Missing Persons (8 page)

“That’s amazing,” I said. And a little annoying. My most recent act of altruism was buying a sandwich for the homeless man on my corner. And I spent a week patting myself on the back over that.

“She got the mayor’s award for raising funds for a local clinic that was about to shut its doors,” Linda said. “They were waiting on grant money, but it was slow in coming and in the meantime they had a budget deficit of a hundred thousand dollars. When Theresa heard about it, she just knocked on doors until she’d raised the money.” Her pride was evident.

“She must have knocked on a lot of doors to get a hundred grand.”

“That’s Theresa. She never gives up. Not on people, not on causes.” Her lip quivered. “That’s how I know she’s alive. I know she’d never give up.”

“You weren’t very fond of her boyfriend, Jason.” I switched the subject. After ten minutes of listening to Theresa as Linda remembered her, it was time to get to the real person.

Linda took a deep breath. “Jason wasn’t Theresa’s type. They dated for a short while, a few months, but when she realized he wasn’t right for her, she didn’t want to waste his time and she broke it off.”

“What type is Jason?”

She shrugged. “He’s a nice kid. He comes from a good family. They don’t live far from here. It’s just that Theresa wanted what her father and I had. She wanted a home and a family. Jason was a bit wild for her. She didn’t see him settling down.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“She didn’t have to tell me. A mother knows.”

“When Theresa broke it off with him, how did Jason take it?”

“He called the house a few times and left angry messages. He came to the door about a week before Theresa went missing. My son, Tom, told him that Theresa wasn’t interested in talking to him and he’d have to go. They got into it on the front lawn.”

“Shouting?”

“There was lots of shouting.”

“Did it get physical?”

“No. My son isn’t the violent type. He just said that Jason wasn’t welcome anymore. Tom was upset, though, for days afterward.”

“What did your son and Jason say to each other?”

“I don’t know. I heard Jason say something about Theresa not being the good girl we thought she was. Mean things like that. They got quiet for a minute, then it started up again. I went into the kitchen so I didn’t have to hear it.”

“That’s a pretty awful thing to say to someone’s brother, that Theresa wasn’t a good girl. What do you think he meant?”

“I think he was upset. People say things when they’re upset. He didn’t mean it, obviously. Jason was madly in love with Theresa. He was obsessed with her.”

“Obsessed? That’s a pretty strong word.”

“She told me he used to show up at the hospital where she was doing some volunteer work. I think he wanted to check on her, see if she was where she said she would be.”

“That would scare me. Was Theresa scared of him?”

“She didn’t use those words. But she was glad when Tom had that talk with him. I think it put an end to it. Theresa was already dating Wyatt, and they were happy together. She didn’t want to get back with Jason, and I guess after he talked with my son, he finally understood that.”

“What’s Wyatt like?”

She smiled. “He’s a dream. I’d be so happy to have him as my son-in-law. Theresa and Wyatt were so in love with each other. They looked like the top of a wedding cake. He keeps her picture next to his bed. Even now.”

“He’s still in touch with you?”

“We talk every week. Wyatt has become like a second son.”

“And the day she disappeared . . .” I only had to start the question. This was familiar territory for Linda.

“It was a great day. A summer day, like now. We were going to have a Memorial Day picnic on Monday, and Theresa and I were going to make potato salad and all the fixings. Only we didn’t because on Saturday Theresa disappeared.” She took a deep breath. “She left about eleven o’clock that morning to meet up with Julia, her best friend since grade school. They were going to have coffee. Julia had just gotten engaged and Theresa was helping her with the wedding. She was going to be the maid of honor.”

Linda stopped. I could see that she was backing away from the story. She didn’t want to go to the next part and I couldn’t blame her, but it was the whole reason I was here.

“When did you realize Theresa was missing?”

“When she didn’t come home for dinner, I called her cell phone but she didn’t answer. I started to get worried. Theresa used to say I was overprotective. I waited. I shouldn’t have waited, but I didn’t want her accusing me of treating her like a child. When it was almost midnight and she still wasn’t answering her phone, I called Julia.” Linda’s voice shook. “She said that Theresa hadn’t met her for coffee. She hadn’t seen her all day. I don’t know why Julia didn’t call me when Theresa didn’t show up at the coffee shop.”

“Julia told the police they didn’t have plans to meet that day, is that right?”

“She was mixed up. They had plans. Theresa told me they had plans.”

Linda was waving her arms around; her voice was getting louder. At some point someone must have suggested that Theresa might have lied to her mother, and it was pretty clear that there was no way Linda would accept that explanation.

“What do you think happened?”

“I think she got taken by a stranger.” She was getting more insistent with each syllable. “I think she’s out there doing something against her will, trying to escape, trying to come home.”

“Any possibility she ran away from home, maybe decided to start a new life?”

“Why? Her life was perfect. We’re a very close family, Theresa, her brother, and me. We used to joke that Theresa wouldn’t buy a pair of shoes without talking it over with me. We were best friends. She would never have gone willingly.”

“And you don’t think she’s dead.” I said it gently, but it didn’t matter what my tone was. That’s not a gentle question.

She bit her lip. “No. I’d know if she were dead. Besides, there were a couple of hang-ups in the months after she disappeared. And one on Christmas Eve. I know that was Theresa trying to reach out, but whoever took her must have caught her, must have stopped her. That’s why I’m doing this show. I think whoever has her will see all the publicity, and they’ll let her go.”

“I hope so,” I said quietly.

