Missing

When people disappear, Monica Caison gets the call.

An Empty Bed

Early on the morning of April 23, 2006, Fawn Locklear* fixed herself a cup of coffee, then padded to the guest bedroom to see if her older brother was awake. She hoped he wasn't. A complete inability to sleep for nights on end was one symptom of his illness. Until a couple of years before, when a car crash left him in a two-day coma, Freddy, 28, had been a warm, outgoing guy -- a medical equipment salesman who loved to travel, socialize, play football with his nephews and tell an uproarious joke. Although his broken bones had mended, he'd grown increasingly withdrawn and irritable, and he sometimes muttered incoherently about imagined enemies. He'd lost his job, given up his apartment and taken to staying with family members in Fayetteville, North Carolina.

Recently Freddy had been diagnosed as suffering from a psychotic disorder, possibly resulting from a brain injury. To the family's relief, medication had eased his symptoms. Just the day before, he'd attended a Little League game with his sister, and he'd seemed almost like his old self again. But when Fawn, a 25-year-old loan officer, arrived at his room, the door was open and the bed empty. She made a quick circuit of her modest town house and scanned the front and back yards: nothing. Returning to Freddy's room, she saw that his wallet and cell phone were still on his dresser, his clothes in the closet and his toothbrush -- and medication -- on the bathroom shelf.

She went to the driveway and checked her car. It was there, but the backpack Freddy had left inside was gone. Fawn felt a jolt of worry. She jumped behind the wheel and began driving slowly, calling his name and asking passersby if they'd seen a tall, skinny, distracted-looking young man. "Folks were looking at me like I was crazy," she recalls. The clouds opened in a downpour, and she retreated to her house and called her parents.

By noon, the three of them had phoned everyone Freddy knew. Nobody had heard from him. Fawn's father went to the police station, but the officer in charge would only take a report and counsel patience. Back home, the Locklears anguished over terrifying scenarios. Had Freddy gone for a walk and met with some disaster? Was he suicidal? They began to argue over what to do next. Then a neighbor dropped by with some advice: "There's a lady you need to call. Her name is Monica Caison."

That evening, after assembling her troops and driving 80 miles across the state, Caison arrived in Fayetteville with two dogs, a dozen searchers and a command truck bristling with radio antennas. "Monica has, like, a SWAT team," Fawn marvels. The group fanned out across the neighborhood, but the rain had left little scent to follow. After a few blocks, the trail petered out entirely.

"My guess is that he hitched a ride,"Caison told the family. "It could take a long while before we put the pieces together. I can't promise you we'll find him. All I can promise is that you'll get 100 percent of me."

*Names and certain details have been changed to protect the family's privacy.

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