Lost Girls (25 page)

''So?''

''Beg pardon?''

''You have some news?''

''Oh, yes. Certainly do. There's new materials to be added to the Crown's previous disclosure.''

''New materials?''

''I advise you to come round and have a look yourself because--''

''What is it?''

''It may not be appropriate over the--''

''Tell me what you've got, Goodwin.''

''Perhaps--''

''
Now,
if you don't mind.''

There's a pause as the big man at the other end takes a labored breath of savored pleasure.

''The DNA results are in. The blond hair in the Volvo, Krystal's hairbrush, and the backseat bloodstains,'' he says, taking another full breath to deliver the next two words.

''They match.''

I think of the single photograph in my space in the city. How its details are more distinct here than if held directly to my eyes, the faces assuming a life they've been denied in their time spent behind the frame's glass. The smiles turning to laughter in the moment after the shutter closes, my mother's high and breathless, my father's a regular series of quarter notes, the same rattling string plucked on a stand-up bass. What caused them to laugh this way, to fall into each other's arms, dizzy from its release? It's the recognition of their own foolishness, the spectacle they're making --married adults made giddy by posing for a vacation snapshot--this is the fun part. Otherwise serious people whose company could still wipe all seriousness away, a shared joke passing wordlessly between them.

Slide my hand over the papered walls of the honeymoon suite and work my way back. My mother first, the chances always better with her. But the effort only yields the same jittery super-8 clips, over and over: sitting behind the wheel of a station wagon, turning to face me while she talked and me wishing she'd just keep her eyes on the road; raising a glass of white wine to her lips with one hand while lowering dirty plates into the dishwasher with the other after the dinner-party guests had finally left; lifting the lid of a mother-of-pearl jewelry box to pull out a pair of earrings while inspecting her wrinkles in the bureau mirror. What else? Her mouth. Thin, but generous with kisses.

At least with my father I've got the facts. All the handed-down accounts and loving testimonials from various peripheral Cranes, the caretakers for the remaining years of preadult purgatory that followed my parents' death. With them I was brought up on sighed repetitions of how great my father was and how kind, examples of the infinite extent of his patience, and always, in hushed wonder, a word about his renowned devotion to his wife. Always, too, a hand placed on my cheek. The same cheek, the very same
face
as my father, it was said. So much your father's son!

For all the years I spent at boarding school I refused to look at myself in mirrors. Wore my hair in a crew cut so I never needed to find where to part it. When I was old enough to shave I did so in the dark, feeling for the missed patches with my fingertips. Through these habits I came to forget my own face. I wanted enough time to pass so that when I looked again I would see neither father nor mother, and only myself. They were gone now, and what little they'd left me with was slipping away. And if I couldn't know enough to make them whole, I would know nothing at all.

When I looked again in the mirror I saw all the same things I thought I'd forgotten, except now less distinct, anonymous, a face made up of used parts.

The next time I looked I was a man.

As soon as Goodwin told me that the blond hair and bloodstains found in the back of Tripp's Volvo had matched, I hung up on him. Not a very professional response, I suppose, but sometimes an inclination for spontaneity can get the better of me. This is regrettable for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that now I'm not certain what the test results actually are.

Later I call Goodwin's office back but his secretary tells me he's out for the rest of the day, so I make an appointment for the next morning. And when the morning comes I'm out early. A little too early as it turns out, as I have to wait outside the courthouse doors in the rain for half an hour before they're opened. This is still preferable to any extra time spent alone in my room surrounded by the Incredible Grinning Wallpaper, yet to be removed for reasons unclear even to myself. Every time I reach out to hitch a finger under the corner of one of the pages my arm freezes before it gets there and only a double-barreled whack from the thermos permits the full use of my limbs again. I'd rather stand in the rain.

When the doors are finally opened I settle myself in Goodwin's office and wait for his arrival. By the time he shifts his gut around the corner of his desk I've thoroughly drenched the chair I sit in, drops of water plinking onto the waxed tiles underneath.

''You need a towel?'' Goodwin gusts, a regretful grin visible beneath overhanging cheeks.

''That won't be necessary. I prefer evaporation.''

''I'm not one to tell another man his business, but you really should get your hands on an umbrella.''

''I'll take it under advisement.''

Goodwin shrugs, extends his thick arms out over the stacked papers on his desk, finding what he was looking for and lifting it back in front of him. All of this is done with such deliberate movements, one can feel the man's concentration, his struggle to animate a body that, if left to its own devices, would choose inertia and continued enlargement over action and purpose.

''This is the full text of the DNA test results,'' he says, patting the file's cover with his palm. ''My secretary is assembling your copy right now.''

''That's fine. In the meantime, however, could you give me an idea of precisely what the results
are
?''

Goodwin gives me a look that suggests that maybe if I'd stayed on the line for five more minutes I would have known the results yesterday, but it's more a look of amusement than anger. It's not right. I'd rather he simply not like me than find me funny.

''Well, as I indicated yesterday, there's a match.''

''Between what?''

''Krystal's hairbrush sample, the backseat hair, and the blood.''

''Only Krystal?''

''That's right. As far as the
blood
goes. But there's also a match between the dark hair found in the backseat and the sample taken from Ashley's brush. Now, if you require an adjournment in order to review these conclusions, I'd be prepared to consent--''

''There will be no need for an adjournment. And what conclusions could possibly follow from any of this? Or I should say, what conclusions do
you
think might follow?''

