Everyone Here Is Lying(50)

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? ? ?

Marion Cooke watches the police officers coming down the opposite side of the street. They have knocked on her door before, on the day Avery Wooler disappeared, and she told them that she saw nothing that day. She admires their persistence, asking the same questions of the same people, expecting to hear something different, or something more.

It’s one of her days off from the hospital. She goes about her housework, every now and again peering out the front windows to see where they are now. They will be here soon; she lives eight houses down from the Woolers, and four houses up from the Blanchards on the other side of the street. She cleans and watches as they make their way to her house. Should she simply not answer the door this time? They’ve already spoken to her, so maybe they’ll let it go. But she decides she will answer the door, or they might just come back. She pops into the bathroom to freshen up, so that she looks presentable.

When the knock comes, she’s ready. “Hello,” she says to the two male officers in dark uniforms on her front step.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” says the older one, showing a badge and introducing himself and his partner. “We’re investigating the disappearance of Avery Wooler. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“Some other officers have already been here,” she says, but she smiles slightly, to show that she really doesn’t mind, that she understands it’s necessary.

“I know, I’m sorry, but we have to be thorough.” She nods. The officer says, “Perhaps you’ve remembered something. Did you see anything on Tuesday, the day Avery Wooler disappeared? Anything that you’ve remembered since you last spoke to the police?”

She shakes her head, frowning with regret. “I’m sorry, no. I’d like to help, I really would, but I didn’t notice anything. It’s so awful about that little girl. I’m a nurse, I work with her father at the hospital. I hope you find her. I hope she’s all right.”

Now the younger officer is observing her closely, his eyes alert. She finds him unnerving.

He speaks up for the first time. “Do you know the Blanchards at all?” he asks, out of the blue.

She’s taken aback. “The Blanchards?” she repeats. “I know them to speak to; I don’t really know them. Nora Blanchard volunteers at the hospital, so I know her a little.”

“Do you know what kind of car Ryan Blanchard drives?”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve never paid much attention.”

“I think you do,” the younger officer says. His voice is kind, unthreatening. “I think you’ve been calling the tip line, haven’t you, without identifying yourself. I recognize your voice.”

She freezes. Shit. She didn’t want this to happen. She didn’t want to be identified, that’s why she called from a pay phone. Fortunately, there are still some left in Stanhope, though very few. Marion thinks about denying it, but she knows the young officer is certain. She denies it anyway.

“No,” she says. She feels her face coloring. “I never called the tip line.”

“We’d like you to come with us to the police station,” the other officer says.

No. She doesn’t want anyone to see her being taken to the police station in a cruiser. She can’t risk that. “I’ll come in, but not with you, not in a police car. I’ll go in a few minutes, in my own car.” The two officers look at each other; it’s not like they have much choice, short of arresting her. They already know who she is and where she lives.

“Okay.” He adds, “If you don’t show up, we’ll just come back.”



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Gully was getting another coffee in the lunchroom when Bledsoe tracked her down.

“They’ve found her,” he almost crowed. “We have our witness. We know who she is—Weeks recognized her voice. She’s coming in.” All Gully’s tiredness had evaporated; she felt like she’d just had ten coffees.

Now, Gully studies the woman across from her at the table in the interview room. She’s probably in her late thirties or early forties, wearing jeans and a cashmere sweater. She looks fit, as if she takes care of herself. Her nails are professionally done, but kept short, in a subdued shade of pink. Her brown hair has highlights and a good cut. Gully doesn’t know quite what to make of this woman. She seems respectable. She’s a nurse, lives in a nice, well-kept house, and looks well put together. But what kind of person calls a tip line, twice, with important information about a missing child, but refuses to come forward and identify herself? And then tries to deny it? As Gully studies her, Marion Cooke shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

Bledsoe begins. “Ms. Cooke, one of my officers believes you are the person who called and spoke to him on our tip line, not once but twice, claiming to have seen Avery Wooler get into Ryan Blanchard’s car. He recognized your voice.”

“He’s mistaken,” she says. “I never called the tip line. I didn’t see anything.”

But she seems nervous, Gully thinks, her eyes flitting back and forth between the two detectives.

Bledsoe persists. “You live on Connaught Street. You would presumably know Avery by sight and recognize Ryan Blanchard’s car. What I don’t understand is why you refused to give your name, and why you now refuse to admit it. But I can hazard a guess.” He looks her in the eye and says, “You were lying.”