Songs for the Missing (11 page)

Talent

Jocelyn came over early to help Fran prepare. She’d never been on TV before, and was terrified. Jocelyn was a pro. The hospital owned a portable lectern with its new logo on the front that she rolled out for ground-breaking ceremonies and Coast Guard rescues. She was slender and dressed well, and when she answered questions she sounded like a doctor. Fran wanted her to be their spokesperson, but understood a mother would evoke more sympathy.

The first thing she had to do was change. Even on a cloudy day a white blouse would turn into a blob of light. She had Sunny Hedrick mind the sign-in table while they went through her closet, looking for a dark solid. Nothing too fancy. She should look like she was going to work. They chose three and had her model them, circling her like a bride. After they picked the winner, Jocelyn redid her makeup, drawing on eyeliner and powdering her cheeks till they were beige. To Fran it looked garish. Jocelyn assured her it would translate.

She should stand up straight and look serious without frowning. And be careful not to laugh. A lot of people laughed out of reflex because it felt strange to be on-camera.

“If you have to cry,” Jocelyn said, “stop talking and take a step back off your mark. It’s not live. They’re going to edit you for space anyway, so you want to control what they have to choose from.”

“Crying’s not good.”

“You don’t want to come off as hysterical.”

“Even if I am.”

“Even if you are. That’s private, this is public. Big difference. Think about what you’re doing. You’re asking people who don’t know you to help you. You don’t want to make them uncomfortable. You want them to think: What would I do in her shoes? So they’ll be rooting for you
not
to fall apart, because they’re afraid they would. They want you to be braver than they think they are. Do that and they’ll like you.”

“Now I know I’m going to cry.”

“That’s okay,” Jocelyn said. “Just take a step back and they’ll have to stop rolling. Make sure you have a tissue with you. You don’t want to be too cool either. Remember Meryl Streep.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Fran said.

“Tears are fine. You just don’t want them to have you breaking down on tape, because they’ll use that, and then that’s who you are. Trust me, you don’t want to be that person.”

Why not? Fran wanted to ask. She already was that person.

Connie had blown up a shot of the car and mounted it side-by-side with Kim’s picture on foam board. That was okay, Jocelyn said, but flyers were like wanted posters, too cold. It would be better if Fran held a small framed picture of Kim, something intimate and precious. The idea was to make the viewers think of their own pictures of loved ones and imagine what else they had in common. For the same reason, they wanted to do the shoot in the driveway to show they were a regular family with a garage and a lawn and a front door.

“There but for the grace of God,” Fran said, and immediately wanted to take it back.

“Exactly.”

It would have been better if Ed and Lindsay could have stood behind her, but they couldn’t wait. They were out along Route 7, sweeping the woods with three full busloads of volunteers. Father John was coming over to be by her side and to serve as a visual reminder that starting tomorrow the parish hall at Lakeview would serve as their command center. Connie had a placard with the address and a phone number for donations. Fran worried that all this information was too much at once.

“Break it down into your three points,” Jocelyn said. “This is Kim. This is her car. This is how you can help. That’s all you’re here to do. Anything they ask, you bring it back to those three. Say her name, say the name of the car, say the name of the church. It’s like advertising, you’re just looking for awareness.”

What were they going to ask?

“Easy stuff,” Jocelyn said, and ticked them off on her fingers. “What kind of progress are you making. How’s the family holding up. Do you have a message for Kim.”

“None, not well, and ‘Come home.’ ”

“Wrong. The support’s been incredible. The whole community’s turned out to help with the search and the police are busy tracking down leads.”

“They haven’t done jack-shit!” Fran said.

“Whoa, whoa.”

“They haven’t.”

“You can’t badmouth the cops on the air. You’ll come off as angry, and you don’t want that. Everyone’s been so helpful, the family’s really pulled together, and you want to tell Kim that you love her. That’s all you have to say.”

“How about if I don’t say anything about the police?”