''Well, I think the blood and the hair that matches it both come from Krystal McConnell. That's clear. And I think this fact further indicates that she was in Tripp's car --likely on several occasions--and that on at least one of those occasions she was bleeding.''

''Bleeding
when
?''

''The test doesn't determine that.''

''Exactly. So she could have left those drops there anytime. And we're talking about
drops,
nothing more.''

''I don't see--''

''
I
don't see what you think you have here, Pete. Hair and a few red stains.''

''Well, on a balance of probabilities, I think we can show--''

''
Fuck
'on a balance of probabilities'! Unless there's been some radical new development in the search for McConnell and Flynn's bodies, they're still missing, right? And that's all you know for sure. You know the two girls left their hair in their teacher's car, but nobody's denying he drove them home after class sometimes, so there's nothing interesting about that. And the blood? Not the volume you'd expect from mortal wounds, is it? And from only one of them. Seems you've got more explaining to do with this evidence than me. Or am I missing something?''

''There are witnesses that will testify to seeing Tripp and the girls together in the car at various times. Maybe you're forgetting that.''

''No, I'm
not
. I'm
not
forgetting that. I'm merely disregarding it because it's irrelevant.''

''I don't think it's irrelevant. I think this is evidence that connects the girls and their blood to Tripp and his car. It's a connection I believe the jury will make as well.''

''Juries will make connections between anything if you ask them nicely. But they can just as easily be told to pay no attention to any of it. And don't forget I get to go last.''

He sighs sharply, the sound of airbrakes released by an idling tractor trailer. Something about it makes me want to pull a clump of his curling nose hairs out with my bare fingers.

''Mr. Goodwin,'' I say instead. ''I'll share with you what my mentor, Graham Lyle, often told me whenever I'd try to see more in the facts than was actually there. He'd tell me, 'Bartholomew, it's a fatal mistake for counsel to allow wishful thinking to stand in the way of logic.' ''

The folds of Goodwin's shirt dive beneath the desk and his head 3-D's forward, the redness in the cheeks now raised to the level of his hairline.

''Don't
patronize
me, Mr. Crane. All right? That's all I ask. You can play the cocky bastard as much as you like. I don't care. But
don't
tell me how to do my job.''

I'll say this: These words are delivered convincingly.

''Fair enough.'' I flutter my eyes closed. ''I agree to refrain from any further impositions of professional advice. You have my word.''

''Thank you. Now perhaps we could return to any outstanding matters regarding the supplementary disclosure. Do you have any questions I can help you with?''

The flash of anger is already gone, the color fading from hanging jowls. No question about it: this guy has some impressive skills in the emotional self-control department. Not surprising, really, considering the man's endured a lifetime of being too quickly dismissed. Maybe he's trained himself to use this to his own advantage--wait for his opponents to stop taking him seriously, and then roll over them. More likely he's just developed a couple of tricks in order to preserve his dignity. And who could blame him for that?

''I'd like to know about your witness list, as a matter of fact,'' I say through a surprisingly urgent throat clearing. ''Who's going when?''

''Well, I expect to begin with Bill Butcher, the OPP's chief investigating officer on the case. He'll do a review of the essential Crown evidence.''

''Right. Who's next?''

''My psychological expert, who'll provide background on the current leading theories on the motivations behind child abduction, that kind of thing.''

''But nobody's even done a psych evaluation on Tripp yet.''

''That's true. We're interested only in mapping out certain general background factors--''

''But he can't say anything directly
about
him, right?''

''No. Not directly, no.''

''Sure, sure. And then?''

''The teachers. They'll talk about Tripp's apparent breakdown following losing custody of his daughter, giving the girls rides, his relationship with them in the Literary Club.''

''Whatever.''

''Okay. Next it's Mr. McConnell--''

''McConnell? Why? What could he possibly say?''

''Nothing as to the facts, I admit. But I think he deserves an opportunity to address the court. He wants that opportunity.''

''I'm sure he does. But I might as well tell you now that I will object like hell to his being permitted that opportunity.''

''Fine. Whatever the outcome of that, I've next planned for some of Butcher's assisting officers, then our DNA expert to interpret the results, and that's about it. I'll of course give you notice of any further additions.''

Goodwin's secretary steps in behind me with a bound copy of the DNA report held out before her.

''Thanks, Corinne. That one's for Mr. Crane.''

She extends the document out in front of her the full length of her arm as though it's a vicious animal that's been temporarily tranquilized, drops it into my lap, and clicks out of the room.

''Murders make her nervous,'' Goodwin explains.

I stick the report into my case and rise to leave, my damp suit clinging to ribs and thighs in gravity-defying wrinkles.

''Barth, can I tell you something? And I don't mean anything by it beyond professional courtesy.''

''Sure.''

''You don't look so good.''

''No? Well, I'll make a point of being more
attractive
for our next meeting.''

''I didn't mean--''

''Truth is, I haven't been sleeping all that much lately. Burning the midnight oil.''

''Of course. It's a pretty stressful time, I know.''

''Maybe for you, pal. You
should
be stressed. But believe me, I'm fine.''

I turn then, my clothing making an audible squishing sound with every step. Try to keep my back straight as I go but I can't really feel it anymore, and it would make no difference now anyway. It's too late. And the worst of it is that of all the fellow sufferers in this world, it was the fat man who'd felt sympathy for me.