Missing Mark (4 page)

“What does your gut tell you about the bride?”

“My gut tells me the bride thinks something real bad happened.”

Madeline had sobbed, telling me her story. The dress actually had been worn, just not down the aisle. She’d waited for her betrothed, along with three hundred guests, until it became clear the nuptials were off. Because she hadn’t been married in the gown, Madeline still considered it a virgin, even if she wasn’t. She was selling the dress because she couldn’t bear to see it hanging in her closet anymore and feared her mother would explode if she simply threw it out.

“And she’ll go on camera?” Noreen asked.

“Oh yeah,” I bluffed. Actually the going-on-camera part of my discussion with Madeline remained unresolved.

By that I meant that I figured there was still a fair chance of me talking her into a television interview even though she’d already rejected the idea. She wasn’t opposed to Channel 3 investigating her fiancé’s disappearance; she just didn’t want to be included in all the lights, cameras, and action.

“Madeline wants to know what happened to Mark,” I said. “She also needs to know she did everything she could to find him. Even though you’re right, Noreen, it is a little late in the game.”

Time is everything in a missing person case. The exception being a kidnapping for ransom. Otherwise, it’s pretty much a no-brainer that the victim’s family goes public right away. The more time that passes before a break, the less likely the mystery will be solved. Of course in this case, we couldn’t even be sure we had a case.

“She better cry,” Noreen warned.

I knew she meant the bride.

I’d done enough missing person stories to know viewers need to connect with the victim and the best way to make that happen is to show a family in pain from the limbo each new day of uncertainty brings. A single tear falling down a cheek can be more visually powerful than uncontrolled sobbing. Easier to watch, too. The former can mesmerize viewers while the latter can make an audience squirm.

Some viewers cry exploitation when an interview subject breaks down on camera. What they don’t understand is that sometimes interviewees need to cry and no one else can bear to listen. Their circle of friends and family might feel uncomfortable if they get emotional and might admonish them to keep their feelings inside. Yet I’ve seen tears bring catharsis, even gratitude.

Journalists are allowed to reassure interviewees that it’s okay if they cry; we’re not allowed to tell them it’s actually
better
if they cry. Because if viewers care enough about the missing person, they might call in with tips that can help the investigation.

Noreen also maintains that tears spike the overnights.

“She’ll cry,” I assured my boss, knowing it would be tough to get a five-minute-plus block in a May newscast otherwise.

“Hmmmm.”

Noreen touched a pen to her upper lip as she contemplated a desk-calendar version of the large May strategy board—which stories were running what nights—hanging in the closed-door conference room around the corner. The board was one of the most closely guarded secrets in the newsroom; only key employees had access. This made Channel 3 less likely to be scooped by our rivals on enterprise stories.

The journalistic quality of a television news station can be judged two ways. The most obvious is how it handles the Big Story of the Day. The story everybody in town leads with. And it’s pretty easy to stack up the competition and see who landed an exclusive interview or who got the money shot or who simply beat the pants off everyone else.

Less obvious, but perhaps more telling of a station’s personality, is how it handles discretionary news. Those are stories it’s not obligated to cover but chooses to make time for anyway.

Many nights it’s insipid drivel, but occasionally a station breaks a story that brings acclaim
and
leaves viewers breathless. What’s difficult for die-hard newshounds to accept, is that either option—drivel or critical acclaim—can be ratings magic.

And drivel is definitely cheaper to produce.

So Noreen waved her pen like a magic wand over the half-dozen still-empty slots in May as she silently debated whether to write down
NEVER WORN
, the inconclusive story of a wedding dress, a reminder of heartbreak.

She tapped a Sunday in May, always an important night because the network’s blockbuster lineup leads into our newscast, giving us prime-time promotional opportunities to hold that massive audience and translate it into ratings, which translate into ad revenue.

I smiled in anticipation, welcoming the pressure, wanting to prove myself—until Noreen slammed her pen down and leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed. And just like the fabled Wicked Queen ordered the huntsman to bring back the heart of Snow White, Noreen gave me my assignment.

“Show me her tears. Then we’ll talk.”

  had just learned another reason for pushing the wedding-dress story: Shep. Toby was on his way out of town to an animal rights conference in California. He’d always been a sucker for a furry face, but lately he’d grown interested in the politics of animal rights. He’d only be gone two days, but we decided it would be less disruptive for Shep if he just stayed in one place, my place, until his K9 trainer recovered enough to care for him.

So I’d stopped at a pet store and stocked up on Shep’s favorite dog food, some dried pig ears, and a tennis-ball squeaky toy. Since the missing-groom story was centered in my White Bear Lake neighborhood, letting the big dog in and out of the house was easier if I was chasing clues closer to home than if I was chasing news in downtown Minneapolis or beyond.

I grabbed Malik Rahman, my favorite photographer, as well as good friend, and we drove to Madeline’s place to put her on camera before she could change her mind. Madeline lived in a waterfront condo near White Bear Beach. Several of her neighbors, mostly rich retirees, watched from their porches and patios as we followed her inside, carrying the camera gear. They may have been curious, but they were also raised to mind their own business. So no one questioned us about what we were doing or which station we were with or when this was going to run.

