Lost Girls

chapter 15

It's four days until I venture out again, and when I do it's to visit the home of the presumably late Krystal McConnell, whose parents have consented to be interviewed by yours truly. This came as more than a little surprise. Generally speaking, the victim's family doesn't like to have anything to do with defense counsel for reasons that don't require mention. In this case I suspected the odds would be even more acutely against me, given that Goodwin's file showed the McConnells to be high-ups in the congregation at Immaculate Conception and described in almost every news story as ''community leaders.'' I took this to mean the kind of people who were first to set the match to books they'd wrenched from the hands of school librarians because they contained the word damn or scenes involving adolescent hands rising to adolescent breasts beneath angora sweaters. Further, from what I had gathered from my reading of The Murdoch Phoenix, Mr. McConnell was acting as spokesman for the victims, furnishing the press with tirades about the ''many masks of Satan,'' the hellfire awaiting Tripp in the afterlife, and the despair of living under a government that showed no intention of bringing back the death penalty.

The McConnells live in a massive Tudor rip-off on the street that, judging from the other dozen monstrosities which hunker on both sides of its length, is the address of Murdoch's elite. They're not new constructions; the ridged brickwork and Victorian gables suggest their having been slapped together sometime in the first quarter of the century. Perhaps then they were handsome, even majestic residences for the few that made money on the plundering of the town's surrounding rocks and trees. But that doesn't save them today from the intervening decades of infrequent paint jobs, the insurrection of gardens that have long since become thickets, the replacement of natural wood siding with aluminum. The McConnell place has fared somewhat better than others, its facade composed of a knobbly white stucco, which, as I pull into the driveway, looks freshly clean through the dripping autumn colors of the front-yard maple. McConnell himself, who opens the door before I have the chance to touch the doorbell, looks clean as well in creased navy slacks and gray cable-knit sweater pulled over his pregnant belly.

''Mr. Crane. Come in,'' he says, extending his arm out across the front hallway but failing to meet my eyes. He makes no move to take my coat, so I'm left with no choice but to leave it on.

''May I say first, Mr. McConnell, how sorry I am for your loss. As strange as it may seem coming from me, I can only--''

''Perhaps the living room is a better place for discussion.'' He steps behind me, looking up and down the street before closing the heavy front door.

McConnell's money came from fixing cars. Three service stations now bore his name, dotted along the main north-south highway through the county. McConnell's Auto Stops had managed to corner what was left of the market just by sticking around, moving in whenever one of the remaining big-name franchises went under and could be picked up for a song. And as he leads the way to the back of the house and bids me to take a seat in an overstuffed recliner next to a fire too large for its hearth, one can see the former mechanic in his bearish shoulders, the loose shiftings of his ass. He gives the impression of being a man who, having ascended to the pinnacle of employer from the trench of employee, didn't take with him any special sympathies for those who now toil in the grease below him.

''I don't want to take up any more of your time than necessary,'' I begin, pulling a notepad from my case and smoothing it over my knee. ''My questions, I assure you, are of a general nature only.''

''Yeah? Well, I got some questions too.''

He's standing with his back to me, looking out over the backyard carpeted with fallen leaves. His voice isn't angry--not yet angry--but there's a tightness in it, an effort to control its tone so that he can make the points he's listed in his head. How could I have thought that his voice over the phone suggested something else, like shyness?

''What sort of questions?''

''How about 'Why are you trying to keep the man who killed my little girl out of jail?' ''

He turns now and looks at me directly for the first time. If it weren't for his standing silhouetted so hugely against the window and the heat of the blaze next to me made worse by the thick insulation of my overcoat, I could handle this better. As it is I'm suddenly woozy, an ominous tingling at the tip of my nose. My stomach barks.

''With all due respect, Mr. McConnell, my client's guilt hasn't yet been determined.''

''Oh yes it has. By me it has. By my wife and family it sure has. By God Almighty, that man's guilt has been determined all right.''

Something, either a long-distance drop of spit from McConnell's mouth or perspiration falling from my brow, lands on the bridge of my nose and trickles down to where it is no longer felt. My eyes stray to the side, to the snapping yellow of the fire that blasts a nugget of wood against the wire screen every couple of seconds. On the mantel above, a half-dozen trophies with figures of athletes stuck to their tops--a female tennis player tossing up a serve, a hockey player with his stick on the ice, ready for a pass. Photos of women's softball teams on the wall, McConnell's Auto Stops stenciled over their chests and McConnell himself standing behind the back row, his hands on the tallest players' shoulders and a gaseous smile on his lips. And all around these, portraits of his children in professional soft focus that I can't look at directly. A glimpse of tortoiseshell frames. Braces, white-blond braids.

''Maybe this wasn't right,'' I say, turning back to McConnell with considerable effort.

''No, no. It was right. I'm glad you're here.'' He takes a step toward the chair nearest him and rests a hand on its back but makes no further motion to sit. ''Now, you said you had some questions. Ask away, Mr. Crane.''

''Well, maybe now isn't--there's no need really.''

''No need? Wrong!'' He makes a game-show buzzer sound in his throat. ''I think there is a need.''

Standing there above me in the deathly heat of the living room of what would have once been described by bell-bottomed real estate agents as an ''executive home,'' fixed by the size of his bones and his rage, it strikes me how married McConnell looks. Neither happily nor unhappily, henpecked nor contented. Simply married in the sense of a man who could not possibly be anything else, one who assumed the obligations and privileges of matrimony as they came to him without imagining how anything could be otherwise. Though there may well be none of what would generally qualify as love in his heart, he would undoubtedly be considered a good husband by all.