Linda sat back, triumphant. We continued the interview for another twenty minutes, but I had the sound bites I wanted. The ex-boyfriend was obsessed, Theresa had possibly lied about her plans on the day she disappeared, and her mother had a salacious theory as to her whereabouts. It would all play beautifully.

W
hen I got home I had to step over a dead bird that some neighborhood cat must have left outside my front door. It was beautiful and peaceful looking, except for the way its neck flopped to the side. I got the broom and swept it into the grass.

Once in the house, I made myself a cup of tea. I pushed aside the chamomile and mint teas Frank was, for a brief time, passionate about and took a tea bag from a brand I bought at an Irish import store. I preferred black tea with a touch of milk. It was the right beverage for the mood I was in. Coffee implies a sense of purpose, alcohol means either celebration or defeat, and colas are for hot days and greasy meals. Tea is comforting, traditional, and healthy without being pretentious. I sat on the leather chair in the living room, turned the TV to a decorating show, and sipped my tea.

But it was no use. My body wanted to relax, but my mind kept going back over the interview. Linda was delusional. The idea that her daughter was a kidnap victim, alive and being held, was possible, of course, but it was unlikely. But the other choices, that Theresa was dead or that she had intentionally inflicted this hell on her mother by running away, were unacceptable. Of all the terrible things that could have happened to her daughter, for Linda Moretti, a crazed kidnapper was the most reassuring.

It made me wonder if I’d been a little delusional myself. Six months ago I would have said I knew everything there was to know about Frank, but I obviously didn’t. A week after his death I was still uncovering secrets. So why was I sure it was a heart attack? Detectives had come to my door and called my colleagues, which should have been evidence that he’d died of something other than natural causes, but I’d dismissed the possibility without a second thought.

I guess it’s one thing to be an observer of the effects of violent crime; it’s another to have it touch my life. I didn’t want to imagine myself on the other side of the camera, weeping about the years we would never have. I wanted Frank’s death to be the one thing about our relationship that was neat and simple. Like Linda, I was looking not for the good outcome but for the one that would hurt the least.

But seeing Linda ignore the facts to find her own truth, I was suddenly uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be that kind of person either. If Frank hadn’t died of a heart attack, then what had happened? If I didn’t owe it to him to find out, surely I owed it to myself.

I put my tea on the end table, put my shoes back on, and walked out to the car. Without even knowing what I was going to do once I got there, I drove back to St. Anthony’s Hospital. There were other places to start, of course, but I thought like a producer. If this was an episode of one of the true-crime shows I’d worked on, it would begin with the narrator saying something like this:

While the narrator spoke, there would be video of an ambulance racing to the hospital and doctors working on the reenactment version of Frank. In true crime, we always start with the crime. Then we tell the backstory, introduce the suspects, show the evidence, and, finally, reveal the killer.

Dumb as it was, if I was going to figure out what had happened, the only place I could think to start was at the beginning of the show.

 

 

“I’m looking for Dr. Milton,” I told the nurse at the desk.

“He’s with a patient. You’ll have to wait.” She seemed not to notice my urgency or care when I expressed it. When I didn’t move from her desk, she said it again.

It was the same waiting room, the same knot in my stomach. I sat and watched the families come and go. They all looked worried then relieved, or worried and then sad. Life was beginning and ending, and they were all waiting to find out which end of the spectrum they were on.

After about an hour, Dr. Milton came down the hall. He looked about to pass me, so I stood in front of him.

“I’m not sure you remember me,” I said.

“I remember you. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

He seemed uncomfortable at the idea. “I only have a few minutes. It’s a busy night.”

“I wanted to ask why you called the police.”

That made him even more uncomfortable. I changed tactics.

“Can we sit down?” I asked, a calm, reassuring, and completely fake tone in my voice.

He gestured toward two seats as far away from other people as was possible. “Mrs. Conway,” he started.

I could hear dismissal in his voice, so I interrupted him. “Dr. Milton, if you remember me then you remember that I wasn’t alone in this waiting room. I was with my husband’s new girlfriend.”

“Vera.”

“You know her first name?”

“She brought me carrot cake the day after. She wanted to thank me for doing my best.”

I laughed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know her well. It’s just—odd, I guess. I’m sure the whole situation looked odd to you. It might even have looked suspicious.”

“Look, Mrs. Conway. I didn’t get in touch with the police because your husband’s girlfriend was with you in the waiting room. I don’t care about his personal life.”

“Then why did you? I know how this looks, my coming here to find out what you know, but I just need to understand. You must encounter a lot of people faced with the same news I got, and we’re all looking to the only person we can think of who might have some answers.” I could see him nodding in agreement, so I asked what I’d wondered about since the night Frank died. “Did he tell you something?”

“No. He never regained consciousness.”

“Then what made his death suspicious?”

“He had the symptoms of a heart attack, but I didn’t think he had one. It didn’t feel right. And the autopsy confirmed it. His heart was fine.”

“Then what did he die of?”

He shook his head. “As far as I know, the medical examiner has listed the cause of death as undetermined. They’re testing tissue samples they took from his body, but it could be weeks before there are any results.”

“Do you think he was murdered?”

“I don’t draw conclusions like that. That’s for the medical examiner and the police. That’s why they were asked to get involved.” He stood up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Conway. I have to get back to work.”

For the second time in a week, Dr. Milton had delivered lifechanging news and then walked away. At least this time I didn’t have my husband’s mistress clutching my hand. But that was small comfort. If Frank’s death were a story I was producing, Vera would be the person I spoke to next.