little pity in me as I wait for the hand that rests too heavily on the back of his chair to flip it over and send my opposing counsel’s rice-sack ass to the floor. He’s on the wrong side of the proceedings for pity.
“Thank you for that informative presentation,” I begin when Goodwin has found his chair, pushing my totally blank legal pad into the middle of the table for him to get a good look. “But I have some questions.”
“Go ahead,” he swallows.
“First of all, what’s the evidentiary basis for your obtaining the warrant to impound Tripp’s car?”
“We were investigating the possibility of—”
“I don’t care what we were investigating. I’m asking what you put before the justice of the peace to get him to sign an order to search my client’s car. Do you understand the question?”
“I understand , Mr. Crane. And the short answer is tire tracks.”
“What tire tracks?”
“At the crime scene. The ones left at the end of the road on Lake St. Christopher are consistent with the size, wear and brand variety tread on Tripp’s Volvo.”
“Tire tracks are not what you’d call scientifically precise, are they?”
“They were good enough for the j.p.”
“They must’ve been. But we’ll see how that stands up before a judge who actually holds a law degree. And let me remind you that your reference to the location of the tire tracks as the ‘crime scene’ is desperately premature. No bodies, no crime, no crime scene .”
“You’re free to call it what you like, Mr. Crane.”
“Thank you. I think I’ll call it horseshit then, if you don’t mind, because I don’t see a single good reason for the police to have been searching the end of that road for tire tracks in the first place. Why there? Why, in a county with 172 prime locations to ditch bodies, would the bright sparks of the Murdoch O.P.P. detachment all head to the one place?”
Goodwin presses his lips together, pushes thecolor out of the skin around his mouth. “A collection of reasons,” he says finally.
“I’m curious.”
“Well, Tripp used to spend his summers on St. Christopher for years, so he would know the area well. That’s for starters. Next, his car had been seen up there once or twice driving around in the months prior to the girls’ disappearance. But more importantly, it was simply the first place people around here thought to look. The woods are thick, the water’s deep. And there’re stories.”
“Stories?”
“Bad things that happened, years back. And you know how people can turn old facts into new tales.”
Goodwin tries at an embarrassed laugh, brings the pads of his hands together in a single smack of flesh.
“I know all about turning facts into tales, Mr. Goodwin. And I’m beginning to see that you and the police up here are enthusiastic amateurs at it.”
“Now, there’s no need for—”
“You said ‘bad things.’ What kind of bad things?”
“I’m not sure of the particulars. A drowning, I think. And now there’s a ghost story to go along with it.”
“Beautiful. So are all the cops up here gypsies or something?”
“I’m not trying to—”
“Regarding the search of Tripp’s apartment: there was no journal or diary found? No half-finished letters?”
“No.”
“Just the muddy pants and catalog pinups?”
“That’s right.”
“And both easily explained, wouldn’t you say? Lonely father seeking comforting images to remind him of his only child. A lonely father who also lives in a town of wall-to-wall mud, particularly after the big spring thaw?”
“Perhaps, but I think—”
“And no weapon found?”
“Nothing yet.”
“No bloodstains or anything gruesome in the laundry hamper?”
“No, just—”
“Just the bloodstains in the Volvo. I know. Now, assuming you get a readable result on the DNA analysis, I ask you, what do you propose to match it against?”
Goodwin raises a corner of his mouth slightly to reveal star-shaped dimples cratered
“Thank you for that informative presentation,” I begin when Goodwin has found his chair, pushing my totally blank legal pad into the middle of the table for him to get a good look. “But I have some questions.”
“Go ahead,” he swallows.
“First of all, what’s the evidentiary basis for your obtaining the warrant to impound Tripp’s car?”
“We were investigating the possibility of—”
“I don’t care what we were investigating. I’m asking what you put before the justice of the peace to get him to sign an order to search my client’s car. Do you understand the question?”
“I understand , Mr. Crane. And the short answer is tire tracks.”
“What tire tracks?”
“At the crime scene. The ones left at the end of the road on Lake St. Christopher are consistent with the size, wear and brand variety tread on Tripp’s Volvo.”
“Tire tracks are not what you’d call scientifically precise, are they?”
“They were good enough for the j.p.”
“They must’ve been. But we’ll see how that stands up before a judge who actually holds a law degree. And let me remind you that your reference to the location of the tire tracks as the ‘crime scene’ is desperately premature. No bodies, no crime, no crime scene .”
“You’re free to call it what you like, Mr. Crane.”
“Thank you. I think I’ll call it horseshit then, if you don’t mind, because I don’t see a single good reason for the police to have been searching the end of that road for tire tracks in the first place. Why there? Why, in a county with 172 prime locations to ditch bodies, would the bright sparks of the Murdoch O.P.P. detachment all head to the one place?”
Goodwin presses his lips together, pushes thecolor out of the skin around his mouth. “A collection of reasons,” he says finally.
“I’m curious.”
“Well, Tripp used to spend his summers on St. Christopher for years, so he would know the area well. That’s for starters. Next, his car had been seen up there once or twice driving around in the months prior to the girls’ disappearance. But more importantly, it was simply the first place people around here thought to look. The woods are thick, the water’s deep. And there’re stories.”
“Stories?”
“Bad things that happened, years back. And you know how people can turn old facts into new tales.”
Goodwin tries at an embarrassed laugh, brings the pads of his hands together in a single smack of flesh.
“I know all about turning facts into tales, Mr. Goodwin. And I’m beginning to see that you and the police up here are enthusiastic amateurs at it.”
“Now, there’s no need for—”
“You said ‘bad things.’ What kind of bad things?”
“I’m not sure of the particulars. A drowning, I think. And now there’s a ghost story to go along with it.”
“Beautiful. So are all the cops up here gypsies or something?”
“I’m not trying to—”
“Regarding the search of Tripp’s apartment: there was no journal or diary found? No half-finished letters?”
“No.”
“Just the muddy pants and catalog pinups?”
“That’s right.”
“And both easily explained, wouldn’t you say? Lonely father seeking comforting images to remind him of his only child. A lonely father who also lives in a town of wall-to-wall mud, particularly after the big spring thaw?”
“Perhaps, but I think—”
“And no weapon found?”
“Nothing yet.”
“No bloodstains or anything gruesome in the laundry hamper?”
“No, just—”
“Just the bloodstains in the Volvo. I know. Now, assuming you get a readable result on the DNA analysis, I ask you, what do you propose to match it against?”
Goodwin raises a corner of his mouth slightly to reveal star-shaped dimples cratered
Similar Books
