5:13 p.m.
Pasadena, California ~ Saturday, August 16, 2014
My husband called me as I was en route to the police station.
“Do you want me to fly home right now, Aurora?” he asked, his voice conveying in that short sentence all the same worry I was feeling.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m scared.”
I explained the call from Gloria yesterday and all of my attempts at trying to locate our son ever since.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I said. “I’m praying it’s nothing and that I’m totally overreacting...but why didn’t he show up for that meeting at work yesterday? And why don’t any of us—not his family, not his friends, not his colleagues—know where he is?”
We lobbed possibilities back and forth. Scenarios for where Charlie might be. Options for when my husband should come home. His scheduled flight was tomorrow morning at nine o’clock New York time and it was already after eight p.m. there. So, unless there was an unexpected delay, he’d be back in California before Sunday noon as it was. For him to try to get a flight much earlier than that would be difficult last minute and, at most, it would only shave off a few hours.
“Still, I’ll get to JFK early in the morning and see if they can switch me to a flight that leaves sooner. I’m going to grab my things from the gala dinner and cut out of there in a few minutes. Call me after you file the police report. I’ll be here,” he said before clicking off.
Disappearances needed to be reported to the police department of the missing person’s city of residence. When I arrived at the Glendale station, I was greeted immediately by Officer Barrett Rogers, who had a posture of confidence and competence, clear blue intelligent eyes and a sympathetic smile. And who, to his credit, listened carefully to everything I said about my son and why I was so concerned about him.
He pulled out the paperwork, asked me questions about Charlie. How was his mental and physical health? Did he have any known medical conditions? Where was he last seen and could anyone give a description of what he was wearing? Did I bring along a recent photograph? Had I already checked his apartment or with his friends? How about the local hospitals? Any social media clues?
I’d anticipated most of these, and the good cop kindly praised me for that. For how familiar I was with the correct procedure. For how much initiative I’d already taken. I didn’t want to explain to him why I knew so damned much about all of this.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll do everything we can to find him,” Officer Rogers assured me with the utmost courtesy and professionalism.
I thanked him, and I strongly sensed he was telling me the truth. But in these cases—especially for me, given all I knew—trust was a mighty leap of faith.