Painfully, the search dragged on. On Saturday, October 13, Ed toured a Chilean refugee village. The following morning, he attended church and lunched with the Armstrongs at noon. On the morning of October 15, he revisited Nathaniel Davis. “We were on a treadmill,” he later recalled. “Nothing constructive was being done, and I had begun to feel that I was being out-and-out lied to. A confrontation with the Ambassador, however distasteful, seemed the only solution.”
Ushered into Davis’s office, Ed was seated opposite the large desk from which the Ambassador reigned.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Horman?”
Choosing his words carefully, Ed began: “Mr. Ambassador, I have been in Chile for ten days. I now know enough about the country to have a feel for its size and government. There is no doubt in my mind that the Chilean military knows exactly where Charles is, and I see no reason why you can’t force them to reveal it. I know something about your past and why you were sent to Santiago. None of that matters to me. What does matter is that, as the primary representative of the United States government, you are probably the most powerful man in Chile. All the power is on your side. One telephone call from you can end this entire matter.
“My assumption,” Ed continued, his voice quavering, “is that my son is dead. But I cannot go home and face my wife without the truth. I’m asking you on grounds of simple common humanity to help.”
“I understand your feelings, Mr. Horman,” Davis answered. “And I assure you that we are doing everything we possibly can.”
Leaving the Ambassador’s office, Ed rejoined Joyce and readied himself for another encounter. Three weeks earlier, while Terry was still in Chile, Joyce had received a telephone call from Major Luis Contreras Prieto of the Chilean Army. Explaining that a friend of the Hormans’ had contacted his brother, who worked for the Irving Trust Company in New York, Prieto had questioned Joyce on Charles’s disappearance and promised to report back to her the next day. On the evening of September 26, Prieto’s wife called. Major Prieto, she explained, was in bed as the result of a foot wound suffered in a helicopter attack on a leftist-controlled factory. However, he had checked with military sources and learned that Charles was alive. As soon as the charges against him were settled, he would be released.
Bubbling with euphoria, Joyce reported the news to Fred Purdy. The following afternoon, the Consul called her back. “I’ve checked with Prieto,” Purdy said, “and there’s been a misunderstanding. He has no information about your husband.”
“That’s impossible,” Joyce cried.
“Check for yourself, Mrs. Horman. I talked with him just ten minutes ago.”
Joyce dialed Prieto’s number. “You did not misunderstand me,” Mrs. Prieto said, “but my report was wrong. I told you about the wrong person.”
“But I wrote Charles’s name on a piece of paper and gave it to your husband.”
“I know. I’m very sorry. The report was wrong.”
Thereafter, Prieto was of little help. On October 3, Joyce visited his home. “I have no further information,” he told her. “The best I can do is give you a letter of introduction to Colonel Ewing, the Secretary General of our government. Perhaps he can help you.” Accepting the letter, Joyce went to Ewing’s office but was refused an audience. Two subsequent attempts to meet with him also failed. She had not heard from Prieto since.
Now, having leveled his broadside at Nathaniel Davis, Ed wanted to visit the Major as well. Perhaps a face-to-face appeal would spur him to action.
Prieto lived in a five-story apartment house inhabited largely by military officers and their families. A well-guarded machinegun nest embellished the front lawn. Arriving with Joyce at 2:30 P.M., Ed was greeted by Mrs. Prieto and brought to the Major’s study. Because his Spanish was shaky, Ed suggested that Joyce carry on most of the conversation.
“I’m sorry for the confusion,” the Major told them. “My original report was based on what I had learned from friends. Now they tell me that they were wrong. This is proved by those who witnessed your son’s seizure. The truck that took him had no military markings. Soldiers in Chile travel only in military vehicles and never in one truck alone.”
“Major Prieto,” Ed interrupted, “I don’t think you understand the anguish my family and I are suffering. My son has been missing in your country for almost a month. His mother, his wife, and I desperately love him. I appeal to you as one man to another for help.”
Opening his mouth as if to answer, Prieto rose instead and walked to the far end of the room. Picking up the telephone, he dialed SIM—the Chilean Army branch of Military Intelligence. For about ten minutes, he spoke with a man named Sala, then returned.
“Be in your hotel room tomorrow morning,” he told Ed. “Two men from Military Intelligence will come to see you.”
After leaving the Major’s home, Ed telephoned Fred Purdy to report on his most recent venture. Expressing skepticism as to Prieto’s reliability, the Consul nonetheless agreed that his efforts could do no harm.
“Let me ask you something else,” Ed queried. “Has the Chilean military used civilian trucks these past few weeks?”
