T Is for Trespass

seen the flyer I’d distributed, his response was to panic, pack his possessions, and disappear.
    When I ran out of facts I shuffled the cards and arranged them randomly to see if enlightenment would ensue. I spread them out on the desk and leaned my head on my hand, thinking, Which of these facts doesn’t belong?
    I could think of one possibility. I pulled two cards forward and stared at them. How did the mechanical clown and Melvin’s imaginary friend, Tía, fit into the larger scheme of things? Nothing else I’d learned about him suggested a playful nature. Indeed, there was something furtive in his reluctance to display the lipstick tattoo. So maybe the toys weren’t intended for his amusement. Maybe Tía and the toy clown were meant to amuse someone else. Like who? Kids, any number of whom I’d seen at the nearby elementary school and the child care center near the bus stop he frequented.
    Was he a pedophile?
    I knew child molesters often kept games and videos on hand, befriending children over a period of time until a bond was formed. Physical contact was gradually introduced. In the wake of affection and trust came the fondling and fumbling, until touching and secrets were the intoxicating spice of their “special” relationship. If he was a sex offender, it would explain his fright that he’d been spotted within one thousand yards of a school, a playground, or a day care center. It would also explain his daughter’s refusal to let him see his grandsons.
    I picked up the phone and called the county probation department. I asked to speak to a parole officer named Priscilla Holloway. I expected to have to leave a message, but she picked up on her end and I identified myself. Her voice was surprisingly light, given what I remembered of her physical stature. She was a big-boned redhead, the sort who’d played rough sports in high school and still had softball and soccer trophies displayed in her bedroom at home. I’d met her the previous July when I was babysitting a young renegade named Reba Lafferty, who’d been paroled from the California Institute for Women.
    “I’ve got a question for you,” I said, when we’d dispensed with the chitchat. “How familiar are you with the registered sex offenders in town?”
    “I know most of them by name. We all do. Lot of them are required to come in for drug testing. They also call in changes of address or changes in employment. Who in particular?”
    “I’m looking for a fellow named Melvin Downs.”
    There was a pause and I could almost hear her shaking her head. “Nope. Don’t think so. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Where’d he do his time?”
    “I have no idea, but I’m guessing he was in prison on a child molest. He has a crude tattoo that looks like prison vintage—a lipstick-red mouth in the web between the thumb and index finger on his right hand. I’m told he’s an amateur ventriloquist and I’m wondering if he trots out his talent in seducing young kids.”
    “I can check with the other POs and see if they know him. What’s the context?”
    “You know an attorney named Lowell Effinger?”
    “Sure, I know Lowell.”
    “He wants to depose Downs as a witness in a personal-injury suit. Downs is a hard man to find, but I finally ran him to ground. He seemed cooperative at first, but then he turned around and bolted so fast it made me wonder if he was in the system somewhere.”
    “I don’t think here, but he might be a fugitive from another state. These guys want out from under, all they have to do is hit the road without telling us. We’ve got ten to fifteen unaccounted for at any given time. And that’s just locally. Statewide, the numbers are mind-boggling.”
    “Jeez, all those sex offenders on the loose?”
    “Sorry to say. Give me your number again and I’ll get back to you if I learn anything.”
    I thanked her and returned the handset to the cradle. My suspicions hadn’t been confirmed, but she hadn’t shot me down. Altogether, I was feeling a flicker of encouragement.

    As a consequence, early Thursday afternoon, I drove up Capillo Hill again and sat in the parking lot of the organic foods market, looking out at the intersection where I’d seen Downs two days before. Since his work schedule seemed consistently Tuesdays and Thursdays, I hoped I had a decent chance of spotting him. I was bored to tears with the hunt, but I’d brought a paperback novel and a thermos of hot coffee. There was a ladies’ room