I love Laura Lindsay.
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I love Laura Lindsay.
I mean I fucking love Laura Lindsay.
And when I say I love Laura Lindsay, I mean I love Laura Lindsay more than a 39-year-old man with a wife and a kid should love a 21-year-old girl.
Especially one I’ve never met.
One I’ll probably never meet.
And one who in all likelihood is dead.
And when I say she in all likelihood is dead, I mean we just don’t know.
Somebody probably knows.
But I’ll never fucking know.
And Pete and Repeat down at the Loving Laura Lindsay podcast will probably never know.
And her family probably doesn’t know.
The police don’t know. They don’t know! Trust me, even though every local resident of Brattleboro, Vermont thinks the police not only know but are in on her disappearance, they don’t know. There is not some huge police coverup of Laura Lindsay’s vanishing. They police may be corrupt. But an entire dynasty of police covering up essential information that could clear this thing up forever — for the family, for the town, for everyone — not likely. Trust me, in my 20 years of true crime investigation, it’s just never happened. Not once. The police do not know where Laura Lindsay is.
No one fucking knows.
Well, maybe Lisa Morabito.
She might know.
But she won’t talk to fucking anyone.
I went to that bitch’s house to ask her some questions.
She acted like a murderer.
And I’ve interviewed fucking murderers.
Every fucking murderer I’ve met has been nicer than this fucking bitch.
Talk about making yourself conspicuous.
She yells, “How did you find me?” and slams the door in my face.
I mean a smart murderer — or someone with something to hide — would invite you in, make you coffee, chat it up with you for half an hour, and act like they had nothing to hide. Can you imagine Ted Bundy slamming the door in someone’s face? No, you fucking cannot. Smart people with something to hide don’t act like they have something to hide. Lisa Morabito knows where Laura Lindsay is — I guarantee it. I would cut off my left testicle if Lisa Morabito doesn’t know what happened to Laura Lindsay. That bitch fucking knows. I wouldn’t be surprised if, the day I went to Lisa Morabito’s house, Laura Lindsay wasn’t right behind the door listening to everything we said. And by everything we said I mean Lisa telling me to get off her motherfucking porch.
I get told that a lot as an investigative journalist.
Get off my fucking porch.
I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t get off my motherfucking porch.
I have a shotgun and I’m gonna blow your motherfucking head off if you don’t exit yourself off my motherfucking porch in the next five seconds.
People don’t necessarily like to answer questions about their missing daughters, neighbors, and residents of their jurisdiction. But when a white, 21-year-old girl goes missing — just goes poof in the middle of the night and a body is never found, a person is never found, her credit cards are never used again, ground searches turn up nothing, helicopters with forward-facing radar turn up nothing..that’s a story. People want to know. And that’s where I come in.
I write true crime books.
I’ve written three.
The book on Laura Lindsay would have been my fourth.
But things got fucked up.
I had this camp counsellor. Used to lecture us on the importance of carrying foot powder. Said, “You never know when a ten-minute walk is going to turn into a five-day survival hike.”
He was right.
That guy was right.
He was motherfucking right.
And that’s what happened with this Laura Lindsay situation. What should have been a ten-minute hike turned into a five-day survival hike.
And I wasn’t carrying my foot powder.
A fucking bitch goes missing. It happens all the time.
Then Seventeen and the local papers and the Investigation Discovery channel come in and do their thing.
I come in and do my thing.
I try to keep it to a higher level.
I mean I have a fucking degree in this shit.
So for them it’s sensation. It’s leaving out facts to imply that things happened that didn’t really happen.
But I’m trying to make a living at this shit.
This is my fucking reputation, you know?
I got to get this shit fucking right, or people will never buy my books again.
So I find an angle.
But I find a true angle.
At least that’s what normally happens.
But with Laura Lindsay, it was like that bitch was specifically trying to fuck with not only this book, but my entire career.
She refused to be pinned down.
And I wanted to pin that bitch down. The more time went on, the more I wanted to pin her down in the nastiest way. It was like she was asking to be fucked — and I mean fucked — but she only wanted to be fucked by someone worthy of finding her.
Or her dead corpse.
Which I wasn’t going to do — fuck her dead corpse. But finding her dead corpse would have been as good as fucking the live Laura Lindsay — at least for me it would have. But the problem is Laura Lindsay’s dead corpse wouldn’t reveal itself.
The bitch parks her wrecked car in the parking lot of the Walmart Supercenter on Brattleboro Road in Hinsdale, New Hampshire.
By all accounts she walks in.
By all accounts she never walks out.
She never goes back to her car.
She’s never found in the Walmart.
Police were on her tail for driving erratically. They thought she was drunk — which she probably was.
They saw her walk into the Walmart Supercenter.
They saw the fucking bitch get out of a wrecked car — windshield cracked, axles broken — and go into that Walmart.
