Lost Girls

''You don't know me,'' I say, releasing myself and stepping unsteadily out onto the straw welcome mat.

''No, I don't. But Christ does,'' he says before gently closing the door. ''Christ knows you very well, Mr. Crane.''

chapter 16

The papers on my desk are reproducing. The case law briefs mating with the witness statements, the cross- examination binder having it off with the Post-it notes. Every time I return from the bathroom or a sandwich run there's a new litter of bewildered 81/2 x 11s blinking up at me. Nothing I can do about it but turn my eyes from their hungry faces, venture out into daylight once more for another interview. Today's visit offers about as much promise as the one with McConnell: my own client, Thom Tripp.

Outside, the morning's rain has picked up from a despondent drizzle to a straight and windless assault, heavy drops of cold gathering speed over miles of sky and exploding on my shoulders, pants legs, the crown of my head. I make a mental addition to my shopping list to go along with the thermal undies: heavy-duty umbrella. Too late for this morning, though, and by the time I splash up the front steps to the Murdoch Prison for Men I'm totally soaked, the rain finding its way into places where rain is usually forbidden, such as the inside of my shirt, my shoes, and the crack of my ass. As I approach the reception desk and see the same mischievous guard as before grinning at me, I'm uncomfortably aware of my buttocks squishing and slipping against each other like mating seals.

''Good morn', Mr. Crane. A wet one, isn't it?''

''Wet? You could say wet.''

''Here to see Mr. Tripp?''

''Would there be another reason?''

''No, no.'' He pretends to consider, bringing a thoughtful finger to his razor-burned chin. ''I suppose there wouldn't be, no.''

I'm taken again to Interview Room No. 1, and again the leprechaun tells me to make myself comfortable. It isn't easy, given that I'm once more forced to wait for what I suspect is an intentionally long time, shivering in a drenched suit better designed for striking a nicely cut shape before judges or ordering drinks at mahogany bars than keeping moisture away from the skin. By the time Tripp is produced, the room's institutional coolness has buried itself deep in the bones and I have to swivel my jaw loose before speaking.

''I'm sorry I haven't come to see you sooner, Mr. Tripp-- Thomas--but I've really been diving into things and I just haven't had a second.''

He doesn't respond, but sits down in the chair across the table from me without having to be coaxed.

''How have you been? Are you being treated satisfactorily?'' I ask, testing to see if his verbal skills are on- line.

''I'm fed. I walk around an empty gymnasium forty-five minutes a day. I have two-year-old magazines brought to where I sleep. I'd say I'm treated very well.''

''Well, that's good. Do you have any other concerns, then, anything at all, before we continue?''

He says nothing, but pushes his breath through a slight opening in his lips that whistles out in either resignation or boredom. His eyelids lower a notch at the same time, and I decide to plunge ahead before I lose him altogether.

''I wanted to go through some things with you now, Thomas, some fairly specific things relating to the Crown's evidence. I should tell you right off that so far it all looks quite encouraging. They've got no eyewitnesses, aside from some teachers who saw you and the girls walking to your car after school sometimes, and we're not denying that anyway, are we? But there are still some circumstantial bits and pieces that I'd like to be able to explain away. For instance, the muddy pants in your laundry hamper and the mud on your shoes. Is there any way that could have happened aside from walking through the woods at Lake St. Christopher?''

Tripp drops his elbows on the table and slides them forward as though to form a pillow on which to settle for a nap. But he doesn't go that far, and instead his head hangs unsteadily over his outstretched arms.

''They were dirty so I put them in the laundry,'' he says.

''Of course. But can you think of a way they might have gotten dirty?''

''I took them off to get into bed, saw they were covered in mud, and threw them in the hamper. That's the first time I noticed.''

''Fine, fine. You don't remember how the mud got there. The next thing I need to ask you about, though, are the pictures you kept in your bedroom.''

''Pictures?''

''The catalog pages of female models. Teenagers. On your wall. Remember?''

''Uh-hmm.''

''Could you explain them for me?''

''I liked them there.''

''Why's that?''

''They just stayed there.''

''Stayed for you to look at?''

''They couldn't go anywhere, could they?''

His head moves another inch closer to the table.

''Mr. Tripp, please. What I'm asking for here are specific responses to pieces of evidence that the Crown intends to advance. Understand? So if they say you had pictures of girls modeling underwear on your bedroom wall for bad reasons, we want to say they were there for normal, or at least, not so bad reasons. Now, may I make a suggestion here? Maybe you had those pictures because you lost your daughter in a custody fight with your ex-wife a few years ago, and you missed Melissa so much you put images of other little girls up there to ease your pain. How about that?''

''Melissa?''

''Your daughter. Were you thinking of her when you ripped those pages out of the catalog?''

''No. I don't know. I wasn't thinking. Just that if I put them there, they would stay. Because where could they go?''

Take a deep breath, plow on.

''One more question we need to cover, and this is probably the most important. It's about the bloodstains in the backseat of your car. The police found a few spots on the upholstery, and they've sent traces of them off to the lab along with some blond and dark hair found there as well to see if any of them match. Now, even if they do, all that it shows is that one or both of them were in the back of your car, and that they lost some blood there at some point. It's not conclusive, but you can see how that wouldn't be so good. So let me ask you: do you remember how those bloodstains got there?''

His head is turned away to where it drifted in the middle of my explanation, less from distraction than real puzzlement. The normally tight crease of his mouth is opened up and he chews at his lips with yellowed canines. I give him time. Perhaps these are signs of a struggle toward considered thought, and I'd be a fool to interrupt.

''You didn't mention the shirt,'' he says finally, keeping his head turned away.

''What shirt?''

''Didn't they find it?''

''Find what? The shirt? I'm not aware of any shirt.''

''It's just funny they didn't . . . they had a search warrant. . . .''

''Mr. Tripp, what shirt are you referring to?''

''My shirt. The one in the freezer. If they'd just asked I would've shown them, but they never asked. 'Thom, is there anything else here you could show us?' If they'd said that, I would've taken them to the garage out back, opened up the freezer, and handed it to them. But they never did.''

He laughs gently in disbelief. The kind of laugh one hears in coffee shops and post office lineups from people telling stories of foolish politicians or incompetent bosses. It's the most normal sound I've heard from him yet.

''So your shirt's in the freezer, and the police didn't find it in their search. Okay. But why did you put your shirt in the freezer in the first place?''