“Exciting,” Senior told his son one night on the phone during that second week of October. “Look, first one there wins, okay?”
“What?” Junior said.
“Whoever arrives last buys the other a steak dinner.”
The son laughed. He lived a few hundred miles closer and was planning on leaving a day earlier than his father.
“You’re on, Dad.”
Just west of the Blue Ridge Mountains, known for its art scene and historic architecture, the picturesque, mountainous terrain of Asheville offered nothing but gorgeous Americana scenery, as well as endless photography subjects.
“It’s going to be great, Dad.”
“It is. I cannot wait. So excited.”
As much as he was looking forward to moving and starting a new job, Senior was ecstatic to be reconnecting with his oldest boy. Living together. Getting to know each other as adults. Even though both his boys were older, Senior’s divorce, like any, had been difficult. Since the split in 2010, Junior and Senior had bonded, but Senior was looking forward to forging that into a close friendship, while watching his son grow.
Chris and his father spoke or texted every day during this time. Junior later recalled, during the fall of 2014, as they discussed the move, they never failed to communicate at least several times daily. They spoke constantly over a twenty-four-hour period.
“I’m at work, can’t talk right now,” Senior would say if he was busy. “I’ll text you later.”
And he always would.
* * *
AS CHRIS JR. STOOD and stared out the window of his apartment, looking at his car fully loaded with his possessions, a trickle of excitement stirred. He was eager to get on the road. He looked at his watch. It was late in the day, October 15, 2014. The sun was just dropping below the horizon. The only bit of awkwardness Chris Jr. felt on that day—and it was minor at the time—was that he’d not heard from his father all day long. He’d texted and called. But had not gotten a response.
The next morning, October 16, Junior opened his eyes, grabbed his iPhone, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. After acclimating himself to getting up, Junior stared at the iPhone screen.
Not one text or call from his father throughout the night or that morning.
Standing, walking to the bathroom, Junior stopped in the hallway. He felt a pinch in his gut.
Something’s wrong. I just know it.
2
NIGHT SHIFT
ENOUGH, CHIEF LAURA FRIZZO DECIDED. THAT IS ENOUGH FOR TODAY. It was twenty minutes to five o’clock. Frizzo’s sergeant, Cindy Barrette, would be in soon to begin her shift: five p.m. to three a.m. Frizzo should have been out the door two hours ago, on her way home. Except, well, when it came to work, Frizzo had “a problem leaving,” she said.
The job.
Always pulling her away from life—something one signs up for as the chief of police in a small town.
October 27, 2014, was a brisk autumn evening in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. As Iron River Police Department (IRPD) chief Laura Frizzo walked out of the station house’s front doors and began locking up, out of the corner of her eye she saw a car pull up. She put the key into the lock, turned it to the right, latching the glass doors with a metallic snap. Standing there, Frizzo made a point not to look at the vehicle or make eye contact with its driver. Her workday was supposed to be over.
Get in your car. Go home.
As Frizzo walked, she could hear the car engine shut down, the driver’s door creak open.
Don’t turn around, the chief told herself. Don’t look up. Don’t make eye contact. Walk to your car.
As Frizzo reached down to open her car door, unable to help herself, she glanced up. The woman who had parked in front of the building now stood at the locked precinct doors, pulling on the handle, cupping her hands around her eyes, peering inside, frustrated nobody was around.
Frizzo could see the woman was anxious.
Then the woman turned. Stared directly at the chief.
Laura Frizzo saw “help me” written all over her face.
“Yes, ma’am, of course—what is it?” Frizzo said, rushing toward the woman.
The blond, middle-aged woman seemed more upset and worried than frazzled. “Yes, I . . . I . . . ,” she tried to say.
Something’s not right here, Frizzo knew.
“Why don’t we go inside and talk,” Frizzo suggested.
And there it was: the rub of being a cop—it’s not what you do; it’s who you are.
