Lost Girls

by Andrew Pyper

  “WW II.”

  “That was over fifty years ago!”

  “I know.”

  “So what’s she got to do with Tripp?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure. See, she kept trying to kidnap the kids in town because they’d taken her own kids away from her after they put her in the hospital. But before she could, all the men in town hunted her down and she ended up falling through the ice on the lake. They forced her out there. More or less executed her without a trial or reporting what happened or anything.”

  “The point, Bartholomew?” Graham laughs impatiently.

  “The point is that Mrs. Arthurs is a witness.”

  “A witness to what?” Bert closes in on the receiver again. “To nothing, that’s what. Nothing you have to give a shit about. Your client is Tripp, not a bunch of fucking geriatric vigilante woodsmen.”

  “I know. I know that,” I say, finally hearing my own voice, how reedy and young it must sound at the other end. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “Well then, could we now lower the curtain on Count Barth’s Monster Horror Theatre for a moment and turn our minds to the matter of relevance? For God’s sake boy, if you took every campfire tale this seriously I’m surprised they didn’t throw you in the madhouse long ago. Now can we please proceed, but with the colorful local mythology edited out?”

  There’s the creak of a reclining chair followed by Bert’s laugh that manages, always, to underscore a humiliation.

  I manage to turn to my notes and muddle through a point-by-point summary of Goodwin’s disclosure and the other items I’ve arranged under the heading EVIDENTIARY MATTERS, leaving out Tripp’s bloody button-down, its removal from his freezer and deposit in the trunk of the Lincoln.

  “Well, everything sounds in order. Doesn’t it, Bert?”

  Nothing.

  “If that’s all, Bartholomew, perhaps we can relieve Mr. Tripp now of the burden of our time and have you check in again, maybe next week, say, with a further update before—”

  “There’s something else.”

  I hear my voice scratched up another half octave.

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve been thinking that I may take you up on your earlier offer.”

  “Offer?”

  “I may need some help.”

  Bert snorts.

  “Now, Bartholomew, I’m aware you’re probably feeling nervous. That’s perfectly understandable! My God, I was a wreck on my first murder. There’s so much more to be mindful of. But Bert and I have absolutely every confidence—”

  “It’s fucking open and shut!” Bert shouts, no longer in the background but with his mouth wrapped fully around the receiver. “Open and fucking shut!”

  “It’s not the facts, Bert. It’s the whole thing, keeping it all together, you know?” For a moment there’s no sound but the clicking of Bert’s silver lighter. “I know I’m not being very clear.”

  “No, no, no,” Graham chirps, but his heart’s not in it. “We know exactly what you’re talking about, Bartholomew. It’s only that we know your apprehensions to be perfectly common. No defense lawyer, not a single one known to history is unfamiliar with what you’re experiencing. The eve of trial, the facts disclosed and assembled, strategies considered, your client’s directions clear as they’ll ever be, and still there’s a butterfly in the bowels keeping you up at night. All perfectly common.”

  “Yes. I guess that’s true.”

  Again there is a period with no sound traveling down the line, and it goes on long enough to make it clear that there will be no help from Lyle, Gederov & Associate. Maybe it’s the publicity the case is getting in Toronto, a public outcry against the leniency the courts have shown to perpetrators of violence against children and we’re not going to take it anymore, etc., etc. Or maybe they’ve just decided to let me handle this on my own no matter what comes up for the benefit of enriching my legal education. Whatever it is, the result is clear as the silence that separates us over the conference line.

  “What’s going on with you, Barth?” This is Bert, his voice not quite level but not bristling with his usual rage, either. “Are you trying to say something you haven’t told us yet? Do you have a real problem up there or not?”

  Good question. And what I end up saying surprises me, the words escaping my mouth before I have a chance to haul them back in.

  “I’m scared,” I say.

  There’s a long pause free even of clicked lighter, creaking chair or blown smoke. And when a response finally comes, it comes from Bert.

