Missing Persons, page 5
part #1 of Kate Conway Mystery Series
Once I was alone I did what I had managed to avoid all night. I went to the casket and saw Frank’s body lying there. It didn’t look like him. They never do. His chin was pushed into his chest, making him look far heavier than he actually was. His normally tousled hair was swept back and gelled, and he was wearing a suit. His parents must have bought it, since Frank didn’t own a suit. It looked expensive and serious, the kind a prosperous banker might wear. In death his parents finally got the control over Frank’s image they’d always wanted.
I knelt at the casket and started a prayer, but I didn’t know what to pray for. Finally I gave up.
“I hate you,” I said to Frank. “I just thought you should know that.”
He didn’t answer, which wasn’t entirely unexpected.
“Your girlfriend wasn’t what I pictured. Well, she is a little wacky but she’d have to be to fall in love with you. I would know.”
I smiled, wanting to make it clear to him, to what was left of him, that I was only kidding. I wanted to touch his hand, but I couldn’t work up the nerve.
“This is so stupid. I don’t know what you did to put yourself here. I don’t even want to think what you’ve been doing that strained your heart so much.”
I wanted to shake him or hit him, somehow wake him up. But I just knelt there and stared at his waxy face.
“Now your life is just one more thing you’ve left unfinished.”
I heard a cough. I jumped up and spun around. The director was at the door to the room.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Conway, but we’re closing. Are you finished mourning for the evening?”
I smiled a little. “I guess so.”
Twelve
The funeral went smoothly. Neal gave him a lovely eulogy that managed to avoid any mention of the last four months. My sister and parents sat beside me at the service offering their support, without the usual advice on how to handle the in-laws. Frank’s parents introduced me as their son’s widow to their friends. And as promised, Vera didn’t show up. All in all, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
As I was leaving the graveyard after the burial, I noticed a message on my phone. It might have been a little impolite to listen to it while standing among headstones, but I knew who it was, and if I didn’t get back to him, I’d get calls all day.
“Kate, it’s Mike. We’ve got an interview with the ex–assistant state’s attorney for Thursday, but we’re running into a problem with the ex-boyfriend. He thinks we’re going to make him look like a suspect, which I assured him we won’t. He’s turned me down. I think if you called him, you could work your charm. We need him. He’s going to be our suspect. I know it’s your ex’s funeral today, so I don’t want to disturb you. Just send me a text to let me know you’ ll call the guy this afternoon. I’ll e-mail you his number. And, you know, sorry about your loss.”
I texted him two words, “will call,” and headed for home.
I had barely changed out of my widow clothes and into a pair of old sweats when I dialed Jason’s number.
“Is this Jason Ryder?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“My name is Kate Conway. I’m working on a show called Missing Persons, and we’re doing an episode on Theresa Moretti.”
Doing something work related made me feel normal, which really it shouldn’t have. There’s nothing normal about talking some poor guy into looking like a killer for the sake of a television show.
“I talked to someone from your show,” Jason said. “I told him I wasn’t interested.”
“He told me. I guess I just wanted to explain . . .”
“I know what these shows are like.”
“We’re trying to help the police find Theresa.”
“No, you’re not.”
He wasn’t stupid. I went another way. “Look, the whole way these shows are set up is that we present the facts of the case and the opinions of the participants, and that sometimes leads the audience toward a possible solution.”
“Meaning you make someone like me look guilty even when we’re not.”
“It sometimes happens that way. If, for example, Theresa’s mother or her friends have bad things to say about someone from Theresa’s life, then obviously we’re going to want to include those comments.”
“But if they’re lies, then I’ll sue you.”
“We’re pretty smart about protecting ourselves from charges of slander, Jason. We will not say bad things about you in voice-over, but we may include sound bites of other people saying bad things. As long as we don’t have evidence that these people are lying, and we’ve done our best to get your side of the story, the show is in the clear.”
“But they’ll make stuff up. You don’t know those people.”
“And I don’t know you. But I want to be fair and warn you how these things work. I don’t want you to have any regrets later.” My voice was firm and ominous. I wanted to scare him, but I also wanted him to think I was on his side. “The people watching the show are going to wonder why you didn’t want to talk. They’re going to think you have something to hide. If Theresa’s family does have something to say about you, and you don’t defend yourself, well, the audience will draw their own conclusions.”
“But you’ll let me tell what happened, so people won’t think I hurt Theresa.”
“That’s what I want.”
I could hear grunting on his side of the phone. He didn’t want to do it, but he felt he had to. Whatever Theresa’s family planned to say about him had to be pretty serious.
Finally he spoke. “Okay, I guess I can do it Thursday afternoon, but I’m not going to go into a lot of personal stuff. I’ll just say we dated and we broke up, and let people see that I’m a good guy.”
“Absolutely. This is your opportunity to say whatever you want.”
And then it will be edited to say whatever Crime TV wants.
Thirteen
I felt a little sleazy after the phone call. I usually do, but I also felt like I’d accomplished something. It might seem odd to take pride in being good at a profession you don’t respect, but I did.