Thirty-four-year law enforcement veteran, IRPD sergeant Cindy Barrette was due in at any minute for her ten-hour shift, Frizzo knew. As she and the woman walked in, What was another couple of minutes waiting with someone in need? the chief considered. Soon as Cindy arrived, Frizzo could hand her whatever problem the woman had and continue on her way home.
“My friend,” the woman explained to Frizzo, “it’s my friend Chris. I think . . . well, he’s missing. I’ve made several attempts to contact him . . . and . . . well, um, I found his car . . .”
At the time fifty-three-year-old Chris Regan Sr.’s disappearance was reported, Laura Frizzo, with eighteen years behind an IRPD badge, was the first woman in Upper Michigan to be named police chief. She had held the highest job in the IRPD since January 1, 2014. Ten months. A single mother, the forty-five-year-old self-proclaimed “gym rat,” lifting weights five days a week if she had her way, was in better physical shape than most twenty-year-old females. During working hours, Frizzo wore her brown hair tied back in a ponytail, curly ribbons dangled over to one side, naturally flowing down her shoulders. Frizzo carried a wholesome look about her, with the chiseled facial features of a model. Still, she was street-tough and strong-willed. Make no mistake, Laura Frizzo could handle any situation she might find herself in as a cop in a small town replete with the same problems plaguing the rest of the country.
Frizzo’s career in law enforcement began with the Grand Rapids Police Department (GRPD) after she was graduated from the Kalamazoo Police Academy. Although her reign as IRPD chief would end in controversy—Frizzo having no idea in this moment the impetus for that personal and politically driven public shitstorm had just begun—most of the town’s three thousand residents respected the chief and believed Frizzo was the most qualified person for the job. She was liked by many and praised for her tenacity, integrity, and overall experience as a peace officer.
“Take a seat,” Frizzo said as she and the woman walked into the precinct. “Let’s talk about this.”
Iron River, Michigan, sits about 140 miles north of Green Bay, just over the Wisconsin state line. The town butts up against the edge of the Ottawa National Forest, far west of the most northern tip of Lake Michigan, due south of the middle point of Lake Superior. This is Fargo-like country, complete with a touch of the “you-betcha” accent. The snow in winter can accumulate hip-high without warning, the air cold and dry as a freezer burn. There are over three thousand miles of snowmobile track throughout the state. Several Native American reservations are scattered about the immediate area around Iron River. It’s quiet. Secluded. Wide open. Generally flat. Friendly. Homey. And totally Midwestern. Yet, despite Iron River being such a small town, the heroin (opioid) epidemic, like mostly everywhere else, has sucked up any serenity the landscape and law-abiding citizens might offer. Meth has become a problem for the IRPD, too. With this, of course, come the burglaries, larcenies, B&Es, home invasions, and associated violence.
“All sorts of problems, not enough police officers,” Frizzo said.
Still, all that police business being part of a normal IRPD day, people up here don’t go missing without reason, and even the most unassuming local cops can become the biggest pains in your ass if you’re trying to deceive, take advantage of, or break the law. Though they might don wool caps with Elmer Fudd earflaps during the coldest months, ten pounds’ worth of winter boots, and heavy, parka-type down coats with furry collars, these cops are quiet and resolute. When someone walks
into a PD talking about a missing friend or family member, cops don’t roll their eyes and shoo them away, thinking the person is overreacting. They listen. Respond. Make a promise to find out what happened.
“Please explain what is going on,” Frizzo prompted the woman.
Just then, Cindy Barrette walked in. “Evening. What’s going on?”
Good, Frizzo thought. She could turn the case over and get home at a decent hour for a change. If it turned into something bigger than a worried-over-nothing friend, Cindy would call, and Frizzo could jump back in.
The chief explained to her sergeant the facts she gathered, telling Barrette if she was needed in any capacity, Barrette should just call, adding, “I’m heading home.” Then, to the woman, “My sergeant here will take a statement from you, ma’am. We’re going to do whatever we can to help.”