  “It’s your fucking job to be scared,” he says with what might be taken for the restraint one hears in words of confession or kindness.

  TWENTY

  There’s an orange line down the middle of the Georgian Lakes High School parking lot that separates the pickup trucks from the rest of the cars. A sign at the entrance clearly tells you which way to go: TRUCKS to the left and PARKING to the right. It can’t be a space concern, as the lot stretches far beyond where the vehicles end, all the way to a low wire fence that divides the pavement from the cemetery beyond. Maybe it’s a kind of mechanical social club, the trucks preferring the company of their own kind and the cars just having to get along with each other in the automotive melting pot. And they’re all here: the peppy Japanese sidled up to the overfed Americans and, standing alone among them, the silent Germans, conserving their energy. To the left, the pickups sit solemnly together, backs to the crowd. Bumpers and rear windows pasted with their founding principles: “Register My Firearms? No Fucking Way!” and “Ass, Gas or Grass—Nobody Rides for Free.” But whatever the rationale for the rule I obey it along with everyone else and park the Lincoln at the end of the line of cars, an overbearing guest that everyone pretends not to notice.

  It’s a long walk to the steel doors at the brick backside of the school’s main building, past the whittled benches of the smoking area and the cluster of yellow portables, each slightly lopsided on shifting cement blocks. Beyond them, the playing field goalposts raise their arms to the sky as though praying for rescue. The shouts and whistles of athletic practice. A flutter of papery carbon drifting down from the incinerator’s smokestack.

  This is all as I expected, but once inside I’m suddenly disoriented. I thought I’d feel grown-up, an oversize man high above the gaggle of children, the hallway drinking fountains passing at my knees. But instead everything feels enlarged, stark and looming under the fluorescent lights. Especially all the dark-eyed kids standing at their lockers on either side of me, staring out at passersby like penitentiary inmates. Many boys and some of the plat-form-shoed girls as tall as me, some taller. They say nothing as I go by, but there’s still a confusion of noise: resumed conversations and scoffing laughter over my shoulder, a muffle of late-’8os AC/DC played too loud over the P.A. between classes. Yet all of them notice me, their faces set to show how unimpressed they are that an unidentified adult is passing through their school.

  Or not just any adult. Bartholomew Crane. Mr. Tripp’s lawyer, the guy whose picture was in last week’s Phoenix. Maybe it’s not adolescent rudeness that makes them stare; maybe they know who I am. And who else would I be? Nobody around here wears shoes like this or a shiny satin tie of hand-painted orchids. Even the gawky grade nines have figured it out, young enough to point at my face without concern that I may have seen them do it. And aren’t those the doughnut shop girls standing up ahead, there in the corner next to the trophy case? I probably couldn’t recognize them anyway, having not gotten a good look the first time. But I decide it must be them. And though I can’t hear anything above the electric guitar solo now shattering down on us all from the ceiling speakers, I know they’re talking about me.

  I turn the corner furthest from where they stand and slide along the wall. Push aside a couple of guys in Dungeons & Dragons T-shirts on my way into the principal’s office. But when I look back through the window the doughnut shop girls are gone, washed away in the rough stream of pass
ing kids.

  “Can I help you?” the secretary behind the counter is asking me, maybe for the third time.

  “I have an appointment with Principal Warren.”

  “Oh yes.”

  It’s not until after the secretary has flicked a switch on the panel beside her and spoken—“Mr. Crane here to see you”—that I realize she never asked for my name.

  “Would you like to take a seat?” she asks me, and I would, but before I can make a move Principal Warren is shuffling out at me from her office, her legs constrained by a long wool skirt coiled tight around her hips.

  “Mr. Crane,” she says with a trace of exasperation, as though she’d been looking for me all over the place.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” I say, extending my hand. But instead of shaking it she slides her fingers across my palm as though wiping something off her own hand onto mine.

  “My office?”

  “Fine.”