Then that was it.
There has never been a credible sighting of Laura since.
Now either she’s hiding out working in the produce section, or that bitch snuck out the back and wandered into the woods and died of a head wound..or maybe she committed suicide..or maybe she was abducted.
Or maybe Laura Lindsay staged one of the most brilliant disappearances in the history of intentional goddamned motherfucking disappearances.
The question is: just how smart is Laura Lindsay?
Is she smart enough to intentionally wreck her car — but not enough to kill herself — to put bottles of alcohol in her passenger seat to lead us all to believe she was drunk, to have someone waiting for her in an SUV behind the Walmart, walk casually through the back warehouse and get in the friendly vehicle, and disappear to Canada with her new boyfriend or Lisa Morabito, and then live so quietly that she never raises any kind of flag on any kind of radar? Change her name? Work quietly in some coffeehouse in a tiny town and maintain the discipline of never contacting her family again?
Did she want to get away that fucking bad?
If so, why?
Are the sexual abuse theories correct? Because whether there was actual sexual abuse or not, and whether she meant to kill herself or just get away for the weekend — or if she meant to get away forever — the intentional disappearance theories do hold one thread in common for me.
And that was that she was trying to get away from something.
And I believe that something was her family.
But, dear reader of present book, don’t become distracted by the theories surrounding Laura Lindsay’s disappearance.
Because that is the least important thing about this story.
Theories come. Theories go.
But you know what’s constant?
People’s obsession with the dead.
Or people’s obsession with the missing.
And you know what’s become really constant for me?
My obsession with Laura Lindsay.
I mean I’m about to get fucking divorced over this shit.
I have a wife. I have a five-year-old daughter.
That’s what I should be paying attention to.
Licking my wife’s pussy when we’re in bed at night.
Kissing my daughter’s forehead and reading the motherfucking Berenstain Bears.
Right? That’s where my focus should lie.
A little book writing on the side. A little investigation. Write a decent book on Laura Lindsay.
That’s just not how it’s worked out.
My writing room looks like a cross between John Nash’s woodshed in A Beautiful Mind and the den of a serial killer stalking his next victim.
Laura Lindsay is my victim.
She’s no longer my research subject.
She’s my motherfucking victim.
I should be making phone calls to the residents of Brattleboro and Hinsdale. Instead I’m driving to Vermont.
I live in fucking California, people.
I have regular hotels I stay at in Brattleboro.
The bartenders recognize me.
The day drinkers recognize me.
They all know I’m writing a book.
They know it’s about their Laura Lindsay.
And you want to know something about New Englanders? For one, it’s that they don’t tell you shit until they get to know you. You can’t just ask a New Englander a question. Fuck. The bartender won’t even serve you a drink unless he knows you. It’s a very mind your own business type of place. So when writers come in — especially after every cheese news outlet in the world has already come and gone, raped the towns and every shop owner in them for information about this missing girl — they’re not exactly welcoming. I mean, in a way, you get the sense that everybody but you knows exactly what happened to Laura Lindsay and it’s your job to find some special key to put in some special lock to get them to simply tell you what it was.
I hoped to do that by hanging around Vermont and New Hampshire as much as possible, making myself seem local.
My wife was not a fan of this idea.
My daughter was not a fan of this idea.
I started off not being a fan of the idea, either, but the more I flew into Burlington and rode the Amtrak down to Brattleboro, and the more tantalizing but minuscule clues these fucking Vermonters dealt out to me (one card at a time), the more Vermont became my home and California became the inconvenience of being further from the facts.
You have to understand something about locals.
Locals know what is going on.
Whether it be the locals of a family, a town, a club..the locals know what is going on, either by intuition or by proximity. But locals see things that outsiders don’t see by the simple fact of their being around all the time. So locals are where your story is. Trust me. If your serial killer goes to Florida, you go to Florida. You’re gonna meet someone, wandering around a dock polishing a boat, who knows where your killer is. You’re not gonna get that making fucking phone calls from California.
With a missing person, you need the family.
The family knows.
Nine times out of ten, the family knows.
That’s why I was so frustrated with Mike Lindsay.
I didn’t think he knew.
In fact I was pretty sure he didn’t have any idea where his daughter was.
But I’d bet you my right testicle he knows somebody who does.
That’s why it irked me so much that motherfucker was so motherfucking unhelpful when it came to finding his daughter.
Wouldn’t you at least want to find her dead body, rotting in the woods of Vermont, clutching that last bottle of gin she grabbed from her car, nursing herself with a little alcoholic warmth before she froze to death?
I realize I haven’t established the bottle of gin.
I’m a bad narrator. Spank me and send me home from school.
Well, look, I don’t want to get into a bunch of details since this is just the intro chapter and shit, but I’ll tell you one thing:
This book is about how Laura Lindsay fucked my life.
And it’s about how I fucked up hers.
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