The next day Samantha made the decision: Go to the police. It came from the gut, yet she had the most rational of reasons—she'd exhausted everything else and her curiosity was turning to fear, fear that whatever was wrong about Marty might someday explode in her face. She could be hurting him by going, but she could also be protecting him. To limit any embarrassment, she decided against telling any of his friends, including Tom. They really had no need to know.
She thought first of going to 20th Precinct headquarters near home. She rejected the idea. Too many friends in the neighborhood. What if someone saw her go in or out? What would people think? No one really wanted to be seen in a police station, she thought. It was a sturdy remnant of her middle-class upbringing.
So she took a bumpy, rattling cab to main police headquarters, a modern highrise in lower Manhattan, where Missing Persons had its principal office. Police Plaza was teeming with cops. As Samantha got out of her cab, she saw a veritable sea of blue. At first, the sight frightened her. There was something vaguely military about it; it was as if she were in a fortress, surrounded by a hostile landscape. Of course, the cops were simply going to and from offices, and were generally relaxed. But the scene was unusual in Manhattan, where residents normally saw, at most, small clusters of policemen.
"Yes, ma'am?" asked the officer guarding the front door. Samantha was instantly impressed by his bearing. Main headquarters always got the best.
"I'd like to report a missing person."
"A child, ma'am?"
"No, an adult."
"Okay. Are you absolutely sure he's missing?"
Samantha hesitated. "Yes. No. It's very complicated. It's a man who may be missing, but may not know it. I know that sounds strange."
"That's the business we're in," the officer said. "Take the elevator to the fourth floor, turn left. It's room four eighteen."
"Thanks."
Samantha got into an elevator crammed with husky cops and one handcuffed "perpetrator," there to be questioned. She reached the fourth floor and walked to a solid door marked MISSING PERSONS in gold letters that were beginning to chip. Somehow, the chipped letters seemed right. The modern building surrounding them didn't. A police station, even the main police station, should be old and damp, with cracked ceilings and bare bulbs for lighting. There should be "wanted" posters on the walls, not notices of police union meetings. There should be a musty smell, not the purity of filtered air. And there should not, definitely should not, be electronic typewriters and desktop computers. The place didn't fit Samantha's image, and maybe that was good. She felt a little more comfortable once she got to the fourth floor, a little more like a visitor to a midtown office building.
She had to wait more than an hour, all on a cold metal visitor's chair in a plain gray waiting room. There were other cases ahead, and Samantha was struck by the fact that virtually all were women. Why? She couldn't understand it. Was it a fluke this day? Were women more forward about filing reports? Were they there to report missing children? Or were there many Martys, many more than Samantha realized?
Occasionally she heard sobs from the interviewing room, which lay beyond a closed door. And, occasionally, women would come out hiding their faces, leaving quickly, sometimes literally running out. They were either embarrassed, Samantha reasoned, or they had just been given some very bad news. At one point she walked over to the policewoman at the waiting room desk, a young, slim black woman who went out of her way to be courteous.
"It shouldn't be long," the policewoman said, assuming that was what Samantha wanted. "Oh no," Samantha said, "I wasn't concerned about that. I was just wondering…" She stopped, thinking that her question might bring ridicule.
"Yes?"
Samantha forged ahead. "I was wondering how many they…find."
"Not many," the policewoman replied forthrightly.
"Why?"
"The officer will explain it," Samantha was told. "I'm not authorized to get into those details."
Those details? What details? Was there something secret about this? Samantha was annoyed by this little bureaucratic roadblock, but didn't let it show. Don't antagonize them. Not when you need them so much. She returned to her seat.
A few minutes later a tall, middle-aged sergeant stuck his head out the interviewing-room door. He read from a little pink card. "Mrs. Shaw?"
"Yes?" Samantha froze in her seat. Now that her time had come, needles of fright shot through her. He was a cop. An officer of the law. A guy with a gun, a nightstick, and a ticket to jail. The reality hit home and Samantha instantly realized how totally out of place, how alien, she felt.
"This way, ma'am," the sergeant said, a slight smile on his face. Samantha looked up at him for a moment, only then realizing that he was Oriental. It was foolish, and juvenile, but as she saw his face she could think only of Charlie Chan. That was the only immediate way she could relate to an Oriental policeman, the only image she had.
Samantha followed him through the door into a large room divided into cubicles, each one paneled with a soundproofing material. It was virtually impossible, from one cubicle, to hear conversations in the next one.
She saw the black identification plate: SERGEANT YANG. Yang gestured for her to sit down, this time on a cushioned visitor's chair.
"Now," he said, "I see you live over in 20th Precinct country. You didn't see Missing Persons over there?"
"No, I was…"
"A little embarrassed."
"Yes."
"I understand." He noticed Samantha staring at him. "My mother was American," he explained, as he'd done to virtually every visitor. My father gave me the eyes. He comes from Taiwan." He smiled broadly. Samantha liked him. "I've never been to the Orient," she said, trying to make small talk.
"Neither have I. I hear there are some nice parts. But if I go, I have to see my relatives. You know what that's like."
