Missing Persons (10 page)

“I’d put my money on the ex-boyfriend,” Andres said as he shoved another potato-filled varenyky in his mouth. “Getting into a shouting match with the brother seems kind of sketchy to me.”

“We talk to him tomorrow, but I don’t know,” I said. “Theresa may not have been the good girl everyone thought.”

“Based on?”

“She’s just too perfect. No one is that squeaky-clean. Plus, her mother was a little too clingy. The whole ‘Theresa wouldn’t buy shoes without me’ thing. I just don’t buy it.”

“You think her mother killed her and buried her underneath the bakery?” Andres was laughing at me.

“I’m just saying, if I were Theresa I would have rebelled against all that family togetherness. And the whole ‘I’m her mother, so I knew everything about her’ thing. No parent knows everything about their child. Especially their twenty-two-year-old child.”

“I don’t know anything about my kids, and the oldest is eleven.” He pushed his plate away. “What’s on the schedule for this afternoon?”

“B-roll.”

Interviews are considered A-roll, and the visuals that supplement the story are referred to as B-roll. I’d shot B-roll footage of Detective Rosenthal going through Theresa’s case files (or really just pretending to go through them; we used someone else’s file that happened to be on her desk). I’d also shot Linda looking wistfully at photos of her daughter. These shots are used in nearly every true-crime show I’ve done. They can be a little boring—who hasn’t seen the “guy walks purposefully down the hall” shot—but they’re necessary to cover edits and make the story more than just a bunch of talking heads.

The B-roll material I liked shooting was the atmosphere stuff. In this case, shots of the places where Theresa spent time, and the last place she was seen alive. It gave me a much better sense of the person than just talking to her friends and relatives.

We drove through the streets of Bridgeport, getting general neighborhood shots, then spent time getting footage outside the school where she’d just finished her studies, the hospital where she volunteered, and finally, exterior shots of Hank’s Restaurant, the coffee shop where she was supposed to meet Julia.

It was a large place, old and run-down. Even through the window I could see that the vast majority of the clientele would go straight from the coffee shop to the local bar.

We set up the camera across the street, with Andres nearly hidden from view by the van on one side, and Victor and I on the other. We didn’t have a permit to shoot in the street, but we never do. Cops weren’t our concern. It was the owner of the coffee shop. While he couldn’t stop us from shooting his business, since we were on public property, he could stand in front of the camera and yell at us. It had happened on many shoots. Some people enjoy a little free publicity, even when it will associate their business with a crime. But the ones who don’t can get very vocal about it. And looking at the place, with its faded signs, graffiti on the door, and cigarette butts littering the entryway, I sensed the owner wouldn’t be welcoming.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place two women would come to talk wedding plans, does it?” I asked.

Victor took a puff of his cigarette and shrugged. “Looks okay to me.”

Andres looked up from his camera. “There’s a place on the next block with big couches and nice artwork. A place where you can get a decent cappuccino. That’s where they would have talked wedding plans. Not here.”

“Told ya.” I nudged Victor. “Andres knows women.”

“I’ve known more women than Andres ever will.”

“You can’t count the ones you’ve paid for,” Andres told him.

Victor grunted a few times in a show of exaggerated offense.

“Who said Theresa was meeting her friend here?” Andres asked me.

“Her mom, I guess. It was in the police report.”

He slowly panned the camera from left to right, getting a full view of the shop. “She must have gotten the wrong place.”

 

 

We were only a half mile from Linda’s bakery and had more than two hours before the crew went into overtime, so I decided to swing by and see if we could get some shots of her at work. Theresa had spent a lot of her free time at her mother’s bakery, and even worked there while in high school, so it made sense for the backstory. Plus I knew they would have lots of wedding cakes in the window, and if luck was with me Linda would be working on one. What better shot could there be than a mother decorating someone else’s wedding cake, knowing she might never have the chance to do the same for her missing daughter?

