Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 7:45 P.M.
PRISCILLA DID NOT RETURN DIRECTLY to the station. Before attending the news conference, Irwin had handed her the addresses of Bill and Lois Langford and Lisa Hailey. The Haileys lived on Charger Boulevard in the community of East Clairemont. The Langfords lived in Linda Vista. Since the East Clairemont address was closer, Priscilla decided to make that her first stop.
It took less than ten minutes for Priscilla to navigate her red BMW through traffic on Interstate 805 to Clairemont Mesa Boulevard and over the surface streets to the Haileys’ home. The house was a relatively new two-story home with a wood and stucco exterior. With the increasing cost of housing in San Diego, this house could easily sell for over a quarter million dollars.
Priscilla parked her car curbside and walked up to the front door. She listened carefully for a moment for any indication that the occupants were at home. Hearing nothing, she rang the bell. No one answered. Turning to what she assumed was the window to the front room, Priscilla looked in. It seemed to be a formal living room; perhaps the house had a family room in the back. If so, it was possible that the Haileys had not heard the bell. Stepping back to the front door she again rang the bell and waited. Again nothing. She was glad that she hadn’t brought the camera crew.
Looking at her watch, Priscilla saw that it was almost 7:45. Maybe the neighbors would know where the Haileys were. She walked across the lawn to the next house. When she rang the doorbell, she was greeted with noise. A small girl answered the door accompanied by two Pomeranians that yapped constantly. The girl was no more than three years old, with tangled blond hair and two dirty fingers placed firmly in her mouth.
“Is your mother home,” Priscilla asked, raising her voice over the barking of the dogs.
“Yes,” the child responded, but remained stationed by the door.
“May I speak with her, please?”
“I don’t care.” The little girl was now hanging from the doorknob with one hand like a tiny chimpanzee.
“Would you go and tell her I’m here, please?”
“Okay.” With that the toddler ran to the back of the house screaming loudly, “Mommy, mommy, some lady wants to talk to you.” The dogs remained behind, barking incessantly. Priscilla wished she had gone to another house.
A few moments later a perspiration-soaked woman appeared dressed in a bright red jogging suit. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I was doing aerobics in the den.” She turned quickly and addressed the child who was now in front of the television set. “Ashley, turn that down. Mommy can’t hear herself think.” Ashley ignored her. The mother repeated the command with the same effect. Excusing herself she walked over and turned the volume down. This brought tears to the eyes of the child and then a wailing cry. The little girl jumped up and disappeared into the back of the house. Priscilla heard a door slam.
“Kids!” The woman returned to the door. “This maternal instinct isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now, what can I do for—” The woman paused mid-sentence. “Wait. Aren’t you that newswoman on television?”
“Yes.” Priscilla still enjoyed the notoriety that went with her job. At times it was a nuisance, but for the most part she reveled in it.
“I wonder if you could answer a few questions.”
“Wait, let me get a pen and paper. I must have your autograph.” The woman disappeared and returned in a moment. “You don’t mind, do you? If I don’t have your autograph, my husband won’t believe that I’ve met you. He’s in sales, travels a lot.”
She opened the screen door and handed the paper and ballpoint pen to Priscilla. Then suddenly realizing her faux pas she said, “Oh, where are my manners? Won’t you come in please?”
Priscilla stepped into the house.
“Just have a seat anywhere.”
“I wonder if I might ask you some questions.” Priscilla signing her autograph.
“I guess so.”
“Well, Mrs. . . .”
“Mifflin.” The woman interjected. “Judith Mifflin. Everyone calls me Judy.”
“All right, Judy it is then. And please, call me Priscilla.” The woman smiled, feeling special about being on a first-name basis with a television personality. “I’m trying to get in touch with your neighbors, the Haileys. Do you know when they might be home?”
Judy paused and eyed Priscilla suspiciously. “Are they in some kind of trouble?”
“No, nothing like that.” Priscilla had to phrase this so as not to appear to be prying. “As you may know, something special has happened in their lives, and I wanted to talk with them about it.”
“Special?”
“Yes. I tried to get hold of them yesterday but never made contact. I really would like to speak to them.” Judy looked puzzled. “Did you see my evening broadcast last night?”
Judy’s puzzled expression was replaced with an embarrassed one. “Well, actually no,” she said softly. “I don’t watch much news on television. I find it depressing. I recognized you because my husband watches your show when he’s home.”
“So you are unaware of what happened to them yesterday?”
“Yesterday?” The puzzled look returned.
“Yes. At the hospital.”
“I know their daughter is in the hospital. Is that what you mean?” Judy’s eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. “She didn’t . . . I mean, she’s not . . .
“Dead? No. On the contrary, she’s very much alive. That’s why I must speak to them.” Priscilla spent the next ten minutes explaining the events in the burn ward. Judy sat speechless, spellbound by Priscilla’s rehearsal of the unexplained events.
“I find this all so hard to believe.” Judy paused, reflecting on what she had just been told. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I haven’t seen them for at least two days.”
“Have you seen their car, or maybe lights on at night?”
“No, I don’t think they’ve been home since yesterday morning.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I usually see Lea when she gets her newspaper.”
“Lea?”
“Yes. Lea Hailey, Lisa’s mother. You see, the newspaper comes about the same time every day—about 4 o’clock. I hear the paper land on our porch where the delivery boy throws it. Then I go out to get it. Lea does the same thing. I often see her picking up her paper. She always waves at me. Seems like a real nice person.”
“Seems? Then you don’t know her very well?”
“Only talked to her once. That was when we first moved here—about three months ago. Can I get you some coffee or a soft drink?”
“No, thank you.” Priscilla thought for a moment. “You say the paper comes about the same time every day, yet you haven’t seen Lea pick up the paper. Have you seen anyone else pick it up?”
“No, no one.”
“Perhaps they’ve had the paper stopped.”
“No, I don’t think so. I saw the paper there today and yesterday too.”
“But, there was no paper when I was there a few moments ago.”
“Perhaps they’ve gone on a trip and someone is picking it up for them.”
“Perhaps.” Priscilla couldn’t say why, but something didn’t seem right. It made perfect sense for them to leave with their recently healed daughter—probably to get away from the onslaught of reporters who would descend after yesterday’s report. Or, maybe to get away from doctors who would want to run more tests. It made sense, yet Priscilla’s reporter instincts said there was a story here.
Priscilla repeated the scene with the other neighbors, but with the same results—no one had seen or heard from the Haileys since yesterday morning, and no one knew them well enough to suggest where they might be.
Priscilla walked back to her car and pulled away from the curb. If she hurried, she could be at the Langfords in fifteen minutes. Maybe they would have some answers to the questions that were percolating in her mind.
Priscilla made it to the Langfords’ street in thirteen minutes. As she slowed and looked for the address, a black and white car caught her eye. On the door were painted the words, “To Protect and to Serve.” She parked behind the San Diego Police car and quickly walked up to the officer standing on the doorstep of the Langfords’ home.