Little Lies Page 3

  Leah and Lucas’s elementary school is only six blocks from our house, but I’m not comfortable letting them make the ten-minute walk home by themselves yet. It’s silly, I know. There’s a large group of children who make the trek homeward through the neighborhood, but Leah is only in third grade and Lucas is in kindergarten. I know better than anyone about the bad things that can happen to children.

  * * *

  Revitalized by eight hours of sleep, interrupted only once to feed a hungry Avery, I’m in my office at the Department of Human Services reviewing my notes for a termination of a parental rights case that I have to testify in later in the day. I do my best to try and help keep families together, but once in a while there is no redemption for the negligent, sometimes evil actions of parents and they lose their children forever.

  There’s a soft tap on my office door and I look up to find Joe accompanied by a woman of about fifty, with swollen red eyes and a tear-stained face, diminutive within the folds of a quilted, plum-colored ankle-length coat. “Morning, Ellen, this is Judith Newkirk. Ms. Newkirk, this is Ellen Moore, the social worker I was telling you about.”

  “Please, call me Judith.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say as I extend my hand to Judith. Her fingers are thin and cold. She offers me a brittle smile though I can tell she is fighting back tears.

  “Please sit down.” I indicate the two battered chairs that I managed to fit into my narrow office. “How can I help you?” I ask once they are seated.

  “Ms. Newkirk called the police department this morning saying that she hasn’t spoken to her daughter Marissa Newkirk and her grandson Mason since Monday afternoon around one o’clock.” My mouth goes dry and I look to Joe for help. Joe clears his throat, “Ms. Newkirk confirmed that Marissa was the woman found at Singer.” A strangled moan comes from Judith.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, instinctively reaching for her hand. Two large tears fall from her lowered face and plop wetly onto my knuckles.

  After a few moments, Judith is able to compose herself and fumbles in her purse, pulling out a battered wallet. With shaking fingers she retrieves a photograph from within a protective plastic sleeve and hands it to me. “Can you take me to him?” she asks hoarsely. I look down at the picture. It’s Mason and his mother. Marissa. She finally has a name. They are both grinning happily into the camera. Again, I look to Joe, seeking confirmation that he is sure this woman is Marissa’s mother, Mason’s grandmother. Almost imperceptibly he nods in the affirmative.

  “Of course,” I tell her. “Of course, we’ll bring him to you right away.” I escort Judith to a private conference room and explain that after filling out some paperwork we will reunite her with her grandson.

  Joe and I return to my office and I shut the door. “I can’t believe you found next of kin so quickly.”

  Joe rubs a large hand over his face. “Actually, she found us. We had no luck in searching the county database for birth records for a male child named Mason born four years ago. Originally, Marissa is from Sioux City—that’s where her mother still lives.”

  “Sioux City?” I ask in surprise. “That’s about a five-hour drive from here. How did she get here so quickly?” I check my watch; it’s only nine-thirty.

  “When she couldn’t contact Marissa, she started driving. Said she got to the apartment and no one answered, so she came right over to the police station.”

  “She identified Marissa then?” Joe nods grimly. “I don’t think I can fathom anything more horrible for a mother to have to do.” I think of my own children and quickly sweep the thought aside. “What about Mason’s father? Is he in the picture?”

  Joe wriggles out of his winter coat and folds it over the back of his chair before sitting down. “Once Ms. Newkirk identified her daughter’s body, we were able to locate a copy of Mason’s birth certificate. No father is listed.”

  “So Judith is the next of kin.” I think of Jonah Sharpe and his winding road through the foster care system. Waiting, hoping for a family to adopt him. It never happened. “Thank God she came forward. At least Mason will have his grandmother to take care of him.”

  I dial Martha Renner, explain the situation and ask her if she is able to bring Mason to the office.

