Although the children were out of the nest, the three boys stayed in touch regularly with mom and dad. The Bateses lived in a modest home. Enjoyed life as the gift they felt it to be. Philip was like that: a dad who made his boys and wife a priority, not a responsibility that needed to be met. Philip did things from his heart, not some parenting playbook on the best-seller list. And the boys had picked up on this characteristic and had taken after their dad.

“Whatever we did,” one of the kids said later, “Mom and Dad were there supporting us. Beautiful people.”

On Friday night, February 15, 2002, as the ten o’clock hour came to pass, Joan Bates was stressed and worried. She paced in the living room for some time, wondering what was keeping her middle child, Alan, who should have arrived in Marietta from downtown Birmingham hours ago. The day before, Alan flew from his home in Frederick, Maryland, into Alabama so he could give a deposition that Friday in a child custody matter he was pursuing. Alan had gotten remarried four years after he divorced his first wife, a marriage that had produced two wonderful girls. Joan and Philip had two extraordinary grandchildren, who made their hearts shudder every time they thought of them. Alan and his first wife, Jessica McCord, had been at odds over the children—more Jessica’s doing than anything Alan had instigated. Jessica, who had custody of the kids, had kept the girls from Alan for the past several years, making his legal visitations a living hell. Alan had put up with it for years, only because he didn’t want to hurt the children, but he had recently decided it was time to take Jessica to court and fight for custody. The trial was slated to begin in a few weeks, on March 5, 2002. Alan was in Birmingham that Friday, February 15, to give his version of the events (deposition), same as Jessica. His plan was to pick the girls up after the deposition and drive them back to Marietta to spend the weekend with the Bates family.

Quite shockingly, Jessica had okayed the weekend visit.

Looking out the window, wondering where Alan could possibly be, Joan considered that maybe Jessica had changed her mind—it wouldn’t be the first time—and reneged on an earlier agreement to allow Alan to take the kids for the weekend. Jessica often did that: told Alan he could have the kids and then disappeared, nowhere to be found.

At best, Marietta was a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Birmingham. Standing, then sitting, then standing again, Joan did the math: Deposition ends at five, pick up the kids by six, get on the road and into Marietta by—the latest—nine-thirty.

Alan had always called and said he was on his way.

Not tonight.

Philip and Joan expected them around nine, nine-thirty. Joan had dinner waiting, same as she always had.

Where in the heck were they?

Alan was never late. And he never forgot to call. The Bates were alarmed because they knew Alan generally would stop for fast food with the kids along the way and would call from that point on the road to give everyone an approximate time of arrival.

Not one phone call all night, however—and this alone, Joan and Philip believed, was reason enough to be anxious.

To worry.

“We didn’t get the phone call,” Philip said later. “So suspicions were such that we began to think that something was wrong, especially when they weren’t there by ten-thirty.”

Philip put his arm around Joan, consoling her the best he could. “It’s okay. He’ll be here. Probably ran into traffic.”

Joan looked at her husband. “Something’s wrong.” She felt it. That pang in the gut only a mother knew had been tugging at her: Alan had run into some sort of problem.

“I’ll try calling him again.”

Philip dialed Alan’s cell phone.

No answer.

He tried Terra, Alan’s wife. She had gone with Alan.

Again, nothing.

It wasn’t that the phone rang and rang, like it had earlier that night when Philip tried calling both the same numbers. Now, hours after Philip first called, the line immediately rolled over to a computerized phone company message: “This phone is not in use at this time.”

Things were skewed. Bad energy abounded inside the Bates home. Nothing was as it should be.

All they could do, however, was wait.

“I’ll call Jessica,” Philip said, patting Joan gingerly on the back again. He didn’t like calling his ex-daughter-in-law’s house. She was remarried to a Pelham, Alabama, cop. They lived in Hoover, a Birmingham suburb. They were crass people, Philip felt. Bitter and complex. Even arrogant at times. Definitely selfish. It was never an easy, friendly call. All Philip wanted to know was if Alan and Terra had shown up to pick the girls up, as scheduled, and, if so, what time had they left.

Simple questions requiring simple answers.

Philip dialed the number while staring out the window. He was obviously hoping the lights on Alan’s rental car would bounce over the curb at the end of the driveway and, like two beams, hit him in the face as he waited for someone to pick up the line at the McCord home.

No answer.

Another dead end.

By 10:45 P.M., now certain something had happened to their son, his second wife and the children, Philip and Joan Bates decided it was time to call law enforcement. Philip had no idea how far he’d get, or if the cops would be any help. But he couldn’t stand around and do nothing. So he called the Pelham Police Department (PPD) to see if Jeff McCord, Jessica’s husband, had clocked in. Jeff worked second shift. Friday was his night to be on. He should still be reachable by radio or phone. Maybe he knew something.

“No, he’s not here.”

In fact, Philip was told, Jeff had taken the night off.

Philip could not go to sleep without trying to find his son, grandkids and daughter-in-law. He called the Hoover Police Department (HPD). He wanted to know if there had been any reported trouble over at Jessica and Jeff McCord’s Myrtlewood Drive home. Maybe a family squabble. Alan was scheduled to pick up the kids there, Philip knew, somewhere between 6:00 and 6:30 P.M. It would be unlike Alan to engage Jessica in any sort of confrontation. But perhaps Jessica had pushed Alan over his limit. Or maybe Alan and Jeff had words.

Philip needed information.

Anything.

“Officer,” Philip said, “do you have any report of a domestic disturbance at [the McCord’s Myrtlewood Drive home] in Hoover?”

It was after midnight. Joan was dismayed by the course of events. If Alan had stopped and gotten a hotel or run into trouble along the road, Joan and Philip knew he would have called. He was a responsible son. Not calling would eat at Alan. Especially this late into the night. He knew his parents would be waiting and wondering, not sleeping. He would never put them through such a nerve-wracking ordeal.

As she thought about it, tossing and turning, trying to find any amount of sleep she could, there was nothing to convince Joan otherwise: Alan was in big trouble.

The Hoover PD told Philip they didn’t have a report of anything taking place at the McCords’ address, but they would send an officer over to the house to “check things out.” Look around. See what was up.

Philip took a deep breath. Something was going to be done.

The case became known to the HPD from that point on as a routine “overdue motorist call.” It happened a lot. People didn’t show up where they were supposed to. Worried family members called in. The cops conducted a quick drive-by or knocked on the door. Generally, there was a simple explanation behind the missed calls—something that made sense later. A flat tire. A forgotten check-in phone call. A cell phone battery that had gone dead. Someone got food poisoning. A twisted ankle. The emergency room. Forgot to call, Ma, sorry.

There was a thousand and one reasons why people didn’t—or couldn’t—call. It would all make sense in a few hours. Perhaps Alan was stranded somewhere with no cell reception. No pay phone.