“Don’t get hung up on this,” Jocelyn said, but as Connie and Father John and then the news van arrived, the idea of lying grew, pushing what she was supposed to be focusing on to the edges. She had to consciously list her three points, going over and over them, afraid she’d blank once she got on-camera. It couldn’t be more simple: Kim, the car, the church. The cops weren’t important.

The reporter was young and pretty but sickly thin in her red Channel 12 polo shirt, with sticks for arms and frightening cheekbones. Her head was too large for her body, like a marionette’s, and she was made up so her eyes and lips were huge. Her textbook posture was impressive at first and then, as she helped the cameraman unload his light stands, looked stiff and exaggerated. She shook Fran’s hand and said she was sorry with refreshing directness, not the halting helplessness Fran had become used to from their neighbors. She had to remember, this woman didn’t know Kim at all. To her she was just another assignment. Tomorrow she’d be covering a fishing tournament or demolition derby.

“I’m a little nervous,” Fran confessed.

“Don’t worry, Benny will make you look good.”

The cameraman, fussing with some cables in the grass, just smiled and cracked his gum.

They set up not in the driveway but on the front walk, with the reporter and Fran sitting on the porch stairs, one-on-one. There was nowhere to step back. They might take a shot of Fran with Kim’s picture at the end, but for now they just wanted her. They moved the whole sign-in table so it was in the background, with Father John and Connie pretending to register Jocelyn. A crowd of neighbors gathered on the sidewalk to watch. The cameraman waved for quiet.

This was for Kim. Someone somewhere might see it and provide the clue they needed. Fran held on to that thought.

“Speed,” he said, and the reporter drew herself upright and put on a concerned face before reciting her lead-in. Fran had thought she was silly, but under the lights she took on force, nailing her lines in character. Now she understood. It was an act, and the reporter was an actress. All Fran had to do was play herself.

The reporter turned to her and asked how the search was going.

Fran was supposed to look at her, not the camera, but was aware of it running, recording her every word and gesture. She nodded. “It’s going. Everyone’s been so supportive, all of Kim’s friends, and our neighbors, and the church. It’s really been heartwarming to know so many people care about Kim.”

She’d almost finished her last remark when, a few houses down, a lawnmower started up. The cameraman sent Jason Bonner to ask whoever it was to hold off.

On the second take she tried to remember what she’d said the first time and stumbled over her words.

“That’s okay,” the reporter said, “just let it come,” but now her answers felt canned and unnatural, like she was reading from a script—like the reporter sneaking a peek at her questions while Fran was talking. Heartwarming sounded corny. How were people at home going to believe it if she didn’t? As she grew more frustrated, she worried that she might seem angry, and overcompensated, nearly smiling.

The reporter asked her what kind of person Kim was, which was easy, and how the family was holding up. They talked about the time frame, and Kim’s job, the possibility of someone coming in off the interstate and taking her. Fran feared she was rambling and clipped off her answers, sticking to the facts. She didn’t want to speculate.

“The police are treating Kim’s disappearance as a missing persons case rather than a criminal investigation. How does the family feel about that?”

It wasn’t Fran’s fault. She’d plucked this nugget from the
Star-Beacon
article. “The police are following every lead they can. Right now the most important lead is her car. It was her grandmother’s and it’s very rare, so we’re hoping someone out there will see it and call in.”

“Has there been any input from the FBI yet, with Kingsville being so close to the state line?”

“Not yet, but I know the police are talking with Erie.”

“At this point, how involved are the police in the search for Kim?”

“They’re doing everything they can, legally.”

“But right now you’re relying almost solely on volunteers, is that right?”

“That’s right, and we’re hoping folks will come out and help us this weekend.” She gestured behind herself at the sign-in table and gave the information for the church, feeling like a huckster.

She was surprised when the reporter lowered the mic and asked if there was anything she’d like to add. Was that it? It seemed too fast. She hadn’t asked if she had a message for Kim, and while it seemed obvious, Fran took this chance to tell the audience that she loved and missed her daughter very much and wanted to thank all of the volunteers.