  “And now that we know who Marissa is, hopefully we’ll be able to get a better idea of who could have done this to her,” Joe says after I hang up the phone. “We’ve got Forensics over at her apartment and some guys canvassing the neighborhood asking questions.” Joe stands, stretches his arms over his head and yawns.

  “Have you gotten any sleep at all?” I scold.

  “I’ll go home in a while.” He pauses before opening my office door. “We need to try and talk to Mason again about what he might have seen or heard the other night. Right now he’s the only witness we have to the murder of his mother.”

  “He’s only four,” I remind him. “And traumatized. He may not be able to tell you anything helpful.”

  “We’ve got to try.” Joe hesitates. “Mason really seems to trust you. Do you think you could be the one to interview him?”

  “I can try,” I agree.

  We make our way through the narrow hallway toward the conference room where Mrs. Newkirk is waiting. “Yesterday, when you dropped me off at the park to get my van, I saw someone.”

  Joe whirls around, his eyebrows raised in concern. “What did you see? What did he look like?”

  “I s-saw him just for a second,” I stammer. “I’m almost positive he was male. He was standing under some trees. We saw each other and we both started running.”

  “Running?” Joe asks. “When I left, you were sitting in your van.”

  “I got out just for a second,” I say in a small voice. “I wanted to look at the statue.” Joe is quiet; his stormy expression says it all. “I just can’t get past the thought that two mothers with small children were found dead beneath the same statue that happens to be a statue of a mother with two children sitting at her feet.”

  “You got out of your van, all by yourself, at the scene where a woman who was brutally murdered was found?” Joe stuffs his hands in his pockets and paces the hallway angrily. “Are you crazy? There’s a murderer out there.”

  “I was perfectly safe,” I protest. “Whoever it was was just as afraid of me as I was of him.”

  “Exactly.” Joe’s voice raises an octave and he forces it down to a low undertone. “Now the possible killer knows what you look like, what kind of car you drive. Worst of all, he knows that you saw him at the scene of the crime and could identify him.”

  I don’t know how to respond. Joe is absolutely right—it was a stupid thing to do. I should apologize, but instead I raise my chin in false confidence and open the door to the conference room where Judith is waiting. “Mason will be here shortly, Judith. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

  * * *

  An hour later Martha and a dazed Mason, holding Joe’s repurposed hat under his arm, step into the conference room. His eyes scan the unfamiliar room and then land on his grandmother, who is waiting with hands clenched together in expectation. “Grandma!” he shouts joyfully as he shakes his hand free from Martha’s and runs to Judith’s now open arms.

  “Mason, Mason,” she cries and with great effort pulls him up into her thin arms. “Thank God you’re okay,” she whispers tearfully as she buries her face in his dark hair.

  “We’ll give you two a minute,” I say and lead Joe and Martha from the room.

  “Happy ending,” Martha says once we are in the hallway.

  “Yes,” I agree. “We’ll take those whenever we can.”

  We are all silent with our own thoughts for a moment until Joe says abruptly, “Martha, tell me about Jonah Sharpe.” I look at Joe nonplussed, but he continues. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Le
t me think,” she says, tapping her chin trying to remember. “It was two weeks ago. He stopped by the house for dinner. He does that once in a while.” Now her brow furrows in concern, “Why, is he in some kind of trouble? Both you and Ellen have asked me about Jonah. Do you think the murder of Jonah’s mother and Mason’s are connected?”

  I’m about to explain the similarities between the murder case involving Jonah’s mother’s murder and the current one, but Joe gives me a warning look. “Just wondering,” he says casually. “His name comes up once in a while. Where’s he living now?”

  “Down on Laurel Street, last I knew.” Martha peeks in the window of the conference room. “Do you mind if I go and say goodbye to Mason? Sweet little guy.”

  “Go right ahead,” I tell her. “Thanks again for helping out in a pinch. You’re the best.”

  When Martha steps back into the conference room I turn on Joe. “What was that all about?”

  Joe falters before speaking. “Jonah Sharpe lives right next door to Marissa Newkirk’s apartment and just three blocks from Singer Park.”