Jason Ryder wanted to do the interview or else he wouldn’t have agreed to it. To misquote Eleanor Roosevelt, you can’t manipulate someone without their consent. He wanted to be heard. And if he really had nothing to do with Theresa’s disappearance, which he probably didn’t, then being on television might actually help him clear his name. So, in a way, I was doing a public good. Or, at the very least, I wasn’t really hurting anyone.
I still had the photos of Theresa spread out on my kitchen table, but I pushed them aside. The haunted images from the past I was interested in were from my own. I opened up the first of several photo albums I had fished out of a box in the garage and started slowly leafing through them.
They were the typical pictures: awkward teenagers in Christmas sweaters posing by the tree, prom photos with Frank making goofy faces because he hated being in a tuxedo, pictures of us in college looking lovingly at each other though we broke up every other week during that time, and finally about a dozen photos of my hand showing off a sparkling new engagement ring.
The second album was all wedding photos. The official ones were staged, with smiles that were too wide to be real. After the ceremony the photographer posed us all on the altar, my family on my side, his family on his. If we were really becoming one big family, then the photographer should have mixed us all up and put his sister next to my dad and my sister next to his younger brother. Maybe the photographer knew that despite the niceties it would never really work out that way. Just like in the photo, for the rest of our marriage, most of my family aligned with me, and most of his with him.
Still, as I looked at the photos from the reception, I saw genuine happiness. There was love in Frank’s eyes, and in mine. I’d forgotten how much in love we really were.
Once we got back to the honeymoon suite, he called me his wife for the first time, and I stared at the gold ring on his left hand. I couldn’t believe this beautiful man belonged with me for the rest of my life.
“You’re my next of kin now,” he said as we were lying in bed that night. “If I’m ever on life support, you get to decide whether to pull the plug.”
“Looking forward to it.” I leaned over and kissed him. “But it better be a long time from now because I have big plans for our seventy-fifth wedding anniversary.”
“That’s the night you’ll leave me for a younger man. Someone who can still get it up long after I’ve outlived my usefulness to you.”
I laughed. “That’s when I’ll know it’s time to pull the plug.”
Sitting in my kitchen fifteen years later, I could still feel my happiness from that night and I wanted to find a way to crawl back into it and stay there. But the phone rang. It was Alex. I hesitated. I was pretty sure he was calling to check up on me, and I didn’t think I could provide the appropriate mix of grief and shoulder to cry on. But I couldn’t just let it go to voice mail. He was still my father-in-law, kind of.
“Hello,” I said.
“Kate, it’s Alex.” He paused. “How you doing, kiddo?”
“Okay. Just remembering.”
“Yeah, me too. Lots of good memories.”
“Yes, lots.”
The conversation stalled for a minute.
“Listen, Kate, I didn’t want to bring this up at the funeral, but we have to talk about something important.”
I couldn’t imagine what was left to say. “Really? What?”
“Frank’s insurance.”
He was the second person to bring up the insurance policy. It was one thing coming from Mike, but I never expected Alex to be so concerned with my coming into a little money.
“We had a ten-thousand-dollar insurance policy,” I told him. “To be honest with you, I think I missed the last few payments. With the way things were, and money being so tight, I guess I didn’t think it was much of a priority.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean the work one.”
“What work one?”
“When Frank came to work for me after college, I made him a partner. I’d hoped it would make him feel like he was building something for himself, instead of just a kid working for his dad. I took out an insurance policy on him. It was for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You’re the beneficiary.”
“Of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” The idea of so much money should have made me feel giddy, but it only made me uncomfortable. “Did Frank know any of this?”
“Of course. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.”
Frank had part ownership in his father’s construction firm and he didn’t bother to tell me. I guess Frank had secrets that predated Vera.
“I haven’t filed a claim yet,” Alex continued, “but I’ll do that for you in the next few days. The thing is . . .” He stopped. I could feel his tension from the other end of the phone. “The thing is, kiddo, it’s better not to discuss this with Frank’s mom.”
“Of course, Alex. Whatever you want.”
What I thought was, why would I talk to Lynette? We went through fifteen Thanksgivings and Christmases without exchanging more than a few words. I wasn’t about to change a family tradition now.
Alex, I could hear, had relaxed. “Thanks, Kate. I just want you to know that I’ve always loved having you as my daughter. And I know Frank loved you too. Right up until the end.”
Tears formed just behind my eyes but refused to go anywhere. My voice, though, quivered. “Thanks, Dad.”
I wasn’t in the mood to go back to the photographs after the call. When Frank went to work for his dad after graduation, he hated it. He’d gotten an accounting degree under pressure and had no intention of spending his life adding numbers, as he frequently used to tell me. When he quit, or was fired, or just stopped showing up—it depended on whose version of the story was true—I was kind of proud of him. But what he’d told me at the time, and since, was that his dad cut him out completely. We weren’t to expect anything in the will, he would say. His parents were so bitterly disappointed that he was wasting his education, they’d told him they wouldn’t throw away another penny of their hard-earned money on him.