''All right, okay.'' I struggle, seeing as he is prepared to wait forever for me to speak. ''For example, I was wondering how well you knew your daughter's friend, Ashley Flynn. I mean, were you aware of the kind of friendship they had, the things they did?''

''They were girls. Kids who hung out with each other. Now, if you're asking me if I ever sat down with Krystal and Ashley and had a long heart-to-heart with them about the nature of the universe, no. Maybe I should've. Maybe I should've told them to watch out for perverted teachers who want to take them for drives. But I never did. Why did I need to? This was a good town. They were good kids.'' He pauses, bends a little at the knees, allowing more light to fall across me where I sit. ''Are you saying they weren't good kids?''

''Of course not. I'm not saying anything. I guess all I'm asking is if you were aware of any reason they had which might--if you knew of any problems either of them may have had.''

''Problems?''

His face, which must normally have appeared as a generous platter of ruddy skin and heavy-lidded eyes, has gone from red to the same dusty gray as the clouds outside the window behind him.

''Just the usual things,'' I say. ''Did they have any difficulties at school? Any attempts at running away from home? You know what I mean?''

''No I don't, frankly. What would they have to run away from? I can't speak for the Flynn girl--for Ashley-- but my Krystal had a good home right here. A home her daddy worked hard for every day of that girl's life.''

He pauses now, and in the same moment a robin thuds into the sliding glass door behind him, falls to the patio, and makes its way under the gas barbecue where it flips its wings uselessly against a garden gnome. But McConnell doesn't turn, appears not to have heard a thing.

''Let me tell you something about my daughter, Mr. Crane,'' he continues, voice lowered. ''My wife and I were blessed with four children, Krystal was our youngest. We raised her in this house. She watched TV in this room, talked to her friends on the phone sitting in the chair you're sitting in right now. If we ever had a question, we prayed to God for guidance and He provided it.''

He moves now and casts a shadow over me once more.

''Problems? The only problem she ever had was Thom Tripp. And the only person I can blame is myself. Because I knew there was something wrong about the way the three of them got together every week, a grown man and two girls. What did he call it? The Literary Club. No way, I never liked the sound of that, and I told Krystal so. Told her I didn't like her spending so much time with that weirdo, coming around to the garage sometimes in that Swede car of his for a wash or a fill-up, looking out through the windshield with a dead man's face. But, oh no, she told me it was fine, nothing to worry about. It's creative. So I let her go, and that was my mistake. But I'm not a man who makes the same mistake twice, Mr. Crane.''

I'm surprised by the sudden force of a single, choking cough, and have to lean forward to swallow back the resulting lump gathered in my throat. Definitely time to go. But I've sunk too low in the chair to lift myself out. My mouth is still working, though, throwing out things before I can recognize what they are.

''What are you saying, Mr. McConnell? It sounds like--''

''A threat? Well, that's for lawyers like you to decide, isn't it?''

His body stiffens now, a towering statue that swells with his next clenched words.

''But let me tell you exactly what I am saying. No matter what you do in that courtroom, your client is going to hell. God knows he's taken my little girl from me, taken her away from her place in our house. No, sir, I promise you that man is damned to hell.''

He takes in a shuddering breath, though not from fighting back tears, but from the discipline required in restraining himself from taking two steps across the deep pile of the room's carpet and pounding a fist into my face.

''I'm sorry, Mr. McConnell,'' I find myself saying, ''but I think I should leave now.''

I lift the notepad from my lap and try to stick it back into my case but everything is spiraling away and I end up dropping both notepad and pen on the floor.

''No, no, no. Don't go just yet,'' McConnell says. ''You came here to ask your questions, and I want you to ask them. We have nothing to hide in this house. Unlike yours.''

''Is Mrs. McConnell available?''

I don't know why I ask this. Maybe to have him go summon her so I can make a dash for the door.

''Available? No, I'm afraid she's on medication from her doctor that doesn't allow her to answer questions from sick lawyers. See, Mr. Crane''--he takes a step forward and then back again, as though without the aid of the chair he clings to he would lose his balance entirely--''this house has been visited by evil. And while I don't know why, I do know who the deliveryman is.''

He licks his lips clear of bubbled spit, lifts his free hand, and waggles a thick index finger at my face.

''I give you my solemn word. If you manage to get Tripp off, I'll kill him myself.''

He releases his grip on the chair so that he can now hold both hands out before him, two fists clenched a perfect, bloodless white. But what he says next is a whisper through the airless heat.

''Hear me, now? I'll snap his neck, cut him wide open, and stick his dirty heart down his throat. Understand?''

From over his shoulder the robin flaps into the air and throws itself over the neighbor's fence.

''I understand,'' I say, and manage to rise, gulping hard to keep down the hot churnings of my stomach. I also manage to stick the pad and paper in my bag and take a step toward the front hallway without passing out. Moving fast, but McConnell easily catches up behind me and speaks at what sounds like inches from my ear.

''That's a sin, I know, to kill. But I'm only human. And God would forgive a man for bringing an end to evil, don't you think?''

I make it down the impossible length of the tiled front hallway to the door and pull it open. But before I'm out he puts his hand on my shoulder and the strength of his grip causes the muscles there to seize in startled pain. Around us the house uttering a thousand crunches and squeaks, shifting to accommodate McConnell's movement.

''You want to know something?'' he says. ''You must be a very sick man yourself, to do what you're doing.''

Something in his lowered voice and desperate grip makes me certain that his wife is listening. Has been listening all along. Sitting at the top of the stairs in her housecoat, the tranquilizers deadening her ears just enough to prevent them from catching her husband's whisper.

''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.''