“With the present shortage of operating vehicles,” Purdy answered, “they use anything that runs.”
“What about the possibility that leftist extremists or looters masquerading as soldiers might have seized Charles?”
“They’d have to be crazy to try something like that, It’s much too dangerous.”
“Thank you,” Ed replied. “That’s what I thought.”
The next morning at 10:30 A.M., two agents from Military Intelligence appeared at the Crillon Hotel. Proceeding to Ed’s room, they identified themselves as Raul Manesas and Jaime Ortiz of SIM and began to ask questions about Charles. Manesas was the taller of the two, with a sallow complexion, shining black hair, and a bushy mustache. Ortiz, who was ruddy-faced, short, and stocky, was the more vocal. Ed and Joyce spent the next ninety minutes answering questions about Charles’s disappearance.
Later in the day, Purdy telephoned. “I’d like you to come down to the Consulate if you could.” Arriving at 5:15, Ed was introduced to Vice-Consul James Anderson and a man named Timothy Ross.
“Mr. Ross is a journalist from Great Britain,” Purdy explained. “He has good access to left-wing circles in Chile, and has come up with some interesting information about your son. Nothing has been confirmed, of course, but Ambassador Davis thought a meeting between the two of you might prove fruitful.”
“I’m interested in pursuing every lead possible,” Ed said, turning to Ross. “What is it that you’ve learned?”
“That your son is alive and well,” the journalist answered. “Let me explain. Four days ago, Mr. Anderson asked if I would inquire of my associates whether they had any knowledge of Charles’s whereabouts. At his request, I spoke with someone currently involved in helping political refugees escape from Chile. He told me that his organization had secured credentials for three Americans seeking to leave Santiago by clandestine means. One of them was your son.”
“Where is he now,” Ed asked.
“In northern Chile.”
“When will he be out of the country?”
“Sometime next week.”
“Is there any way I can contact him to confirm your story?”
“No.”
Weighing what he had just heard, Ed addressed the British journalist: “Mr. Ross, I would like very much to believe what you’ve just told me, but I cannot. My son had no reason to flee Chile. Also, I don’t think that a serious leftist organization would run the risk of transporting a political neophyte like Charles in its escape pipeline. I hope with all my heart that you’re right and I’m wrong, but I doubt it.”
“I guess only time will tell,” Anderson said.
“I guess that’s right,” Ed answered.
A week earlier, Ross’s story would have been received with hope. However, by mid-October, Ed sensed that his odyssey was nearing an end. The hour and place of resolution were still unknown, but their coming seemed inevitable.
On the morning of October 17, Ed visited the Ford Foundation office in Santiago. McGeorge Bundy, President of the Foundation, was one of the people he had spoken with in New York while soliciting cables on Charles’s behalf. Bundy had been extremely supportive and suggested that the Hormans enlist Peter Bell, head of the Foundation’s Chile office, if they needed local assistance. Then, after Ed had flown to Santiago, Bundy had telephoned Elizabeth weekly to inquire about Charles’s welfare.
With no leads left to follow, Ed felt a courtesy call on Bell was in order. Proceeding to the Foundation office, he was greeted by an aide named Peter Hakim.
“Mr. Bell is out of the country,” Hakim explained. “Can I be of any help?”
“Not really,” Ed told him. “I just wanted to thank you people for the Foundation’s efforts on my son’s behalf. My family and I are extremely grateful.”
“Why don’t you come inside?” Hakim suggested. “We can talk for a while.”
Following to his host’s office, Ed was introduced to an Economic Program Advisor named Lovell Jarvis. They shook hands, and Ed was seated.
“What do you think of the American Embassy’s performance in your son’s case?” Hakim asked.
“Speaking confidentially, it has not been good.”
“In what respects?”
As fairly as possible, Ed recounted some of the problems he and Joyce had suffered. “I realize you people are very busy,” he concluded, “but any assistance you can offer would be appreciated.”
At the meeting’s end, Jarvis walked Ed from the room. “Will you come with me, please?” he said. Not knowing what lay ahead, Ed followed down a short hall to a large conference room with dark paneled walls. A huge oval table surrounded by ten chairs dominated the floor.
“Have a seat,” Jarvis instructed.
Ed obeyed.
“I have a friend whom I play tennis with regularly,” Jarvis began. “I won’t identify him other than to say that he works for an English-speaking Embassy in Santiago and is close to someone with good contacts in the Chilean military. Your son was executed in the National Stadium on September 20.”
Ed sat silent. “Is there anything more you care to tell me?” he said at last.
“I’m sorry. I’d like to, but I can’t.”
