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
''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
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