Lost Girls

doesn't move.

''I'll be back in twenty minutes,'' the guard says.

''Look, I'm permitted as much time with my client as I require, as both you and the warden are well aware, and--'' I start, and would continue (my appetite for laying into gnomish quasiofficials sufficiently whetted), but he stops me by raising his small palms in surrender.

''Quite so! Quite so! Take all the time you need, Mr. Crane. Just you knock whenever you're through.''

He skips out of the room with something near a click of his heels--suddenly the sprightly leprechaun--and leaves Tripp standing in the same position as when he was brought in, seemingly unaware of the negotiations going on around him.

''Please sit down,'' I tell him, once more indicating the seat on the other side of the table. Once more he seems not to hear.

''Mr. Tripp, you'll soon learn that I'm an unconventional sort of lawyer, open to almost any innovation in protocol, with the sole exception of conducting interviews with those who insist on standing while I'm seated. So, please, for my benefit, won't you sit down?''

''You're my lawyer?''

''Didn't your local counsel, Mr. Norton, confirm this with you? It was upon his recommendation that you have retained the firm of Lyle, Gederov for your defense. I'm their associate, Bartholomew Crane, although I urge you to call me Barth.''

''Ah, yes,'' he says with a flare of recognition. ''So you're to be my winged monkey, are you?''

''Is that how Mr. Norton described me to you?''

''Not exactly.''

Neither of us says anything for a time until I conclude that the responsibility of carrying out the niceties is to be borne by me alone.

''Well, for what it's worth,'' I say, and extend my hand, which snaps him out of whatever spell had been placed over his motor skills. He gives me a firm, if somewhat moist, handshake.

''I'm Thom Tripp,'' he says, and finally slumps into the opposite chair.

''Well, I've reviewed your file, Mr. Tripp, and--''

''Thom.''

''Thom, yes--thanks--reviewed your file, and now I need to talk to you about your view of things. You offered no statement to the police, which was wise. But what I need now is all the background stuff, anything you feel is relevant. Especially what you think the Crown may already know that I may not yet know, if you see what I mean.''

He looks at me and breathes through enlarged nostrils, as though he requires more air than his nose was originally designed to accommodate. His file gave his age as forty-two, but I would have put him a few years older. Not because of the usual evidence of baldness, gray hair, or wrinkles (his skin is smooth and his hair, although thin, covers most of his scalp and is more brown than anything else), but from the sticky weariness of his eyes. Aside from this one might even say he has an air of youth about him, a schoolboy-turned-schoolteacher precision to his features along with the eager, craning effect of a head sitting a little too high on top of his neck. But the eyes show something else, a white space between sagging rims and irritated lids onto which time has projected itself. Not the face of a handsome man, but there's a neatness to the mouth and wide brow that suggests he probably pulls off a pleasant appearance in photos taken from at least ten feet away. This, I would guess, is the minimum distance required to diminish the dark grief smeared around his eyes.

''You want to know if I did it,'' he says abruptly, the big nostrils opening wide to release a long gust whistling up from his lungs.

''Glad you brought that up. I should let you know right off that all communications between you and me are privileged, and as such are not admissible in court. That's on the technical side. On the practical side I don't need to know if you did it. And as for my wanting to know, if I had to express a preference, I don't think I do. In my experience such things rarely make a difference.''

''Such things?''

''The truth, as it were.''

''So you don't care if I'm the one or not?''

''Mr. Tripp, a good part of what you pay me for is to remain single minded. Caring would cost considerably more.''

For a moment he holds himself as though caught by an unexpected flashbulb explosion--eyes peeled back, breath held--and absorbs the words that hang between us.

''Maybe I'm the one who needs to know,'' he says finally.

''Well, unless your two former students show up with some additional information, I would have thought that you're the only one who does.''

That's when the tears start. A series of transparent globes coursing over his skin with such speed that in a single moment they begin to drip steadily from his chin onto the table's surface. What's most strange about this performance is that he doesn't apologize. Doesn't wipe his face with his sleeve or turn his head away.

''Well, that's fine. You don't really know,'' I start, slapping at my jacket pockets to find that I've forgotten to pack my Kleenex. ''That's okay. In fact, that may be good. We can get on without that information, so let's not worry about it for the moment.''

''Not worry about it. No.''

He smiles at me briefly. But maybe not, the parting and closing of his lips so swift that it may have only been an exhalation of air, although that job appeared to be ably performed by his nose alone. What's more certain is that the tears, so sudden and gushing a moment before, are now gone, leaving only two dishwater stains down his cheeks.

''Can we go on now, Mr. Tripp? Thom?''

He inhales.

''You were the girls' teacher, yes?''

''I taught English.''

''For how long?''

''A year. They were very bright.''

''Oh?''

''Not the best grades in the class, but pretty close. They were interested.''

''In what?''

''Books, poetry. Stories. Good Lord, they were even interested in what I had to say!'' He laughs at this obviously old and tested joke with a determined effort.

''And they would come to see you after class for extra help?''

''They didn't need my help. They were just interested.''

''But on the day they disappeared--did they come after class to speak with you then?''

''Which day?''

''The day in question, Mr. Tripp.''

''Which day of the week?''

I gauge his seriousness in this, but his face is unchanging, so I check the file.

''It appears it was a Thursday.''

''Then, yes, because the Literary Club met on Thursdays. That was when we'd talk.''

''So on that Thursday, after you got together to talk, did you go for a drive?''

''Drive . . .''

''To the lake. Did you take the girls to Lake St. Christopher?''

He lifts his eyes away from mine and up to the ceiling, blinks into the anemic fluorescent light as though in brief prayer.

''Do you want to know something funny? I wanted to live in this place ever since I was a kid,'' he says, suddenly breezy. ''Back when my family used to come up from the city in the summers. I thought that one day when I was old enough I'd move here and live on that lake in my own little place forever.''

''I see. But what--''