They waited a few seconds in silence.

“And we’re clear,” the cameraman said.

“You did great,” the reporter said, patting her knee.

“Yeah, you sounded really good,” Connie said, setting up the poster so they could shoot it.

“I don’t know why you wanted me to do it,” Jocelyn said. “That was perfect.”

Fran accepted their praise for what it was. She’d felt tight the entire time, her face a rigid mask, and was sure that would come across on TV. They hadn’t used the little picture, and as they packed up she took it inside and set it by the stereo with the others. She should have been relieved that the filming was done, but instead she felt a sense of letdown, of an opportunity squandered, and wanted to apologize to Kim. She thought it was absurd that she should cry now. “Stupid,” she said. On the porch they were moving the sign-in table back, and she gathered herself and went out to help.

The reporter said the segment would air at six and then again at eleven, and that they’d love to come back and talk to her as the story developed. Jocelyn made sure to get one of her cards.

When they were gone Fran went upstairs and washed the makeup off her face. In the mirror the lines around her mouth were pronounced. She looked tired, even though it was only ten thirty. That would come through too, she thought.

In the afternoon she did two newspaper interviews, and one by phone for the radio. After each she felt the same useless emptiness, and had to remind herself that they could only do good. The hotline had been busier since the
Star-Beacon
article; the website was getting more hits. This was progress.

By six only one busload had returned. Ed wanted to use every second of daylight, and she couldn’t blame him. The searchers sat in groups on the porch steps and on the lawn, drinking bottled water and eating donated Kentucky Fried Chicken. Connie called them into the living room to watch the news.

Fran didn’t want to see herself on TV. She even hated the cameras inside the door at Wal-Mart that showed her walking in. As their spokesperson, she had no choice. They were the second story, right behind a private plane crashing out by the raceway. She sat on the couch and endured their cheers when she appeared.

Whether it was the makeup, the lighting, some magical lens of Benny’s, or the combination of all three, her skin seemed rosy, and the blouse they’d chosen worked perfectly. The crowd went quiet to hear her words, then murmured approvingly. What she said actually made sense, and while she hadn’t been aware of it while the camera was rolling, the reporter nodded along in sympathy. She was composed, mostly, though during the long question about someone possibly coming in off the interstate, Fran caught herself gnawing her lower lip.

“Jesus,” someone behind her said, “why would she ask that?”

The editor had done a good job of fitting it together. Connie’s graphics popped up in just the right places—Kim, the Chevette, the church. At the end they clapped. They were rooting for her, and at once she was grateful and hopeful and proud. She thought Ed would want to see it, but by eleven, with the house emptied out and the curtains drawn against the darkness, there was no reason to celebrate. They’d searched all day and found nothing, and Ed had turned his ankle. Perry hadn’t bothered to call. As the detective said when he checked in, nothing had significantly changed. They were on their own, Kim was still missing and another day was gone.

Crime Stoppers

The night she disappeared she was seen arguing with a dark-haired man in a red pickup in the lot of Lake Shore Park. The next day she was spotted wandering along the commercial strip in Ashtabula, not far from the on-ramp of Route 11. Friday evening she materialized in Fair-port Harbor, buying a pack of cigarettes at a convenience store. Her face was swollen and she seemed dazed.

A cult had taken her to use as a human sacrifice.

The crew of an ore boat had kidnapped her to service them.

A ring of Asian slave traders based in Toledo had auctioned her off to the highest bidder.

“I ate her liver with fava beans and a nice chianti,” a teenaged boy said, and slurped, making his friends in the background crack up.

Look for a trucker who drove for J. B. Hunt and called himself the General.

In town there was a man named Green who’d done time for statutory rape.

The boyfriend did it.

The father did it.

A friend of a friend was wasted the other night and bragging about how he killed this girl. He figured the guy was lying, but thought he should call anyway.

She’d probably met someone on the internet, all they had to do was check her computer.

She was pregnant and had gone to Cleveland for an abortion that went wrong.