Missing Persons (7 page)

“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.

T
he 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.

But sitting here with Linda I was in unfamiliar territory. She had the same appreciation for the chance to tell her story, only this time her story wasn’t finished. Her daughter wasn’t in a grave. She was out there somewhere, and Linda might never know where. How could she “move on,” I wondered. Even when her friends were sick of hearing the details, even when the yellow ribbons had been taken down and the “Help Find Her” posters had faded, there were no answers.

“This is from her graduation. It was just weeks before . . .” She left the statement unfinished. She handed me a photo of herself with Theresa. Theresa was holding a small silver charm. “It’s a nurse’s cap,” Linda explained. “She’s planning to be a nurse.”

I noticed the way she spoke of Theresa in the present tense. “Wonderful profession,” I said.

“This was when she was eight.” Linda showed me another photo. In this one a young Theresa stood by a church in a white dress and veil.

I recognized the occasion. “Her First Communion.”

“The dress was more than I wanted to spend, but Theresa was so insistent.” She smiled at the memory. “She said she’d save it and wear it for a wedding dress. I explained to her that it probably wouldn’t fit when she was old enough to get married, but she wouldn’t budge. I gave in. I told her we’d get this dress for her Communion and we’d get her a whole new beautiful dress when she got married.”

She started to cry. I put my hand on hers and we sat silently. I looked at her with all the compassion I could, but then I got to wondering if Andres was almost ready with the lights.

The first episode of
Caught!
I’d ever done was about a high school senior, a star athlete, who’d been murdered by his stepfather. The boy’s mother was so full of pain and guilt I cried with her. I did a terrible job with the interview and a worse job with the script. The crime scene photos, of that boy with a gunshot wound through his heart, stayed with me for weeks.

It didn’t help anybody for me to care, but it was crucial to the interview that I seemed to, so I sat and held Linda’s hand while she cried, until Andres walked into the room.

“We’re ready,” he said.

I turned to Linda. “Why don’t we just get this interview finished, so we can talk again afterwards?”

“You’re so kind,” she said. “It makes such a difference to talk to someone who really wants to help.”

A
fter a few adjustments of microphones and lights, we started the interview. Linda and I were seated facing each other. I began with easy questions, things about Theresa’s childhood, to get Linda relaxed and over the initial discomfort of being in front of a camera.

Theresa was a wonderful child, her mother told me: playful, smart, curious, and good in school. She was every parent’s dream. I’ve interviewed the parents of murderers, drug addicts, and gang members. It’s always the same—they were perfect children. I guess when all you have are memories, you want them to be sweet.

In Theresa’s case, though, it seemed to be true.

“She was named Volunteer of the Year . . . ,” I said.

Linda immediately smiled. “Yes. And it was well deserved. Theresa’s always been a volunteer. When she was about six, she went around the neighborhood collecting change to send to starving children. She’d seen one of those ‘sponsor a child’ commercials and she wanted to do it,” she said. “She was upset that someone her own age was going hungry when she had so much. At six!” She laughed. “And then it was one thing after another. In high school, she organized a group of students to send letters to soldiers fighting overseas, and in college she volunteered at a hospice for cancer patients and organized the school blood drive.”