Lost Girls

But neither come. Only his voice, struggling for calm.

''Mr. Crane, this is a pretrial conference. It is meant to assist in defining the issues of trial, thereby to expedite procedure. It's not an opportunity to practice your closing submissions, nor am I a witness obliged to sit through a test run of your cross-examination strategy. I'm pleased to answer your inquiries, but I find your argumentative tone extremely inappropriate.''

Then he sits back again. The redness (at least the additional redness) drains from his face and his upper lip is released from its seizure.

''Quite right, Mr. Goodwin,'' I admit, vaguely impressed by the big man's performance. ''I'm aware that what you call my argumentative tone can sometimes get the better of me. I suppose it just wouldn't let me sit here, having appreciated what I take to be the full extent of the Crown's evidence, without pointing out its woeful deficiencies. Sometimes my argumentative tone overwhelms me when a client of mine has been charged with the highest criminal offense known to our law on the basis only of catalog pictures, muddy slacks, a haunted lake, and crossed fingers on the outcome of what will in any event be inconclusive DNA results. For this, I apologize.''

I rise at this point, collecting the stacks of papers left on the table and sticking them randomly into Goodwin's accordion file, now mine. But I can't help noticing at the upper extreme of my vision a wet-looking grin moving across the fat man's mouth.

''You think I don't wish I had more? I know darn well the limitations of my case, Mr. Crane.''

I direct a mocking snort at his ''darn well,'' but once again he continues as though he hadn't noticed.

''There's a difference between you and me, Mr. Crane. And it's likely not one of the differences that's already occurred to you. The thing is, you want to win this case because it would be doing yourself a service. I want to win because I believe Thomas Tripp is guilty. Everyone in this town knows it. He tried to steal his own daughter once, and when he couldn't do that, he stole someone else's.''

''Very nice, very--''

''And you know what else?'' He raises himself from his chair in a single movement of surprising agility, extending his arm in my direction at the same time. ''I believe you know this yourself.''

''You can't tell me what I believe.''

''No, I can't. But I'll ask you this. Next time you have a talk with your client take a good long look into his eyes and tell me he didn't do it.''

The meeting's over. His hand, puffy and spotted white, wavers before me. When I finally take it he gives my own hand a long, dry squeeze.

It's ridiculous how some small, totally inconsequential things can come to drive you nuts. But what bothers me about this handshake is that it's my hand that's slick with moisture when it should be his. It's my sweat that is wiped from the fat man's hand onto the front of his cheap pants.

chapter 10

The Murdoch Public Library is located across the street from the courthouse in what used to be the manse of St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church, a dour, cracked-plaster affair that epitomizes the town's no-nonsense Protestant aesthetic. Who knows where the minister lives today (perhaps tucked away in the basement and dusted off once a week to deliver a sermon to his diminishing, blue-rinsed congregation), but what used to be the dining room, sitting room, and even the kitchen of his residence are now clotted with book stacks, a couple of study carrels next to the windows, and, in the place where the stove and sink used to be, a bearded man with alarmingly dark eyes seated behind a wooden desk shuffling index cards. When I approach I note first that he and I are the only ones in the place, and second that he's not seated at all but standing, and is a man who, given the benefit of the doubt, may be estimated to reach the height of four foot six.

''Can I help you?'' he asks in a voice deeper than would seem possible for a man his size, plush and tranquilizing as a late-night dj's.

''Hope so. I understand that you have a newspaper here in town. A weekly?''

''The Murdoch Phoenix.''

''Indeed. I was wondering if there's back copies of it on microfilm, or if you have it on-line?''

''Neither, I'm afraid. But we do keep a pile of them in the Periodicals section. It's the pantry to your left.''

A glance in that direction reveals a room the size of a walk-in closet off the kitchen with a foldaway table, battered oak chair, and, on the shelves around them, yellowing editions of the local paper.

''I see. Well, would you mind if . . . ?''

''Not at all.'' He gestures a babyish hand at the chair. ''Can I ask if you're conducting any particular type of research?''

He has stepped out from behind the desk now and placed his hands on his hips in a let's-get-down-to- business pose. Something in the bemused crinkle at the corners of his mouth communicates intelligence, and the directness with which he meets my eyes leads me to suspect he's not snooping, that his interests are wholly professional.

''What I'm interested in, to be precise, are news stories having to do with the lost girls.''

With this he remains perfectly still for a nearly uncomfortable length of time. Then, briefly, a smile appears and recedes into the fur of his beard.

''Then you'd be Bartholomew Crane,'' he says. ''I'm Doug Pittle. We ran a story on you in the last issue.''

'' 'We'?''

'' 'I,' actually. Aside from being head librarian, I'm also publisher, sales director, and editor in chief of The Murdoch Phoenix. I hope you don't mind the publicity, but it's nothing too terribly inflammatory, I assure you. In fact, I think you'll find that the Phoenix--that is, I--have taken a more balanced view of the case than even the Toronto papers and considerably more than the television news, needless to say.''

''A profile? Where did you get my bio? As far as I'm aware, I'm not yet listed in the Who's Who.''

''I'm a researcher, Mr. Crane. It's amazing the things you can find if you look in the right places.'' As he speaks he guides me to the pantry and pushes the door half-closed to provide a level of privacy as well as a flow of oxygen into the tiny room. ''If you need any help, I'll be here until we close at six.''

''How did you--''

''It's a small town,'' he says flatly, and retreats back to his desk.

Before I get started I wonder at how Doug Pittle so smoothly resisted a prolonged exchange and at the same time left me with the impression that further conversation would come later. No doubt he had himself a long experience of living among the damaged goods that constitute the better part of Murdoch's population, and he knew that, in time, another like himself would have to eventually seek refuge in the one place where they could be surrounded by the calming presence of books.

So it is that I find my nose stuck in the crimpled pages of the May seventeenth issue of The Murdoch Phoenix, when the girls were first reported missing. The initial story ran as a front-page blurb noting that two local students had not been seen since the previous Thursday (the Phoenix was published every Tuesday) and that, the girls being close friends, it was suspected by police that they'd most likely ''run off for the weekend.'' The next issue featured two pictures of the girls, the same yearbook portraits published in every paper in the country. Smiling, floral Sunday-best dresses, side by side, blanketing the top half of the front page. One light haired and dimple chinned, the other dark and freckled, blue eyed both.

The story below told of how the police were now of a radically different opinion from that of the week before, how search teams were being arranged throughout the area, how armed forces helicopters were brought in to run aerial patterns over a hundred-square-mile grid, and how two senior Ontario Province Police homicide detectives had been assigned to the case to ''explore potential foul-play scenarios.'' In the weeks that followed, stories