We hadn’t discussed my stopping in, but I knew Linda would go along with anything that she thought would help, so I didn’t even bother to call. Though maybe I should have. As we parked across the street, I could see two people—Linda and a young man—screaming at each other in front of the bakery.

“Who the hell is that with Linda?” Andres asked.

“Her son. I recognize him from the photos at the house.”

“So much for a close-knit family.”

We watched Linda throw up her hands and walk into the bakery, still crying and yelling while her son stood on the sidewalk staring at the ground. Eventually, he too went back into the bakery. I noticed that no one in the dry cleaner’s next door bothered to come outside and see if there was trouble. Obviously it wasn’t the first family argument to spill out onto the street.

“What do we do?” Andres asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “I guess we wait.”

We sat in the car for about five minutes, waiting for things to cool down, before I left the guys and went in to talk to Linda.

“Hi,” I said, sounding a little too fake and cheery.

“Oh, my heavens, Kate!” Linda’s excitement was even more phony than mine.

“We were just driving down the block and I saw your bakery. I thought maybe we could get some footage of you working?”

She froze. “We’re just closing up. We’re putting everything away.”

It was only four in the afternoon and the sign on their door said they were open until five, but I nodded. “I figured,” I said. “Is it too late to grab something for the boys?”

“Not at all. I’ll make you a box. And some coffee. You must want coffee.”

Before I had a chance to answer she had disappeared into the back room. I was left standing alone in the bakery, which had a homey, old-fashioned feel to it. There was a long counter with cookies, small cakes, and fruit tarts sitting on doilies. Two Styrofoam wedding cakes decorated as samples sat in the window.

On the far wall, there was a bulletin board with a poster of Theresa and dozens of photos of her. They were all pretty similar to the ones I’d seen at the house, happy family shots reminding everyone of better days. But there was also a photo of Theresa with a young, dark-haired woman. It was unremarkable, except that a pushpin had been used to gouge out the woman’s eyes. Another photo, with the same woman, had an ink mustache drawn onto it.

As I stared at the images, Linda reemerged holding a large pink pastry box neatly tied with ribbon.

“I didn’t mean to put you to any trouble,” I said. “I’m sure it’s been a busy day.” Why I would be sure of that, I have no idea.

“Not at all. Slow day. My son, Tom, and I were just sitting here doing nothing.”

She smiled. It was wide and sincere. Exactly the kind of smile I give to interview subjects when I’m lying to them.

“What do I owe you?”

“Absolutely nothing. My way of saying thank-you.”

“It’s not necessary. I don’t even pay for it,” I explained. “The production company reimburses me for the crew’s lunch or any expenses I have.” I took money out of my purse.

She pushed the money away. “I don’t want it. I’m just so happy this is finally getting some attention.” She grabbed a full coffeepot, poured three cups of coffee into large paper cups, and placed them in a takeaway tray. “Can you handle this by yourself?”

“I think so. I’m just disappointed I didn’t get to shoot you at work. Any chance for later in the week?”

“Of course. Anytime.”

“Who is the girl in the photo?” I pointed to the damaged images on the wall.

Without looking, Linda answered, “Julia.”

“Theresa’s friend? Someone must not be very fond of her.”

“Julia did that herself. She thinks she looks bad in photos.” She moved toward the exit. “I’m so grateful you’re doing this story. My whole family is. Whatever we can do to help, I hope you know that.”

Just as she almost had me out the door, Tom emerged from the back room. With his head down, he walked quickly past his mother and me.

“You must be the son,” I said.

“I must be,” he answered without looking up. He walked out of the bakery without another word to us.

“He’s in a hurry. He’s got tickets to a Sox game,” Linda said.

“Lucky him.”

I didn’t bother to mention that as we stood there, the White Sox were playing the Yankees in New York.

“S
he’s a pretty good liar,” I told Andres and Victor once I was back in the car.

I explained what had happened in the bakery, but the guys were mainly interested in the coffee and desserts.

