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Authors: Jonathan Valin
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been used to late-night calls.
Either that or he was expecting trouble, because he sounded fully
alert when he answered the phone. There was no easy way to break the
news, so I just told him outright—at least as much of it as I
understood. He didn't say a word as I went through his kids' bizarre
history—his own history. When I finished, the silence at the other
end was so profound that I thought he'd gone off the line.
"Pearson?" I said. "Are you still
there?"
"I'm here," the man said in an awful voice.
"Look, I know this is a terrible shock. But
there are some things that have to be done immediately if we're going
to prevent a tragedy."
"I'm listening."
"Ethan and Kirsten were still in Chicago as of
early last night. I'm not completely sure where they've headed, but
it's possible that they're going to Cincinnati."
"To find this man, this convict?"
I said, "Yes. They've had at least four or five
hours on the road, which would put them south of Indianapolis, almost
to the Ohio line. If we alert the Ohio State Patrol and the
Cincinnati police, we might be able to stop them before they get in
trouble."
"Stop them, how?" the man said in the same
deadened voice. "With guns?"
"Of course not. We could arrange to have them
detained as missing persons."
"You said my son had a pistol, didn't you? What
makes you think he'l1 stop for anyone?"
He had a point, but he'd also made one. "Someone
will have to stop him," I said.
"I don't want the po1ice!" Pearson said,
his voice rising. "My children aren't criminals. I 'm not a
criminal."
It was an odd thing to say under the circumstances.
But he was badly upset, and it was already clear that he felt
personally responsible for his children's problems. And more than a
little embarrassed by them.
"I don't want Kirsten or Ethan hurt," he
said in a cooler voice. "I don't want anyone hurt."
"Then let me notify the police."
"What exactly would you say?"
"Standard missing persons reports. I don't have
to go into detail."
It was precisely what he wanted to hear.
"Do it, then," he said resignedly. "But
don't volunteer anything more than necessary. If Kirsty and Ethan are
going to survive this—if the family is going to survive this—it's
essential that they know I still love them."
He said it with great
feeling. But he was saying it to the wrong person. At least that's
the way it sounded to me—like a plea for approval.
* * *
After finishing with Pearson, I made the necessary
calls to a friend I knew with the State Police and to Al Foster at
the CPD. I phoned Brandt Scheuster, too, leaving a message on his
machine. By then, it was almost three.
I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep, but the
coffee had kicked in. Anyway I knew I was going to have to get up
again in a few hours. Clicking on the reading light above the bed I
picked Ethan Pearson's manila folder up from the nightstand. The
clippings fell out on the bedclothes. A dozen of them, yellowed with
age.
I gathered them together, sorted them by date, and
read through them one by one. The first clipping was from the
September 5, 1976, edition of the Enquirer: It was a short article,
two paragraphs long, detailing Estelle Pearson's disappearance.
INDIAN HILL WOMAN REPORTED MISSING
Estelle Pearson, of 3 Woodbine Lane, Indian Hill,
has been reported missing by her husband, Dr. Philip Pearson. Mrs.
Pearson disappeared on the afternoon of September 3, after failing to
show up for a doctor's appointment in Clifton.
Mrs.
Pearson has been ill for some time, and it is feared that she may
have overmedicated herself or is in some way incapacitated by her
illness . . .
A brief description of the woman followed, along with
a number to call if Estelle Pearson was found. The next article
appeared two days later. It was considerably more detailed and its
tone was grim.
INDIAN HILL WOMAN FEARED DEAD
Indian
Hill police have launched an extensive search for Estelle Pearson,
wife of Dr. Philip Pearson. Mrs. Pearson, 34, was reported
Either that or he was expecting trouble, because he sounded fully
alert when he answered the phone. There was no easy way to break the
news, so I just told him outright—at least as much of it as I
understood. He didn't say a word as I went through his kids' bizarre
history—his own history. When I finished, the silence at the other
end was so profound that I thought he'd gone off the line.
"Pearson?" I said. "Are you still
there?"
"I'm here," the man said in an awful voice.
"Look, I know this is a terrible shock. But
there are some things that have to be done immediately if we're going
to prevent a tragedy."
"I'm listening."
"Ethan and Kirsten were still in Chicago as of
early last night. I'm not completely sure where they've headed, but
it's possible that they're going to Cincinnati."
"To find this man, this convict?"
I said, "Yes. They've had at least four or five
hours on the road, which would put them south of Indianapolis, almost
to the Ohio line. If we alert the Ohio State Patrol and the
Cincinnati police, we might be able to stop them before they get in
trouble."
"Stop them, how?" the man said in the same
deadened voice. "With guns?"
"Of course not. We could arrange to have them
detained as missing persons."
"You said my son had a pistol, didn't you? What
makes you think he'l1 stop for anyone?"
He had a point, but he'd also made one. "Someone
will have to stop him," I said.
"I don't want the po1ice!" Pearson said,
his voice rising. "My children aren't criminals. I 'm not a
criminal."
It was an odd thing to say under the circumstances.
But he was badly upset, and it was already clear that he felt
personally responsible for his children's problems. And more than a
little embarrassed by them.
"I don't want Kirsten or Ethan hurt," he
said in a cooler voice. "I don't want anyone hurt."
"Then let me notify the police."
"What exactly would you say?"
"Standard missing persons reports. I don't have
to go into detail."
It was precisely what he wanted to hear.
"Do it, then," he said resignedly. "But
don't volunteer anything more than necessary. If Kirsty and Ethan are
going to survive this—if the family is going to survive this—it's
essential that they know I still love them."
He said it with great
feeling. But he was saying it to the wrong person. At least that's
the way it sounded to me—like a plea for approval.
* * *
After finishing with Pearson, I made the necessary
calls to a friend I knew with the State Police and to Al Foster at
the CPD. I phoned Brandt Scheuster, too, leaving a message on his
machine. By then, it was almost three.
I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep, but the
coffee had kicked in. Anyway I knew I was going to have to get up
again in a few hours. Clicking on the reading light above the bed I
picked Ethan Pearson's manila folder up from the nightstand. The
clippings fell out on the bedclothes. A dozen of them, yellowed with
age.
I gathered them together, sorted them by date, and
read through them one by one. The first clipping was from the
September 5, 1976, edition of the Enquirer: It was a short article,
two paragraphs long, detailing Estelle Pearson's disappearance.
INDIAN HILL WOMAN REPORTED MISSING
Estelle Pearson, of 3 Woodbine Lane, Indian Hill,
has been reported missing by her husband, Dr. Philip Pearson. Mrs.
Pearson disappeared on the afternoon of September 3, after failing to
show up for a doctor's appointment in Clifton.
Mrs.
Pearson has been ill for some time, and it is feared that she may
have overmedicated herself or is in some way incapacitated by her
illness . . .
A brief description of the woman followed, along with
a number to call if Estelle Pearson was found. The next article
appeared two days later. It was considerably more detailed and its
tone was grim.
INDIAN HILL WOMAN FEARED DEAD
Indian
Hill police have launched an extensive search for Estelle Pearson,
wife of Dr. Philip Pearson. Mrs. Pearson, 34, was reported
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