Page 45 of Everyone Here Is Lying
“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.”
•••
Gully was gettinganother 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, butrefuses 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.”
She says, “No.”
Bledsoe leans in close, lowers his voice. “A lie like that can get you into a lot of trouble.” He adds, “You could be charged with falsifying an incident, which is a serious charge.” She swallows, tears her eyes from his, and looks down at the table. “Did you see Avery get into Ryan Blanchard’s car on Tuesday afternoon?”
Now she lifts her eyes and looks up at them, as if coming to a decision. Gully waits, realizes she’s holding her breath.
Finally, she says, “Yes.”
Bledsoe lets out a long breath and looks down at some notes in the file on the table in front of him. “Okay. You said you were sure it was his car, but you didn’t see him specifically.”
She nods.
“Where were you when you saw this?”
“I was on my front porch.”
“You waited more than a day to make the first call. And then you refused to identify yourself. And then you denied it. Why?”
She swallows again. “I should have called right away. I realize that now. I regret that I didn’t. But I guess I hoped she would turn up and she would be all right. That’s what I told myself. Then, when she didn’t, I called, from a pay phone.” Gully and Bledsoe wait. “I didn’t want my name mixed up in any of this. I didn’t want to be in the news.”
“And why is that?” Bledsoe asks.
“Because of my ex-husband,” Marion says miserably. “I escaped a very abusive relationship a number of years ago. I had to get a restraining order against him. I don’t want him to know where I’m living now. I thought if I came forward as a witness, my name and photo would be in the news, and he would find me.” She looks back at them. “I didn’t want to risk him hurting me. I hope you can understand that.”
Gully finds her convincing. Her explanation makes sense. How unfortunate, she thinks wearily, that the one person who last saw Avery alive was too afraid for her own life to come forward.
“We can try to protect you, keep your name out of it,” Bledsoe says.
