If Triplett ever expressed emotion, it was gratitude for Rennert’s visits — simple gratitude, ritualistic, the kind a young child offers when prompted.
The crime, the victim, Nicholas Linstad: none of that came up.
It would be easy to read into the tone a lack of empathy. A low-functioning psychopath, unable to grasp or care about the consequences of his behavior.
I took away a different message. I heard a disoriented mind, brimming with anxiety and loneliness, clinging hungrily to anything consistent.
Two pieces of toast for “brekfist” one day; three the next.
His way of marking time, like scratch marks on a cell wall.
The sheer volume of the correspondence suggested the depth of the connection between Walter Rennert and the boy he’d helped put away. Writing must’ve presented a serious challenge to Triplett.
Yet he’d persisted, seeking to communicate, taking comfort in repetition.
He told Dr. Rennert. Who else could he tell?
I moved on to the third box.
Atop the pile sat a loose sheaf of yellowed newspaper clippings, speckled with mold. The murder; the trial. I skimmed them. Nothing I didn’t already know.
Lastly, a pair of plastic shopping bags that rattled when I picked them up. I unknotted the handles and saw a jumble of microcassette tapes, cases dated in blue or black ink.
I gathered up the bags, along with the surviving letters.
Stopping in the foyer to reset the alarm, I glanced at the spot on the tiles where Walter Rennert’s body had lain. Another small patch of my world marked by death, a shadow invisible to nearly everyone except me.
The clerk at Radio Shack tried to discourage me from buying a microcassette player.
“We don’t even make those anymore,” he said.
“The website says you have one in stock.”
He trudged off, returning after a while with a scratched clamshell case.
He scanned it. “Two eighty-four sixty-nine.”
“That can’t be right.”
“ ’Swhat I mean. Shit’s discontinued. Get a digital recorder, they’re like forty bucks.”
I couldn’t be sure that the tapes were good: the water might have ruined them. But the plastic bags gave me hope.
“What’s your return policy?” I asked.
“Thirty days.”
I handed him my debit card. “Receipt, please.”
At home I brewed a pot of coffee and set myself up at the kitchen table with notepad, pen, and my new, expensive, semi-vintage microcassette player.
I sifted the tapes, arranging them in chronological order. The oldest went back to March 2006 — shortly after Julian Triplett disappeared. Fifty-seven in all, roughly one a month. But not evenly spaced out: the first few bunched together weekly. Then monthly, bimonthly.
Seven months separated the second-to-last tape from the final one, in January 2011.
I put in the first tape and rewound to the beginning.
Expecting something along the lines of an audio letter — garbled updates from Triplett, sent to reassure Rennert — I sat up at the first voice I heard.
A woman, crystal clear.
All right, Julian. Before we begin I wanted to make sure that you’re settling in okay.
The response came slowly.
Uh-huh.
I’d never heard Triplett speak before. His voice was deep, so muted that you could mistake it for a distortion in the recording. As though he were hiding beneath the covers.
How are you liking the new place? the woman asked.
Pretty good.
Okay. Okay, good. Well. I spoke to Dr. Rennert about your medication. You remember I told you that I can’t do that for you, write prescriptions? He and I agreed that he’ll continue to handle it, like you’ve done so far. I’ll check in with him periodically. But if you ever run out, or you’re having a problem, and it doesn’t feel right, you should come talk to me and I’ll do what I can to help. That’s what I’m here for. Okay?
Okay.
Okay she said. Great.
Silence; hiss.
She said How’ve you been feeling recently?
Okay.
I know you’ve had a lot of changes. No response. Do you want to talk about that?
All right.
The silence went on so long I started to think the tape had ended.
How about your symptoms? Are you hearing voices?
No.
The conversation lasted another twenty-five minutes, much of it empty air. The therapist probing gently, Triplett mumbling yes or no or I guess.
I’m so glad we’re talking, Julian. I really look forward to getting to know you better.
No answer.
The hiss cut off.
I reached for the next cassette.
As in his letters to Rennert, in his speech Triplett gave an unsettling initial impression. He sat silent for uncomfortably long stretches, ignoring — or seeming to ignore — questions that would have sparked an emotional response in most people. I could imagine him sitting there, taking up a vast amount of space, like some dormant volcano. I could guess how he had come across in court.
The therapist never lost patience, slowly building up a rapport over many sessions. While Triplett was never chatty, his replies got a hair more expansive, his mood less skittish. On tape eight he referred to a job. He’d been hired as some sort of shop hand.
During the following session, she asked how work was going.
I don’t like it Triplett said.
What don’t you like?
He thinks I’m stupid.
Has he said that?
No.
So why do you think he thinks that about you?
He don’t let me touch nothing.
Touch what? The tools?
I wanted to use the band saw. He said I don’t know how.
But you do know.
Yeah I know.
You could try telling him that she said. Pause. Why are you shaking your head?
He won’t listen.
Well, you don’t know that unless you try.
As their relationship deepened, I began to feel guilty, eavesdropping. But not enough to stop.
From tape eleven:
Happy birthday, Julian. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?
Yeah.
Doing anything special to celebrate?
I don’t know.
What about the friend you mentioned? From work?
You mean Wayne he said.
That’s the one she said. You could invite him to do something.
I don’t know.
It seems like you two get along fairly well. What’s something you both like to do?
He wants to see the X-Men.
Would you like that?
Silence.
He’s got a girlfriend Triplett said.
Well, fine, but if he wants to go to the movies with you, I bet she’ll be okay with that.
I don’t know.