“What was she supposed to say?” Andres pointed out. “My family is fighting. Get your camera out and film this.”

“I’m just saying she didn’t seem flustered, which means she has some practice with telling lies. And it’s just weird about the photos.”

Victor inched up from the backseat and popped his head between Andres and myself. “I’m with Kate on this one. I can see drawing a mustache on a photo of yourself, but gouging your own eyes out? That’s screwed up.”

Andres gulped the last of his coffee, crushed the cup, and threw it in the backseat, missing Victor by an inch. “What do we do now, boss?” he asked me.

“We have more than an hour in the day.”

“So, a bar?” Victor suggested. “A drink to wind down the day.”

“Nice try,” I told him. “Head toward my house and I’ll figure something out.”

 

 

As we drove from the South Side to the North Side, crossing an invisible border that separates what has been traditionally blue-collar Chicago from the more hip, more moneyed side, I knew where I wanted to go next.

I keep a bright orange binder next to my laptop in a tote bag I carry with me on all shoots. In the binder I have everything I need, from interview questions to a list of needed B-roll images. I may not always enjoy my profession, but the necessity of being organized at least plays to my strengths. I went through my production binder and found Julia’s number. When I called, I explained to her that Friday, when we were scheduled to interview her, would be a very packed day, and I was hoping to get some B-roll footage of her now. I made up a bunch of stuff about getting tapes to New York, as if there was some kind of rush to get footage of her. Julia acted as if she understood what I was talking about and agreed to meet us at Angel Food Bakery, a coffee shop near her Ravenswood apartment. I guess the reason I knew Linda was such an experienced liar was because I recognized a fellow practitioner when I saw one.

“Why can’t this wait until Friday?” Victor asked as we pulled up in front.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But Friday is the last day of the shoot, and I just think there might be something she tells me that I need to know before I talk to the ex-boyfriend, and before I see Linda again.”

It was a gut feeling, based on a disfigured photograph and Linda’s insistence that Julia had been wrong about meeting Theresa. I knew there wasn’t time for the interview; that would have to wait until Friday, but there was a chance I could get something to help me better understand what was really going on. Or maybe I just didn’t want to go home.

Angel Food Bakery was miles away, literally and figuratively, from Linda’s bakery in Bridgeport. A bright place, with a cheery retro feel and offerings like homemade Twinkies that reimagined childhood comforts, it fit its trendy neighborhood in the same way that Linda’s bakery fit its more traditional Bridgeport patrons.

“Julia?” I asked the pretty, dark-haired woman munching on a cupcake at one of the tables.

“Kate?” She hugged me. Why do people insist on hugging strangers? She was with a man about her age with a slight build and eyeglasses. “This is my husband, David.”

“I hope you don’t mind my tagging along. I’ve never been around a camera crew before,” he said.

“Actually this works out great. We can shoot the two of you here, eating, and maybe outside walking down the street,” I told him.

After checking with the artsy owner of the place, I had the permission I needed, and Andres began taping the couple sitting at one of the tables, talking and enjoying their cupcakes. It was exactly what they’d been doing before we arrived, but now that it was being taped, they were self-conscious. Julia giggled and David kept glancing toward the camera. In frustration Andres looked toward me, eyebrows raised. I nodded. After working together for so long, even a small facial gesture is code for something. He put the camera on its tripod, aimed it at them, and walked a few steps away.

“Andres and I need to figure something out,” I told the couple. “You guys just hang out and we’ll start taping again in a minute.”

Andres and I stood in the corner, pretending to chat. The camera was, of course, still running, but since they didn’t know it, Julia and David relaxed, and we were able to get the footage I needed.

They were obviously very much in love. It wasn’t just in the way he ran his fingers across her wedding ring, or in the way she smiled at him. It was something else—the way they were both excited just to be with the other person. For so many years Frank and I held hands across the dinner table and curled into each other when we sat on a couch. We had looked like that. Did that mean someday they would look like we ended up?