He studied the little pink card, which Samantha had filled out earlier. "A phantom past," he said.
"Yes," Samantha replied.
"And you've sought help elsewhere—professional people?"
"Yes. I tried everything before coming here."
"That's what we like. A lot of people run to us when they could solve the problem at home. Ties up the system, if you get me."
Samantha didn't reply, wondering if she was tying up the system.
Yang finally leaned back, his chair groaning with the agony of age. He flipped the pink card on his desk, ready to give Samantha the standard talk. "Before we get into details," he said, "I want you to be aware of some things. First off, we're not too successful here. We don't find many missing people because most people who are missing want to be."
"Want to be?"
"Yes. They just decide to change their lives. They drop out, go away. Especially married men. They reach a certain point, the pressure builds up, a lot of bills, and they chuck it all. You've read stories about guys who are last seen at railroad stations?"
"Yes."
"Almost always railroad stations. Most are never seen again."
Samantha realized what a sheltered existence she'd led. No one she knew had ever faded away like that. "Marty isn't the type," she told Yang.
He smiled. "No husband ever is," he said. "But look, your husband hasn't disappeared from you. Your concern is that he may be missing from somewhere else."
"Yes. Sure."
"All right," Yang went on, "let's list the possibilities. He could be missing voluntarily or involuntarily. If involuntarily, it could be the result of mental illness, or some injury that produced a mental reaction. If voluntarily, he could have been fed up with his old life, or he could be running from something. It doesn't have to be a crime. It could be a personal scandal, even a misunderstanding. Or, he could have had a professional failure that embarrassed him."
"I just don't know," Samantha responded.
"Of course. But let's think hard. Did Marty ever slip out with a name that you didn't recognize?"
"Onl
y business names," Samantha answered. "And he told me who they were."
"He talk in his sleep?"
"No."
"Ever seem confused about his past? You know, saying one thing, then correcting it."
"No, not at all. Marty talks about his past—or what he says is his past—all the time. We've even agreed to take a trip to the Midwest, where he says he grew up."
"Oh? That's interesting." Yang jotted down a note about the trip. "Most people who are running wouldn't do that. But I wouldn't put much stock in it."
"Why?"
"Because Marty might genuinely know the areas you're visiting, yet could still be lying to you about having lived there. Where does he say he was born?"
"Elkhart, Indiana."
"You going there?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I suggested it. I was really testing him, but he jumped at the chance."
"Well," Yang said, shrugging his shoulder, "I don't know what's in his mind."
"But why might he want to go?" Samantha asked.
"Maybe to impress you. He may want to show you his made-up past. It may reassure him to see that you believe his story."
Samantha gazed down at the linoleum floor, which hadn't been polished in months. "This is all theory," she said, not meaning to be rude or ungrateful, but sounding a bit that way.
"Sure," Yang answered. "We're trying to write someone else's story."
"Maybe you…can't help," Samantha suggested.
"You've heard the old proverb—it's from my father's part of the world—that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step?"
"I've heard that," Samantha answered.
"Well, we can take that first step here. We might not discover who Marty is, or where he's from, but we can narrow things down. I've already mentioned some possibilities."
"The lawyer I saw, Mr. Grimes, said some of the same things you did," Samantha reported.
"I'm sure he did. There's kind of a standard list. Now, tell me, do you have any voice recordings of your husband?"
"Tapes?"
"Yes. Dictation at the office, that kind."
"I don't know. I can look in his desk. Why?"
"Regional accents. We have an expert here. We might be able to pick up the part of the country he's from."
"I'll try to get something," Samantha said.
"Okay. Now, does he take unusual medicines?"
"No."
"Too bad. Sometimes we can trace old prescriptions." Yang wrote as he spoke, and Samantha could see that his handwriting, done with his left hand, was flawless. He saw from the corner of his eye that she was watching him. "I like penmanship," he said. "I write everything longhand. I don't really believe in typewriters. Too impersonal." Again he smiled. Samantha suddenly felt close to him. Of all those she'd spoken to, Yang was, to her, the most human. The invisible shield that had separated her from Grimes, from Levine, from Marty's friends, even from Tom Edwards, just wasn't there. I can talk to him, she thought. I want to talk to him.
"Look, can I say something?" she suddenly blurted.
"Sure."
"I'm pregnant."
"Congratulations. I didn't know."
"Thanks, but that's not the point. I want the baby. It's my baby. It's ours." She paused. "But sometimes I don't want the baby. You know what I'm saying."
"Come on," Yang said. "It'll be beautiful."
"Sergeant Yang, it's Marty's baby, believe me. But I don't know who the father is. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"
"Yes, I do."
And then Samantha did what she didn't want to do. She started to cry, just like all those other women she'd seen running from the room, just like the women who cried under stress, the kind she'd never wanted to be. And Yang just sat there and watched her cry, knowing that it was the best purgative. He saw tears every day, the way doctors see blood every day, and they were part of his job. He said nothing, waiting for Samantha to compose herself. Indeed, he used the time to make some additional notes about Marty, yet looked compassionately at Samantha every few seconds to avoid appearing cold.
