open the third. Robert Camire, forty-one years old, who lists his profession as a drug and alcohol counselor. I put a star next to his name.

  My phone buzzes and I snatch it from the tabletop, hoping that it might be Joe with news about Jonah or, at the very least, Christina from Sioux City. I check the caller ID. It’s Joe. “Hello,” I say anxiously.

  “Ellen.” Joe’s voice is terse.

  “You found him?” Surprisingly, I feel relief. I know that at least Jonah is safe in custody of the police.

  “No, there’s no sign of Jonah. It’s about Marissa. We found her coat and winter boots.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought she wasn’t wearing them.”

  “She was definitely wearing them. They were found in a Dumpster behind the Kmart just a few blocks from the park.”

  “How do you know they belonged to Marissa? Are they the black boots that Mason mentioned?”

  “No, these were gray with a herringbone pattern. From C.C. Watson, that expensive outdoor gear store. The boots were wrapped up in the coat and the hood of the coat was filled with dried blood. The DNA will be tested, but we’re pretty certain they belong to her. We found some photos in her apartment where she was wearing the same type of boots and coat, but we’ll have her mother take a look at them and see if she can tell us they belonged to Marissa.”

  “What does that mean? What do you think happened?”

  “Initially we thought she was killed indoors and transported to the park and carried to the spot in front of the statue, but now it looks more and more like she was killed outside. Maybe even in the park.”

  “That makes sense with what Mason said about his mom leaving the apartment the night she died and with what Jonah said about seeing her in the park,” I add.

  “The autopsy didn’t say anything about a sexual assault?” I scan my memory trying to recall the details of the medical examiner’s report.

  “No, just the blow to the back of the head. I’m thinking that whoever did this wanted us to think that Marissa was killed somewhere else and dumped in the park.”

  “It just keeps getting stranger and stranger,” I murmur. “Thanks for calling. You’ll still let me know when you find Jonah, right?”

  “Of course,” Joe assures me. “I’ll touch base with you in the morning.”

  We say our goodbyes and, try as I might to stay awake until Adam returns home, I fall asleep on the couch, my cell phone clutched in my hand.

  * * *

  When I wake in the morning I’m covered with a down blanket and the smell of coffee fills the air. I sit up with a start, realizing that I hadn’t heard Avery cry once during the night. “It’s okay, she’s sleeping,” Adam says, handing me a cup of coffee. “I fed her a bottle when I got home last night. You were completely zonked out and I didn’t have the heart to wake you up.”

  “Thanks, you’re the best,” I say, taking a sip from the mug. “You must be about ready to drop, too. Did we win? What time did you get home?”

  “We lost by five and got home around midnight. I’m okay. It’s basketball season—I’m used to exhaustion.” Adam helps me rouse the kids and get them ready for the day.

  Adam leaves to drop Leah and Lucas off at school and Avery at the babysitter’s house and I head to work. It’s blissfully quiet at the office. I spend the morning working on paperwork and waiting for Joe to call me with word about Jonah. He doesn’t. Finally, around noon I decide I can’t sit around anymore. I pull on my coat and gloves and step outside. Large flakes are softly falling, covering the dirty old snow with a soft new layer, giving the city streets a clean, hopeful countenance. I brush the snow from my van windows and drive the five short blocks to Singer Park. Stepping carefully from the van, I shuffle over the icy path to the statue of Leto. A thin veil of snow covers her solemn face and inexplicably, I want to brush the flakes from her eyes. What did she see that night? If her children at her feet, carved from stone, could speak, what would they say? What could they tell me? It seems so clear to me now: the answer lies with children and what they saw. Not Artemis and Apollo, Leto’s children, but Jonah and Mason.

  I need to talk to both Jonah and Mason again. It isn’t that Mason doesn’t know what happened to his mother. I just don’t think I asked him the right questions. The night his mother died, he saw more than he probably even realizes he did. Marissa’s apartment is only a few blocks from the park and I decide to take the chance that Judith and Mason are there packing away Marissa’s things. Despite the snow, it’s a relatively mild day for January, so I decide to walk to her apartment, an old row house that has been refurbished into two apartments, each w
ith a separate entrance.

  As I walk, my cell phone vibrates and I’m glad to see it’s Christina from the Department of Human Services in Sioux City. After exchanging pleasantries and inquiries about children, husbands and work, I get down to business.