Madeline had debated whether or not to be interviewed. In her social circle, appearing on the news was as gauche as waving one’s arms in a crowd shot at the Minnesota State Fair.

She finally agreed after I pointed out no one was looking for her missing fiancé. Not family. Not law enforcement. And frankly, the trail was cold. Years from now, if he was never found, she might wrestle with guilt and regret unless she was able to assure herself she did what she could when it mattered.

Malik lit the room to add some dramatic shadows. He draped Madeline’s wedding gown over the couch, artistically panning the camera from hem to neckline. Then he hung it from a doorway and shot front to back while I tilted the dress. Photographing their engagement picture, he started tight on the couple’s faces and pulled wide. For the invitation to witness the marriage he used a rack focus, first shooting blurry before bringing the image into focus with a stylish camera move.

Finally he dubbed home video from the rehearsal dinner so we’d have a copy of Madeline and Mark gazing into each others’ eyes as the whole room applauded. Warm-ups to get Madeline used to us and the camera. Also, if the interview went bad and she threw us out, at least we’d have sound and pictures.

These were the last pictures ever taken of Mark. He wasn’t your cliché tall, dark, and handsome groom, but he was presentable. He wore a black shirt, gray pants, and a narrow silver tie with dark stripes. He moved comfortably through the crowd, meeting and greeting guests. His face looked a bit peculiar with his bushy eyebrows, mustache, and hair, but his manner seemed pleasant.

Again, my eyes were drawn to his scar. I wanted to ask about its origin but kept quiet, fearing I might upset the bride. Despite his odd appearance, Mark seemed a class act until he wove a mother-in-law joke into his toast to his bride, which he read off a blue note card.

It occurred to me that comedians often have distinctive physical characteristics. Fat-boy Louie Anderson. Jay Leno with his big chin and two-tone hair. David Brenner’s nose. Mae West and her impressive … talent. The best of them use their looks to make us laugh at our own flaws, physical or not. For all I knew, Groucho Marx was Mark’s professional idol.

Later I watched him wrap his hands around Madeline’s waist and drop a kiss on her neck. Knowing that this might have been the final time they touched made the casual buss erotic and made me feel like an intruder.

She seemed a different Madeline on tape than the person in front of me now. I couldn’t quite tell how until she flashed a smile for the camera and I recognized it as the kind of smile that could launch a toothpaste commercial. TV reporters are very cognizant of smiles and I knew Madeline had never smiled that way for me. These pictures might be the last pictures ever taken of a joyous Madeline. And Madeline’s face, which I once thought was merely pretty, now looked stunning.

During the interview, I pressed her about that night, the last time she saw Mark, whether anything seemed unusual.

“With him?” she asked.

“Yes, or anybody else in the wedding party.”

“No. Everybody seemed happy for us. So very excited.”

“How about Mark? Is it possible he was having second thoughts?”

“No.” She was adamant, closer to indignation than tears.

“How can you be so sure?” I tried coaxing some on-camera emotion. I didn’t use the word “jilted” because I didn’t want her to clobber me with the tape rolling.

“Because he loved me.” She looked at me, unwavering confidence in her gaze and tone. “I could see it in his eyes. I could hear it in his voice. I could taste it on his lips.”

That was some lyrical sound bite she laid on us. And the way she said it was almost vampirish.

As she leaned forward, I leaned back to give her space. Her fists were clenched. Her delivery flawless. “That was supposed to be our beginning, not our ending. Something’s wrong.”

I tried to lighten the mood by asking her how Mark proposed. She struggled to answer before emotionally describing a magical night of romance on bended knee in the moonlight.

But to my surprise, Madeline Post was too tough to cry on camera.

W
HEN IT COMES
to a missing person, it’s often an inside job.

Sometimes the culprit is even the missing person themselves. Like the runaway bride from Georgia. Or the missing coed in Wisconsin. Both women staged their own disappearances for reasons that were never very well explained.

When a child vanishes, it’s frequently a parent. Sometimes a custody dispute. Sometimes a cover-up when an abusive relationship goes too far. Occasionally an accidental death the parent can’t face.

When a woman goes missing, her man moves to the head of the class of suspects. But the reverse is seldom true; girlfriends rarely become suspects. And Madeline didn’t fit that category for several reasons.

First, she was allowing media scrutiny. And guilty girls don’t usually do that. If she had anything to do with her fiancé’s disappearance, all she had to do was keep her mouth shut and she’d be home free.

Second, as the bride, she was under almost constant observation following the rehearsal dinner. She stayed up late at her mother’s house, giggling with the maid of honor. And while the groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding, that tradition doesn’t include the wedding party, the hair and makeup guy, the manicurist, and the photographer. Plenty of witnesses could vouch for Madeline’s whereabouts. No one could vouch for Mark’s.

Third, Madeline had no clear motive. Public humiliation is not on any bridal registry. She lost face when she lost her fiancé. And her mother was shelling out enormous sums of money to marry her only daughter to Mark Lefevre. So if he
wasn’t
dead, Madeline probably
would
kill him.