“Would it be possible for me to meet your friend or his Chilean contact?”
“I doubt it. I understand your feelings, but these are very dangerous times.”
“I’ll go anywhere. You can take me blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back.”
“I’ll see what can be arranged,” Jarvis said. “But it’s doubtful. I feel awful. I’m sure you understand that. This is a terrible tragedy.”
Suppressing his emotions as best he could, Ed left the office and telephoned Fred Purdy at the Consulate. “I have just received a credible report,” he began, “… a report that my son was executed in the National Stadium on September 20. I would like your fullest attention to the matter.”
“Who told you that?”
Ed didn’t answer.
“Who was the report from?” Purdy pressed.
Ed deliberated with the receiver to his ear. For twelve days, he had relayed every last scrap of information he had gathered to the Embassy and Consulate, and nothing had come of it. The thought of this last lead evaporating was unbearable. “From a source I do not wish to reveal,” he finally answered.
Then he returned to the hotel and reported to Joyce on his meeting with Jarvis. “Don’t give up hope,” he urged. “It’s not conclusive.”
“Maybe not,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “But it’s probably true.”
The reappearance of Manesas and Ortiz interrupted their conversation. “We are investigating a body that was brought to the morgue several weeks ago and later buried,” Ortiz explained. “It was the same height and weight as your son and dressed in a white shirt, brown trousers, and print underwear. What was he wearing at the time of his disappearance?”
Ed turned to Joyce. “Those aren’t his clothes,” she answered. “Maybe the underwear, but not the rest.”
“We will check the fingerprints again,” Ortiz told them.
Events were moving towards their inevitable climax. The following morning, Ed went to Joyce’s room after breakfast and found her in tears, two men standing over her.
“I am Inspector Mario Rojas of Investigaciones,” the taller man said. “I have instructions to bring Mrs. Horman to headquarters for full interrogation.”
Ed picked up the telephone and asked the hotel switchboard to connect him to Purdy’s number. “I don’t want Joyce taken anyplace against her will,” he told the Consul after explaining the situation.
“Let me speak with Rojas,” Purdy ordered. Handing the receiver to the Inspector, Ed listened to one end of the conversation: “Yes, Consul Purdy… I understand… certainly… I will do as you say.” Then the receiver was returned. “Rojas and his friend will leave now,” Purdy told Ed. “Don’t go anywhere until I get to the hotel.”
Half an hour later, the Consul arrived. “Investigaciones is the Chilean equivalent of our FBI,” he explained. “Why don’t you and I visit Rojas alone?” Leaving Joyce behind, they drove to agency headquarters, where Purdy engineered their quick admission. Walking down a long corridor and up a stairwell, they came to a small, starkly furnished office with a floor-to-ceiling beam jutting from a side wall. Inside, Mario Rojas sat hunched over a large, battered desk.
“Forgive me for the earlier disruption,” he apologized. “I have been ordered by the Foreign Ministry to exert every effort in solving the unfortunate problem of your son’s disappearance, and I am expected to do so quickly. I only wanted to question Mrs. Horman. Perhaps you could bring her here later this morning.”
Ed agreed and returned with Joyce at noon. Rojas was unavailable. “Come back in several hours,” they were told. Reappearing at 4:00 P.M., they proceeded upstairs, where the Inspector inserted a questionnaire in an old-fashioned typewriter and began clumsily pecking away at the keys.
“Your husband’s name?”
“Charles Edmund Horman.”
“Date of disappearance?”
“September 17, 1973.”
“Your address in Chile?”
“4126 Vicuña Mackenna.”
Twenty minutes into the interrogation, a second agent appeared. “There is a telephone call for Mr. Horman,” he announced.
Excusing himself, Ed followed down the hall to a small spare office with empty beer bottles littering the floor. “This is Ed Horman,” he said, picking the receiver up off the desk.
“Hello, Mr. Horman. This is Fred Purdy at the Consulate. How are things going?”
“About the same. What about at your end?”
“Not so good, I’m afraid. We’ve just been told that a body has been identified through a morgue fingerprint check as that of your son. I’d like to talk with you about it. Is it all right if I come over to Investigaciones?”
“I’ll be here,” Ed told him.
The second-floor corridors formed a long “L” with the stairwell at their point of intersection. Rojas’s office was at the far end of the longer hall. Ed waited at the top of the stairs until Purdy arrived, then led him twenty feet down the right angle so Joyce, who was still in the Inspector’s office, would be unable to see them talking.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Horman,” the Consul began.
“When was he killed?” Ed asked.
“September 18.”