  I am rattled by this news. Not that I believe that Jonah has anything to do with Marissa’s death, but that he would, under the circumstances, knowingly choose to live just a few blocks from where his mother’s body was discovered. “That doesn’t prove he was involved,” I sputter angrily. While I can’t say that I know Jonah well anymore, there was a time when we spoke a few times a week when I was his case manager. “He’s had some problems, but Jonah isn’t a bad kid. If your mother were murdered and you were left an orphan you’d probably have some anger issues, too.”

  Joe holds up a placating hand. “I’m not saying that he killed anyone, Ellen. I’m just saying we have to be thorough.”

  “Ahh, your hunch,” I say, remembering the favor he has reserved for me for giving me a ride to my van yesterday. “What do you want me to do?”

  “What I don’t want is to scare Jonah off. All I want to do is talk to him.”

  “And you want me to set that meeting up.” Joe looks at me expectantly. “No way.” I fold my arms across my chest defiantly. “Jonah has been dumped on his entire life. I’m not going to violate his trust by setting up a meeting with the cops under false pretenses.”

  “Whoa,” Joe says indignantly, “I’m not asking you to mislead him or lie.”

  “I won’t do it, Joe,” I say. “I won’t.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Joe says, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Will you still talk to Mason before his grandmother takes him back to Sioux City?”

  “Of course,” I say in a low voice. I know Joe is just trying to do his job. Trying to find out who killed Mason’s mother.

  When we enter the conference room, Martha is saying her final goodbyes and patting Mason on the head. “You take care, kiddo.”

  After she leaves, I turn to Judith. “With your permission, I’d like to ask Mason a few questions about the other night.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” She glances down with concern at Mason, who is sitting on the floor sifting through a bin of toys we keep expressly for these purposes, Cujo close at his side.

  “It could be very helpful in finding out who did this to Marissa,” Joe says.

  “He’s just a little boy, I can’t imagine that he’d be able to tell you anything, but if you think it might help,” Judith says uncertainly, “I guess it’s okay.”

  I lower myself to the floor next to Mason. “Hi,” I say. “Can I play with you?”

  Immersed in his play, Mason continues to run the wheels of the bright red sports car he is holding across the carpet. I reach into the bin and pull out a small toy ambulance. “Mason, remember the other night when we rode in the ambulance together?” He pauses in his play for a second, then moves his car in the opposite direction, making soft engine noises, turning his back to me. I stay where I am, keeping my voice soothing and low. “Do you remember what you had for supper that night? Before you were at the park?”

  Mason stops and turns to look at me. “Mac and cheese and Kool-Aid.”

  Mrs. Newkirk makes a clucking noise. “I swear those two eat junk food every night.” I think back to the frozen fish sticks I threw into the oven last night for my family and inwardly cringe.

  “So you had mac and cheese and Kool-Aid. Then what did you do?”

  Mason stops and thinks. “Then it was time for bed.”

  “Okay.” I gradually scoot a little closer to him. “You ate mac and cheese, then you got ready for bed. Then what happened?”

  A shadow crosses Mason’s face. “I think that might be enough,” Mrs. Newkirk begins to interrupt, but then Mason speaks.

  “I heard my mommy crying, so I got out of bed.” Mason’s lower lip quivers. “It was dark.”

  “Was someone making your mommy cry?” I ask.

  “I really think...” Mrs. Newkirk says, but Joe holds up a finger to silence her.

  Mason nods. “Did you see who it was?” I ask breathlessly. Mason shakes his head no. “Did the person hurt your mommy?” Mason looks confused. “Did you see the person hurt your mommy?”

  He shakes his head in the negative. “Medicine.”

  “Medicine?” Now it’s my turn to be confounded. “Were you sick, Mason?”

  “Gave me medicine and told me to go back to bed.”

  “Who gave you the medicine, Mason?” I ask. “Did your mommy give you the medicine?”