Frizzo took a breath, grabbed her things for a second time, and headed out the door.
As she explained the events that led her to the IRPD, fifty-three-year-old schoolteacher Terri O’Donnell said she had known Chris Regan, the so-called “missing man,” since the early ’80s, when they met in a bar while Chris was in the service. They lost touch, but reconnected through Facebook and started dating after Chris’s divorce. By April 2014, Terri and Chris had decided to stop seeing each other romantically, but remained close friends. So much so, they still saw, or at least spoke to, each other two to three times per week.
“I am very family-oriented, he was not. He also had a few problems I couldn’t get around. The relationship didn’t work out. But we would still text, talk on the phone. Sometimes I would see him at the store,” Terri told Barrette.
That store was Jubilee Foods in downtown Iron River. Terri O’Donnell’s parents owned the store and Chris rented a small one-bedroom apartment nearby. They’d often run into each other in the store or parking lot. Say hello. Catch up.
As Terri spoke to Barrette, she was certain of the last time she saw Chris Regan. Almost two weeks before, on October 14, 2014. Since that day, Terri said, she’d texted Chris, driven by his apartment, banged on his door. She’d called and called and called. But came up short every time. This was so unlike Chris. Terri could think of no reason for him to avoid her.
“He was very good at returning calls and texts,” Terri said.
Barrette encouraged Terri to take a breath. Slow down. The sergeant took her coat off, hung it on the back of her chair, sat down, and took out a standard UD-3E form.
“We’re going to file a missing person’s report.”
“Okay,” Terri agreed, nodding her head.
“What makes you think he’s not answering his phone?”
“It goes directly to voice mail.”
Terri was firm on the date: October 14.
“How so?” Barrette asked.
“Well, on that morning, I spoke to a friend of mine who works with Chris . . . and he had said that was about the last time Chris had shown up at work.”
Chris never missed work. He went in at five a.m. on most days and stayed until three, four, or five p.m. Nearly two weeks now and no one at the job had seen or heard from him.
“Also,” Terri mentioned, “his storage unit in Caspian is still full of his belongings.”
Something was off. The entire situation had a bad feeling about it, Barrette felt, without sharing her feelings with Terri.
“When was that—the day you spoke to your friend?”
“October twenty-third.”
“Parents? Kids?”
“His folks are deceased. He has two sons.”
Chris worked at Lake Shore, also known as Oldenburg Group Incorporated, a large employer in town. Oldenburg, a private company, manufactured defense and mining equipment.
As Terri explained Chris’s situation, she told Barrette he was planning a move to Asheville, North Carolina, but wasn’t scheduled to leave, as far as she knew, until November 1. Terri believed Chris was going to pick up one of his two sons along the way (having no idea they were going separately). Still, Chris had his dream job lined up. He was looking forward to the change. Starting a new life away from Iron River.
“He was excited to begin a new chapter and move to North Carolina,” someone close to the case later commented. Chris Regan was an air force veteran. North Carolina was a state he had been stationed in previously. “He loved the outdoors, wine, particularly biking, and his kayak. He took his camera with him wherever he went to record his adventures.”
Most unsettling, Terri explained, was that Chris’s car was not parked where he usually left it in the apartment complex lot. “I just found out Chris had a drug test scheduled on October fifteenth in relation to his job, which he did not show up for,” she added.
Barrette’s concern grew.
“When I spoke to Chris’s coworker, my friend, he told me he thought he’d seen Chris’s car at the park-and-ride in Bates,” Terri said.
Part of Iron County, Bates Township is directly east of Iron River, about a ten-minute, five-mile drive. Odd that Chris would park his vehicle there. He loved that car, a Genesis Sport. Why would he leave it in Bates for this long? Terri O’Donnell wondered.
Terri said: “So I went up there to see for myself if it was actually Chris’s car.”
“What did you find out?”