  “You heard about the murder?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it’s been in the papers here. We all feel terrible about it. We knew the Newkirk family very well a few years ago. Marissa was hell on wheels when she was in high school. She became part of our caseload after she had Mason.”

  “Do you remember anyone from back then who might have had a grudge against Marissa? An old boyfriend, maybe?”

  “I don’t recall anyone specific, but I think there were probably a lot of old boyfriends. She very nearly lost that little boy forever, but she got her act together and by all accounts was doing a great job. Last I’d heard, Marissa was going to school to become a respiratory therapist.”

  “What was the turning point? What made her finally turn it around?” I ask.

  “Her mother made her turn it around. Threatened to take Mason away from her if she didn’t stop the partying, the drinking, the drugs. There was even a custody hearing set up. During the hearing the two sides came to an agreement and Marissa promised to get help for substance abuse and go back to school. That’s all her mother ever wanted, for Marissa to pull her life together, make a future for herself and Mason. I really thought this was going to be a case that actually had a happy ending.”

  “Thanks for the info—I really appreciate it,” I tell her and prepare to hang up when Christina stops me.

  “You know, now that I think about it, I do remember a boyfriend, if you could call him that. Marissa had some real trouble with him. Police reports and restraining orders.”

  “Do you remember his name?” I ask eagerly.

  Christina is quiet on the other line, thinking. “No, I can’t remember, but I’ll check the records and give you a call back.”

  We disconnect and I continue my trek through the slushy streets until I reach Laurel Street. I go around to the back where a set of steps leads up to the second-floor entrance. Judith, dressed in old clothes, meets me at the door. “Mrs. Moore, is it?” she asks, opening the door wide so I can come in.

  “Please, call me Ellen.” I look around the small apartment. Judith hasn’t gotten very far in packing up Marissa’s things. A few boxes, their contents spilling over, are on the floor along with several large garbage bags.

  “It’s so hard,” Judith says, bringing a rough red hand up to her eyes. She looks so frail. Her thin shoulders are hunched in grief. Her legs are stick-thin in jeans that hang loosely on her hips.

  “I can’t imagine,” I say with feeling. I think of Leah, Lucas and Avery and the thought of losing them sends a surge of terror through my veins. “How are you holding up? How is Mason doing?”

  “He’s confused, scared, sad,” she says despondently. “Doesn’t understand that his mother is never coming back. I mean, how do you explain that to a four-year-old?”

  I shake my head and don’t respond. As a social worker I have tried to explain these things to young children whose parents have died, gone to jail or have abandoned them. It’s not easy. It’s never easy. “I was wondering if I could speak with Mason one more time.”

  Judith’s brow creases, “About the other night?” she asks. “Is Detective...” She pauses, trying to remember.

  “Detective Gaddey,” I supply.

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight. Is Detective Gaddey coming over, too?”

  “No, no,” I say quickly. “I was over at the park and walked over. I thought I’d just see if you were still here. I just can’t help thinking that Mason might know more about what happened than we think.”

  “Please, sit,” Judith invites. With difficulty she lifts a large box filled with what appears to be clothes and sets it on the floor next to a half-filled plastic garbage bag. We both sit down and she regards me with eyes so sad it hurts to look at them. “I’m not sure what else Mason could say about...about it. He’s already been questioned by you and the police officers. He’s pretty much said the same thing each time.”

  “I know and I’m sorry to bring up such a painful topic, but I’m just hoping that Mason, could, I don’t know...tell us more,” I finish lamely.

  “I wish the same thing.” She looks forlornly at a closed door. “He’s taking a nap now. He’s not been sleeping well at night. But I guess I could go get him.”

  “No, no, don’t wake him,” I say, suddenly feeling like a villain for interrupting this poor woman’s grief.

  “Did they find that young man they were looking for? Jonah, I think his name is?” Judith asks. “Detective Gaddey said he might be involved.”

  “No, I don’t think they’ve found him yet,” I say. “You know Jonah?” I ask.

  “Oh, heavens no. Marissa mentioned him a few times though. Said his poor mother was murdered in the park when he was young.” Tears glitter in her eyes. “You don’t think maybe he snapped and did the same thing to Marissa as what happened to his mother, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say as a glint of silver from within one of the plastic garbage bags catches my eye. I lean forward to try and get a closer look. A pair of black winter boots with a silver buckle at the ankle.