  He nods. “Then she left and I got sleepy.”

  “Your mommy and the person who was making her cry left together?” Again, Mason shakes his head no.

  I turn to Joe. “Maybe Marissa was talking on the phone to someone.” I return my attention to Mason and ask, “Do you remember who put your hat and coat on you? Do you remember who took you to the park?” No response. “Mason, at the park, do you remember someone hurting your mom? Do you remember seeing anything?” Mason squinches his face in concentration, trying to remember.

  “Black boots,” he finally says. “Furry.”

  “The person was wearing black boots with fur on them?” Mason nods.

  “With a belt,” he adds.

  “A belt?” I repeat. “Like the one I’m wearing?” I point to the belt wrapped around my waist. Mason shakes his head no. Understanding dawns on me. “Did the boots have a buckle on them? Can you show me where?” Mason points to his ankle. “Did you see anything else? Did you see their face?”

  Mason shakes his head and begins to sift through the toy bin again, determined not to answer any more questions and make the interrogation end.

  I shrug my shoulders in defeat. “I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t know how helpful I’ve been.”

  “Every bit of information is helpful.” Joe pats me on the shoulder reassuringly.

  “Are we free to leave? Are we finished here?” Mrs. Newkirk asks.

  Joe looks to me and I nod. “As far as DHS is concerned, you’re Mason’s next of kin and have custody of him.”

  “We may have some follow-up questions for you. I have your number—we’ll be sure to keep you up-to-date on the investigation.”

  Mrs. Newkirk rubs at her eyes. “I still need to clean out Marissa’s apartment, pack up her things.”

  “I’ll double-check with the crime scene techs,” Joe says kindly. “Since, as next of kin, you gave them permission to enter the apartment, they’ll be able to get in, gather what they need in a matter of a few hours and get out. As long as there is no evidence that the crime was committed in the apartment you should be able to get in as soon as tomorrow.”

  “And I’m sure that the landlord will work with you, give you all the time you need to get Marissa’s things together,” I reassure her.

  “No.” She shakes her head tearfully. “It’s best to get it over with. Mason and I will stay at a hot
el and I’ll clean it out tomorrow. We’ll head back to Sioux City as soon as we can.”

  * * *

  Together, Joe and I walk to our cars. I’m on my way to testify in the court case and Joe is heading back to the police station. “Are you thinking that whoever called Marissa told her to meet them in the park?”

  “That makes sense, but why would she leave without her shoes and coat?” Joe adds. I had forgotten about that detail.

  “And why would she give Mason medicine to make him sleepy and then take him out into the bitter cold? She must have not wanted Mason to be able to know where they were going and who they were meeting.”

  “Listen,” Joe says once we reach my van. “Can you meet later so we can talk more about this? I can’t help coming back to the possibility that Nell Sharpe’s and Marissa’s murders are connected in some way.”

  “Sure. Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? See Adam and the kids?”

  “You know I love seeing your family, but Marissa’s autopsy was scheduled for this morning and I’m going to meet with the medical examiner about her findings. I don’t think that would be good dinner conversation for Leah and Lucas.”

  “I’ll check with Adam, but it should be fine. Where do you want to meet?” I ask. Before Joe heads to his appointment with the medical examiner and I make my way to the courthouse for the parental rights hearing, we agree to meet at the Blue Moon Café on Dodge Street at six.

  * * *

  As always, the termination of a parental rights hearing is brutal, but all too familiar. My only hope is that the two siblings will be placed in the same foster home and eventually adopted into the same family. I swing by the elementary school to pick up Leah and Lucas, who alternately chatter happily and grump noisily about their day on the way to get Avery from the babysitter’s. Once home, I put some baby carrots in a plastic bowl and pour glasses of milk for Lucas and Leah, and while I settle on the couch to feed Avery, I call Adam, hoping to catch him before basketball practice starts. He picks up on the first ring.