“In the National Stadium?”
“Yes… he was buried on October 3.”
“Where?”
“The Municipal Cemetery.”
“In a grave?”
“No… in a wall. They do that sometimes.”
“Are you certain it’s Charles?”
“I’m afraid so. The morgue ran a positive fingerprint check this afternoon.”
Experiencing a swell of emotion, Ed again forced his feelings down. Then, very deliberately, he walked back to Rojas’s office, where the Inspector continued his questioning.
“I’d like you to leave,” Ed told him, “so I can talk with my daughter-in-law alone.” Rojas stepped outside. “Charles is dead,” Ed said.
Purdy drove them back to the hotel. When they arrived, Ed telephoned Elizabeth’s brother in New York. “There’s something you have to do for me,” he said. “Charles is dead, and I can’t bring myself to tell Elizabeth… not over the phone at a distance of five thousand miles. I’d lose control. I want you to do it for me.”
That done, he telephoned Joyce’s father in Minnesota, then went down to the dining room with Joyce to eat dinner.
The following morning, October 19, Ed walked to the Christian Science Reading Room for his daily lesson. Later in the day, Manesas and Ortiz came to the hotel to confirm Charles’s death.
“They have verified his fingerprints,” Ortiz reported. “He was shot in the Stadium. I’m sorry. Things like this should not happen.”
While they were there, Purdy telephoned. “I’ve been to the morgue,” he said. “The fingerprint check is absolute. The autopsy card and our own match completely.”
“Why wasn’t this revealed by the fingerprint check you ran earlier?” Ed asked.
“There was a misclassification at the morgue. We’ll check dental records from the United States tomorrow, but there’s really no doubt. It’s your son.”
“I’d like to go home as soon as possible,” Ed told him.
“We’ll make immediate reservations for you and Mrs. Horman.”
“Not on Lan Chile. I’ve had enough of this stinking country. I want to fly home on an American airline.”
“Fine,” Purdy answered. “We’ll make reservations with Braniff.”
The next morning, Ed returned to the Christian Science Reading Room for the last time, then brought a large suitcase of Charles’s clothing to Warwick and Rosalie Armstrong for distribution at a United Nations refugee center. Back at the hotel, he was visited by Mario Rojas of Investigaciones, who confirmed Purdy’s report. “This is a horrible tragedy,” the Inspector said. “Your son was killed without reason.”
Shortly after lunch, Purdy arrived to drive Ed and Joyce to their flight. Passing the Moneda, they saw two busloads of troops dressed for combat. At the airport, they threaded their way through barbed wire and troops to the terminal building, where Ed used the last of his Chilean currency to buy coffee for the Consul. Then he and Joyce boarded Braniff flight 988 and departed.
The journey home took fifteen hours. Wandering through the Lima airport on a layover in Peru, Ed chatted with a passenger who was changing planes from Miami. Learning that Archibald Cox and Elliot Richardson had fallen victim that evening to Richard Nixon’s Saturday Night Massacre, he reboarded the plane and reported the news to Joyce.
“I don’t feel well,” she answered, oblivious to the dispatch. “I think I’ve been poisoned.”
“That’s silly.”
“No, really! I think I’m going to die…. Promise me that, if I die, you’ll have an autopsy.”
“Don’t worry,” Ed told her. “You’ll be all right.”
“No! Promise me, you’ll have an autopsy.”
“All right! I promise.”
She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.
The plane landed at Kennedy Airport in New York at 9:00 A.M. Elizabeth was there to meet them. In some ways, the past two weeks had been even more difficult for her than Ed and Joyce. They at least had been afforded the opportunity to act. She had been left at home, able only to wait for her husband’s nightly telephone calls from Santiago and fantasize in romantic moments about Charles climbing the Andes Mountains to safety.
Standing with her brother, Elizabeth sorted out disembarking passengers in the sterile airport lounge. Then she saw Ed. “I almost didn’t recognize him,” she remembers. “He looked like a different person. The color in his face was gone… his eyes were distended to the point where I was afraid they’d pop out of his head.”
Rushing forward, she clung to him, oblivious to everyone and everything around them. Then, she remembered Joyce.
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to face her,” Elizabeth later admitted. “My son was dead. Nothing in the world is harder for a mother to accept, and Joyce had been a part of his passing. Then, I realized that she was the one who had come back from Chile with no husband, no job, and no home. I thought about how much Charles loved her and how she loved him. I turned towards her and, in that moment, I knew she belonged to Ed and me as much as Charles ever had.”
Elizabeth held out her arms. Joyce rushed forward and began to cry.