  “I mean what are the chances of two young women being found dead beneath that same statue—” she begins to tremble “—and their children right next to them?”

  “I know, it’s a strange coincidence.” I pull my eyes away from the plastic bag and look at Judith. She is looking at me with concern.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “I’m fine.” I glance back down at the garbage bag. Marissa’s winter boots were found in a Dumpster wrapped up in her winter coat. Would a mother, working part-time and going to college, have two pairs of winter boots?

  “Excuse me.” Judith stands and gives me a watery smile. “I’m going to get a glass of water. Would you like one?”

  “No, thanks.” When she turns her back I poke at the garbage bag with my foot, exposing the boots more clearly. They are black and trimmed with fur. Something that my mother might wear. “So you’ve never met Jonah Sharpe,” I ask again. “Never talked to him about Marissa using again?”

  Judith turns back to me, stricken-faced. “No, why? That life was behind Marissa. She’d never do anything to hurt Mason.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say contritely. “What about an old boyfriend? The man from Sioux City with the restraining order, maybe?”

  “How did you know about that?” she asks sharply.

  “I... I...” My palms begin to sweat. Then it all begins to fall into place. I could get up and run out of the apartment. I know I’m faster than she is, but that would mean leaving Mason alone with his grandmother. I slide my hand into my coat pocket blindly pushing buttons, hoping to connect with someone. “Somehow you found out that Marissa was drinking and using drugs again and you followed Marissa to the park that night.”

  Judith’s gaunt face hardens, but she doesn’t speak. In her hand, at her side, is a knife. The blade isn’t particularly long, maybe three or four inches, but it’s sharp and could do a lot of damage. She inches toward me. I stand, searching for an escape route. If I could just get to the room where Mason is sleeping, I could lock or barricade the door, then dial 911.

  “She promised me,” Judith says, her face twisted in grief. “She promised me she was done with that life. I stopped fighting for custody of Mason because she said he was the most important thing in her life.”

  “Judith, I know you love Mason. It’s obvious you want what’s best for him. Please, think of Mason. Let me call Detective Gaddey. He’ll listen to you.”

  “No!” Judith
exclaims, taking another step toward me. With a shaking hand she lifts the knife.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, raising my hands in supplication. I need to keep her calm, keep her talking. “Please, Judith, I’m trying to understand. You suspected Marissa of using, of neglecting Mason again, and when you couldn’t get ahold of her on Tuesday you drove here from Sioux City.”

  Judith’s shoulders sag. “When I got to the apartment, the door was unlocked, but Marissa was gone. Mason was in his bed, barely conscious. She nearly overdosed him on cold medicine so he would stay asleep so she could go buy drugs.”

  “Why didn’t you just call the police? You would have been given emergency custody of Mason,” I ask, slowly stepping backward, trying to create more distance between the two of us.

  Judith shakes her head. “I was so angry. I wanted to go find her, tell her I was taking Mason away from her forever.” She looks at me pleadingly. “All the lies she told me. Why couldn’t Marissa have been a good mother? I was a good mother to her.”

  “That’s when you went next door to Jonah Sharpe’s apartment and demanded to know where Marissa was. He told you he saw her in the park. You went looking for her there.”

  “I can’t lose Mason—he’s all I have left.” Judith straightens her spine as if preparing herself for what she has to do next.

  “You drove around with Mason in the backseat, looking for Marissa and ended up in the park. But what I don’t understand is why you had to kill her.”

  “I found her sitting in front of that statue. It was freezing cold, but there she sat, high on something. Hydrocodone probably,” Judith says bitterly. “She was irritated that I had driven all this way to check up on her, called me terrible names. Told me she was never going to let me see Mason again. It didn’t matter to her that her four-year-old son was so drugged he couldn’t keep his eyes open.” Judith lets out a choked sob. “I told her I was going to call Social Services and that they would take Mason away from her. Marissa started to go to take Mason out of my car and I snapped. I grabbed a beer bottle from the ground and hit her on the back of the head.” Judith covers her face with her hands and begins to weep. “I hit her so hard.” She looks helplessly at me. “I was just so angry. I couldn’t let Mason stay with her anymore. It wasn’t safe.”