But it was a lie. Alex kept him on as a partner, knowing Frank would inherit a significant sum, and he’d kept up an insurance policy so I would be taken care of just in case his son hadn’t been able to. And Frank knew it.
I shut the wedding album and dropped it and the other albums onto the floor. Tomorrow they would go back into the box in the garage.
The photos of Theresa that had been covered up by the albums were now facing me again. I looked at her beautiful face and the genuine happiness in her eyes.
“I wonder what lies you’ve told, Theresa,” I said to the photos.
The girl in the photos just kept smiling, as if she had nothing to hide.
Fourteen
The Moretti house was a typical Chicago bungalow, brown brick, with a postage-stamp lawn and neat rows of flowers. A small statue of the Virgin Mary was placed among the flowers. It looked like most of the houses on the block in this very Catholic neighborhood. Until I got to the front door.
There was a poster taped to the door, a photo of Theresa, with the words “Have you seen our daughter?” above the photo. I couldn’t imagine being reminded of a lost child every time I walked in or out of my house, but then, the Morettis probably didn’t need the poster to remind them. They needed it to remind everyone else.
Theresa’s mom, Linda Moretti, welcomed me as if I were an old friend. She even had coffee and a dozen or so pastries waiting on the kitchen table.
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” I said as I grabbed a cheese Danish.
“No trouble. I own a bakery. My son works with me. He made these. He’s a genius with pastry.”
He was. The Danish was flaky and just sweet enough to be a perfect complement to coffee. While I was eating, Andres and Victor arrived. I asked them to set up the lights and camera in the Morettis’ living room, and while they did that, Linda and I sat in the kitchen. Since I’m usually meeting the interview subject for the first time on the day of the interview, it’s important we establish a relationship right away. Sitting in front of a camera can be very intimidating and people tend to clam up. I need whoever I’m interviewing to feel they have an ally in the room. And since it usually takes about an hour for the crew to be ready anyway, it’s the perfect opportunity to create that bond.
“My husband died about six years ago,” Linda told me. “There are times when I wish he were here to go through this with me, and other times when I’m just grateful he didn’t live to see this.”
“I can understand that. This has to be a nightmare for you.”
She nodded and turned her attention to more than two dozen photos and home movies she had collected for me. That was more than I could have hoped for. We love using home movies when there’s a show on a murdered or missing person. It’s haunting to watch a happy person open presents on Christmas morning, knowing they didn’t make it to Easter.
Linda had made a copy of each of the movies and put the photos on a disc, but she wanted to show me anyway, so I would know her daughter. I dutifully sat and listened to each story, asking easy questions and offering sympathetic smiles. Theresa’s life, at least in the photos, did seem as ideal as they come. Loving family, big group of friends, close-knit community. There was nothing in smiling image after image to suggest what cruel turn her life would take. Sitting there, I found myself caught up in the same question Linda was asking. Why?
“This is the last photo of all of the three of us together.” She held up a picture of Theresa flanked by her mother and a young man. The man, who I assumed to be her brother, was in his early twenties and had a tired, almost angry expression. The women were smiling. They were all dressed up, with presents in their hands, maybe guests at a wedding or a similar celebration.
“This must be so hard on you and your son.”
She sighed. “You know, in a way, it’s brought us closer. We understand how precious life is, and we just want to spend as much time together as we can. My son came to work with me after Theresa disappeared. He was going to move to the North Side, but when it all happened, he decided it was more important to stay close to home.”
She put the picture down and went on to the next one. As she showed me each photo, she told me a little bit about her daughter’s life. I listened and asked questions. I could see that it was the first time in a long time that Linda had indulged herself this way, and she was a little hesitant.
As I’ve learned since the separation, friends and family are all ears for the initial few weeks. The person in pain can call at odd hours, burst into tears at dinner, cancel social plans at a moment’s notice, or just talk on and on about their loss. But too much emotion makes people uncomfortable. Little by little, friends and family begin backing away. They start saying things like, “You need to move on,” or “It’s time to let go.” And they’re probably right. It’s easy for grief to go from a temporary condition to a lifestyle choice.
But in most cases I think what happens is that the people don’t move on; they just shut up. I knew at the one-month mark that none of my friends were interested in another retread of my relationship, so unless there was news, I said nothing. They all thought I was healing, and it made them feel better. And maybe it helped me feel better too, since I was forced to find a subject other than Frank to talk about.
It was something I also understood from the many times I’d sat with families being interviewed for Caught! They had all lost loved ones to murder and, sometimes years later, were still in the center of their grief. They had all heard “Time to let go” from their families and friends and had learned to keep the memories to themselves. But the pain was still there.
When I came to their door, I was a welcome relief. I hadn’t heard the story a thousand times. I hadn’t been there for the death, the funeral, the trial. It was all new to me. And not only was I willing to hear their story, I was eager. I wanted all the details. I wanted the pain on display. It didn’t matter that I was just using them for a television show; I could always see the gratitude and comfort they got from knowing I would never ask them to move on.
