“All I ever wanted was to be a parent,” Christopher is saying. “And for so long I didn’t think it was going to happen. I say parent because I really always thought I’d be like a mother and a father, not just a father. My own dad was . . . Let’s just say he wasn’t what someone like me needed. He was distant, aloof, harsh, punitive. To this day he still hasn’t fully accepted that he has a gay son.”
It’s late. The house is quiet. As far as I can tell we’re the only two people still awake.
“I knew I could be a better father than he was,” he says. “A better all-around parent, and I wanted the chance to be. We struggled so long to adopt. Turned down time after time. It felt like we were one of those fertility couples unable to get pregnant no matter what we tried, then having a miscarriage once we did. I had all but given up hope when Magdalene came along—and I think Keith long since had. But from the moment I met her I knew she was mine, meant to be my child. It was obvious to everyone—except for her foster mom, who was part of one of those ‘homosexuals are an abomination’ religious groups, but eventually even she came around. Unlike so many couples attempting to adopt, Keith and I didn’t have our hearts set on getting a baby. We didn’t care what gender or race, and we were even open to adopting more than one child in order to keep siblings together, and yet . . . we got our dream baby. It was . . . I think it was a miracle.”
His voice is soft and quiet, his mouth dry. It’s late and he’s sleepy, but it’s more than that. He’s bone-weary and broken.
The weight of his sadness and grief haven’t aged him any. He’s so slight and has such a youthful face that beneath the bangs of his blond-highlighted hair he appears to be far more boy than man.
“I’d never been happier in my life,” he says. “I had a husband I loved and adored and who loved me. I had a baby—a baby—a precious little angel baby girl who was heaven itself. We had a family. We were a family. And we had a business we loved. Everything was . . . well, it was perfect. It didn’t last long, but while it did, it was perfect. It was perfect and it was Christmas—my favorite time of year—and . . . then it was . . . she was . . . gone. First we had each other, then we had her, and then we had everything. And then we had nothing. That’s what it feels like. I mean, I know we still have each other and we still have our business, but none of it seems right now. None of it can ever be . . . what it was. The cruelty involved in letting us have her only to snatch her away is unfathomable. Not many people know this—maybe only Keith—but since it happened I have no sense of taste or smell and I’ve gone colorblind. Nearly a year now without smelling or tasting a thing and without seeing colors. I feel like someone who can’t quite completely come out of anesthesia and everything that touches me or that I bump up against gives only the slightest sense of pressure. No real feeling. No actual experience of being awake and alive—just this limp, deadened thing without sensation.”
His eyes are moist and his voice is hoarse, but he hasn’t broken down and no tears are falling.
“Before all this happened, I used to be a big true crime buff,” he says. “Used to read all the books I could get my hands on. Used to watch the films and TV shows, listen to the podcasts. Since it happened I can’t . . .” He shakes his head and makes an expression like he might be about to vomit. “I haven’t listened to even part of any show. I have no appetite for it. And all I can think about are the poor families—the husbands and wives, friends and siblings, moms and dads of the missing and murdered . . . And I think . . . I was never sensitive enough to their plight, never felt as horrified for them as I should, never grieved or experience grief for them to the level I should have. It was on some of those true crime podcasts and in some of those books that I first heard about you. It’s how I recognized Merrick McKnight’s name when I saw his first byline on an article relating to . . . to what happened to Magdalene.”
He pauses and I wait, the desultory sounds of the large, old, wooden house creaking and the low hum of the central air-conditioning system momentarily moving from the background.
“I feel like I’ve been such a fool,” he is saying. “You know how they say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?”
I nod.
“We’ve been trying to find Magdalene the same way, by doing the same things, for almost a year. It hasn’t worked—at all. And yet we keep trying it. Keep doing things the same way.”
He pauses but I don’t say anything, just continue to wait while actively listening.
“Asking for your help is doing something different,” he says. “New and different eyes on everything, a different approach to investigating the case.”
“Probably similar to what’s been done in a lot of ways,” I say. “But certainly some difference too.”
“The thing is . . . this whole time I’ve take such pride in the fact that even when the entire world thought that Keith and I killed her, accidentally or otherwise, or sold her into sex slavery—that not a single one of our closest friends, the ones who were actually here that night, ever believed it. And I’ve thought how much trust and integrity it showed that we never suspected them.”
“You’ve never believed any of them could’ve done it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not really. Not more than a passing doubt or suspicion. Same goes for Keith. They’ve all been so loyal to us, so supportive when the media turned the rest of the world against us . . . I guess I thought I owed them the same thing. And it’s been easy enough. I haven’t really ever believed them capable of something so . . . But now . . . I want you looking at all of us like one of us did it—because one of us has to have, right? No one else could have. There’s no other explanation. Our house wasn’t unlocked, didn’t have a basement window access with a suitcase beneath it.”
I assume he’s referring to the Ramsey home and the JonBenet Ramsey murder case from 1996.
“She wasn’t home alone and we didn’t find an open window in her room,” he continues.
I assume he’s now referring to the circumstances around the disappearance of Madeleine McCann while on vacation with her family in Praia da Luz in May of 2007.
“I’ve wanted it to be some fanciful explanation of someone somehow breaking in and taking her while we slept, but there’s just no evidence of that. We’re always so careful with security. Far more so when we had—when we got Magdalene. No one broke in. There’s no evidence of that whatsoever. It had to be one of us. I can’t imagine who and I don’t know why or what exactly happened, but . . . when you exclude the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. The truth is one of us, one of my closest friends in the world, took my little girl. You can’t imagine how hard that is to even say. As is often the case for an openly gay couple who are rejected or shunned by their blood relatives, our closest friends became our family, are our family, and I’m saying one of them did it, did this unimaginable thing. God, I feel so guilty sayin’ it, but fuck ’em. Fuck all of us. Finding Magdalene is all that matters.”