"I'm sorry," she finally said, taking a tissue that Yang offered and dabbing her eyes. "This is hell. It never came out like that."
"I'm glad it came out here," Yang said.
She couldn't cry in front of Lynne, or Tom. Even a psychiatrist's office was too forbidding. Here she cried.
"I waited for Marty," she continued, trying to hold back the sobs. "All my life I waited for him. Okay, I try to convince myself that it'll all work out, but I know it won't. I tell myself that he's this great knight I knew he was, but I really know he isn't. And I've got his baby, and I wonder what I'm going to say to it when the time comes. Marty won't be there. I just feel he won't."
Yang did not interrupt. This was the way victims resolved things in their minds, he knew. Best not to intervene until the right moment.
"I had other chances to get married," Samantha continued. Now she just wanted to talk, even if she wavered off the subject. "One of the guys was a foreign correspondent. Now, wouldn't that have been nice? But I had to wait for Martin Everett Shaw. No one else was good enough for cute little Samantha."
"Don't say that about yourself," Yang cautioned. "We all wait for the best. I think you were right."
Samantha stared at Yang, stared deeply into his eyes. "You see a lot like me, don't you?" she asked.
"All the time," he replied. "And I want you to avoid the usual pattern. Many women start feeling that they're at fault if their husband disappears, or has Marty's kind of problem. I see this beginning in you. The problem is his, not yours. If he's done something wrong, you share no blame."
"Thank you," Samantha said quietly. For the second time she'd met a man who was totally understanding and sympathetic. The first time had been Marty.
"Why don't we go on," Yang suggested.
"Sure. I'm sorry I'm taking so much time."
"Not at all." Yang paused. He knew there was a piece of unfinished business from before Samantha's breakdown. "About your baby," he said, "is everything healthy?"
"Yes," Samantha replied.
"Please keep it."
There was a long silence. The Oriental eyes were so sincere, so caring, so impossible to defy. "I will," Samantha promised, and she knew she could never break that promise.
"I want to ask some financial questions," Yang went on, "if that's all right."
"Yes."
"Have you examined your tax returns?"
"Well, Marty takes care of that, but I look at them every year. I check the arithmetic."
"Is there any sizable amount that Marty doesn't declare? You can tell me."
"No, he's honest."
"Can you account for his earnings?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, does any important money disappear?"
Samantha thought. "I don't think so, but I really haven't calculated. Why?"
"If your husband has a problem, and has to pay someone, even to stay alive, it might show up."
"My God," Samantha groaned.
"Please don't jump to conclusions. I'd like to have any financial records you can supply without tipping your husband."
"I'll get them."
The conversation lasted a full hour more, with Yang, impeccably polite, asking the standard questions and coming up with nothing of great importance. He was pessimistic about solving this case. Samantha's verbal portrait of Marty told him that this was a shrewd, calculating man, the kind who'd cover his tracks well and who probably had sought a new life, with a new identity, to escape some unpleasantness in his past.
"We have access to a nationwide computer bank," he told Samantha. "It has pictures of thousands of missing persons. It's only a shot, but I'd like you to look at some of the pictures."
"Some?"
"They're catalogued. I'll only show you men around Marty's age. There's no point in looking at kids, or eighty-year-olds. Are you willing?"
&nb
sp; "I'll try anything."
Yang escorted Samantha out of Missing Persons to a photographic library down the hall. As they walked, he put his arm about her shoulder, once again showing the concern that she appreciated so much, that had been the missing ingredient in her life before Marty.
She noticed how the other cops glanced at Yang—the tall Oriental with his arm on a "complainant," the policeman who could easily have been a psychologist, a clergyman, or a social worker.
The photographic library consisted of long metal file drawers filled with pictures of missing persons, with a few tables and chairs for people like Samantha to study the collection. Yang selected the right batch and Samantha started her search, not expecting any results whatever.
"Remember," Yang told her, "your husband could have changed his appearance. Try to study facial contours and skin markings. Anything that looks familiar. Watch the hairlines also, and the size of the ears."
"Okay," Samantha said. Despite her pessimism, she felt good about looking through the pictures. At least she was taking action, not just talking philosophy with friends or abstractions with paid, well-paid professionals. She was amazed at the sheer number of photos—thousands of them, all eight-by-ten glossies. They were not, however, "mug shots." There are no mug shots of missing persons. They were mostly family pictures reproduced by police departments around the country. Some were pathetic, others heartrending. They showed men with their wives and children, in happier times. Almost all the men seemed ordinary, not the kind to melt away or get into trouble. Yet, by Yang's account, most abandoned those around them and simply started again.
"Many of these men probably have new wives and kids," Yang explained. "Sometimes they do it again and again. We had one case of a man who'd left three separate families."
"But aren't there legitimate missing persons?" Samantha asked.
"Oh, of course. A lot of children. That's a national scandal. Grown-ups disappear too, sometimes after they're robbed. They're just disposed of so they can't testify later. And there's the head injury thing we talked about."
As he had promised, Yang showed Samantha pictures of men about Marty's age. But he also showed her pictures of younger men taken years before, men who would now be Marty's age.
Surprise Party Page 10