  I follow the moving pillar of her skirt into a small cement room decorated by yellowed certificates set in crooked frames. On her desk a family photograph posed before a gas fireplace—wife nested in an armchair and behind her two boys in braces with a chunky husband gathering them up by the shoulders—that somehow looks as though it was generated by a computer. Principal Warren herself is now standing above me next to her desk, looking down at me with the same expression as in the family photo: impatient, suspicious, but also vaguely distressed, as though she’d eaten something too spicy at lunch.

  “The Board’s lawyer tells me I’m not compelled to answer your questions,” she says with a voice that comes out in the discrete blasts of machine-gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. “But I want to be fair.”

  “I understand.”

  “Because it’s important to make clear that this whole thing—well, it’s pretty much torn this school apart.”

  “I can appreciate that.”

  “But we’ve made every effort to ease the pain. Unprecedented counseling resources have been made available. I have done all I can do, given the circumstances. And yet I also have to tell you that I’m aware—on an unofficial level—that there are certain individuals—certain parties—that have taken the view that I’m partially to blame for what happened. And this concerns me, as you can appreciate. From a legal as well as the more obvious personal perspective.”

  “Blame you? How?”

  “That I failed to remove Mr. Tripp from his duties prior to the event. That I could have prevented things.”

  She blinks once, slow as a drawn curtain between scenes, and when she goes on it’s in a more openly agitated tone.

  “Which is a claim that I regard—it’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s well and good in hindsight to say somebody should have kept him away from—but prior to the fact, you know, it’s very difficult—there’re proper procedures. There’re policies. You can’t just fire teachers because you notice certain personality—certain oddities.”

  She stops now, breathless, still standing inches from my knees. What I took to be suspicion now a barely restrained desperation on her face. And it’s this look that makes it clear: she thinks she’s in trouble. She might not get that 2.4 percent raise as per the collective agreement which also allows for certain exceptions in cases of extreme incompetence. So she agreed to talk to me because if she gets called as a witness in the trial she wants to show how nobody could have known in advance that Tripp was a killer. And maybe that’s not her only worry. It’s a small town. Parents are upset. The Board has promised to look into things. There’re been whisperings of negligence, suspension, civil actions. She’s talking to me to save herself.

  “Well now,” she starts again, “how can I be of assistance to you then, Mr. Crane?”

  “A little history would be nice. Specifically, I’m wondering how you would characterize Thom’s behavior prior to the girls’ disappearance. Why don’t we start there.”

  “His behavior.” She releases a tremulous sigh. “Well, we had noticed some changes, to be honest. But you have to appreciate that Mr. Tripp had an impeccable teaching record. Committed to his students, a jovial presence in the staff lounge, even popular with the parents. And never stingy on his availability for extracurriculars. So I feel it was entirely understandable that for the first while I was prepared to give him some time to sort things out.”

  “Sort what things out?”

  “His personal life. An area I knew little about, I must confess, so I can’t really be expected—”

  “What evidence was there that he’d changed?”

  “Oh—how do I put this? I suppose you could say he was distracted. Some students made note of it. It’s all in his file. I did have some student teachers sit in on his class to take notes—to observe his performance from a casual perspective—but beyond that, my hands were tied. I mean, as you may be aware, there are quite stringent union regulations which protect—”

  “So you sent in your spies. And what did they find?”

  “I wouldn’t characterize them as spies.”

  “Beg your pardon. Please go on.”

  Principal Warren sighs again, looks about her as though she’d just noticed the walls slowly closing in around her. Then she looks down and sees that she’s still standing. But instead of moving around to her chair she settles on the edge of the desk, perches a fold of thigh onto the wood surface but keeps her toes on the floor, the tendons in her ankles straining to prevent a sliding collapse to the floor.

  “Well, what they observed was what I would categorize as an inattentiveness,” she continues, a finger rising to flick back a strand of hair that isn’t there. “Staring out the classroom window for minutes at a time while students engaged in unruly conduct right in front of him. Spitball fights, standing on the desks, leaving the room without permission and the like.”