“It was late last Thursday night. I saw it. Definitely his vehicle. I looked inside and saw some of his personal belongings. So that next day, Friday, I tried again to contact him—because I actually wanted to get into his apartment to see what was going on.”
Terri thought maybe Chris was home, had somehow gotten hurt, and could not get hold of anyone. Or he’d taken terribly ill and was unable to communicate. On top of that, two items in particular inside Chris’s car struck Terri as belongings Chris would never go without—his water bottle and a second bottle he used as a “spittoon” to regurgitate spittle from chewing tobacco. Both were on the front seat. A knee brace Chris had been wearing was also on the passenger seat. Seeing all of this alarmed Terri. She never saw Chris without them. Seeing it made her nervous. Why would he leave his car parked there and all those personal items behind?
“What did you do next?”
“I went after work on Friday to Jubilee Foods to see if I could get a spare set of keys to Chris’s apartment. I wanted to go in and see if he was okay.”
“Did you get in?”
“I also texted him to tell him I was going in—I was going to do this. I was concerned maybe he was injured or hurt inside the apartment.”
“What did you find out?”
“I wasn’t able to get inside the apartment on Friday.”
“Why not?”
“Well, the extra set of keys to his apartment was not in the, um, lockbox, where they keep them. That set is missing.”
Cindy Barrette sat in front of Terri O’Donnell, took notes, building on that UD-3E. It all had an air of suspicion. Terri was obviously distraught over her friend having not been heard from in so long. This did not feel like an adult disappearing on his own, getting away from family and friends for a few days to cool off or be alone.
It had a far different pulse.
Chris Regan had left his life in the middle of it—without telling anyone.
He had vanished.
3
DAD
CHRIS REGAN JR. WAS BEYOND CONCERNED. DAYS, THEN A WEEK, HAD gone by since that morning he opened his iPhone and did not see a call or text from his father.
Then two weeks.
Not a word.
They’d been talking about moving. Junior had his car loaded. They had a place to live set up in Asheville. Now Junior was pacing in his empty apartment, wondering what to do. Who should he call? His brother and mother, only because they lived so far away, rarely spoke to Senior. Would Senior, an adult, even be considered a missing person if Junior called someone? He was conflicted and confused.
Still: Something is wrong.
Chris Regan Sr. grew up in Northville, M
ichigan, which is divided by Oakland and Wayne Counties, an area suburb of the Detroit metropolitan region of the state. Chris met his wife, who lived in Rochester, while they were in high school. They were married not long after graduation: a quintessential American, Midwestern family.
“I remember camping a lot,” Junior recalled. “My dad showed us lots of love. Took us places. He introduced us to the outdoors. He put me on my first bicycle. I’ve always had cycling in my life.”
In the air force, Senior was a CAT 2 racer, mountain bikes. CAT 2 is a classification for serious cyclists that has to be maintained by entering races and scoring enough points.
“It’s like a step below pro,” Junior said. “He was very successful while being on the Air Force Road Racing Team.”
Sailing was another outdoors passion senior adored, whether on a Sunfish, small lake craft, or a big boat on the ocean.
“He loved being on the water.”
That love for the water led Chris into scuba diving, which he took as seriously as he did most anything else.
“While he was in the air force, he spent, like, eight months on the island of Micronesia, where he did lots of scuba diving in what he told me was one of the best locales in the world to dive.”
The Federated States of Micronesia is a country actually spread out like blots of ink across the western Pacific Ocean, comprising more than six hundred islands in total. It is often described as “diver’s heaven.”
When Junior and his dad trained on mountain bikes together, it was a time that later brought about the best memories from the son. Senior was a motivator. He pushed his boy to the max—but in a healthy, positive way.
“Come on, Chris!” the son could hear his father screaming from behind while heading up a trail. Junior had hit a wall of fatigue, his legs burning with pain, throbbing with discomfort. “Don’t think about your legs, son. Just keep pushing. Don’t give up! Don’t give up! Think about winning.”
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