  “And you still didn’t do anything about him?”

  “Mr. Crane, teachers who lose control of their students are hardly unusual.”

  “Were there any other problems? I mean, was he otherwise able to carry out his obligations?”

  “Of course. And you’ll find no documentation to the contrary.”

  “What about the Literary Club? You weren’t concerned that an emotionally disturbed man was spending so much time with two young female students?”

  “There were no formal grounds for concern. In fact it seemed an encouraging aspect of his job performance at the time. Krystal and Ashley seemed to get so much out of it, and the Board was very supportive. Granted almost every one of Mr. Tripp’s applications for budgetary supplements.”

  “What did he need money for?”

  “Not him. Little things that the girls needed. Makeup, props, costumes. That sort of stuff.”

  “Can you tell me why a Literary Club would need costumes?”

  “Performances, I suppose. I’m not sure anybody really asked. But I can tell you—in fact I’d like to emphasize—that budgetary procedures were not my personal area of responsibility.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Principal Warren slides a few inches along the edge of the desk to assist the flow of blood to her legs. Crosses her arms.

  “Well, I do hope I’ve been of some assistance,” she says. “Although, in dealing with such a tragedy, it’s likely inappropriate to conceive of it as people taking sides.”

  “Actually, it’s likely the only way to conceive of it.”

  She gives me a look like a hound that’s just picked up a strange and troubling scent.

  “Perhaps—you know, it may—oh,” she says, abandons the thought. The arms uncross, reach down to the desk’s surface to support her now obviously painful position.

  “I was wondering if I might meet briefly with one of your teachers here,” I say. “Miss Betts. I understand she used to be a friend of Thom’s.”

  “Well, you’re of course free to make your own inquiries. But I can’t assure—let me check her schedule.” She says it shed-yool. Reaches behind and lifts a huge
blue binder to her lap all without moving from her place on the desk. “Well, she’s running a practice at the moment. You’re free to wait until her next spare, which will likely—”

  “So she’ll be outside then?”

  “Miss Betts is the field hockey coach. And field hockey is generally not considered an indoor sport, Mr. Crane.”

  With this she smiles, hard and fast. Throws herself up to her feet, extends her hand over my shoulder to show me the door which is no more than eighteen inches from the back of my head.

  “I may give you a call,” I say on my way out.

  “I would always welcome an opportunity to clarify my position,” she says brightly as she closes the door behind me.

  There’s a cold drizzle settling over the flapping ponytails and stocky calves of the Georgian Lakes girls’ field hockey team as I skirt along the sidelines toward midfield. The players appear not to notice me though, screaming for passes and uncalled penalties, their faces pale as chicken skin. At the foot of the bleachers stands Miss Betts, polished whistle between her teeth, her body wrapped in puffy layers of nylon windbreaker over cotton sweat suit. Behind her sit the half-dozen substitute players, silent, rubbing their forearms for warmth.

  “Miss Betts?” I ask when I’m only a couple feet from where she stands but she doesn’t look my way. Then her voice, a chesty bark echoing out over everything else.

  “NOTHING FANCY! C’MON TRACEY! NOTHING FANCY!”

  I turn to watch now as well, and there’s the girl who must be Tracey with her stick held loose along her waist like an infantry rifle pointed directly our way.

  “Excuse me. Miss Betts? My name’s Bartholomew Crane,” I try again, my eyes now following a heroic rush toward the goal by a girl with bruised kneecaps that ends in a vicious slash to her ankles and a sprawling skid fifteen feet across the mud.

  “GET UP NOW, ZOE! SHAKE IT OFF!” Miss Betts shouts to the fallen girl, but refuses to call a penalty. I’m about to suggest that the foul was so clear you’d have to be blind not to see it when she says in a normal speaking voice but still without turning her head, “Thom’s lawyer?”