The Victims' Club Read online

  “We’ll talk to him. See what he has to say.”

  She offered another sardonic “Good luck” shrug.

  “I understand Detective Bennet has had trouble getting people to give her information about that night.”

  She had managed to compile a list of only fifteen people who’d been at the party that night, which was at the house of a wealthy investment banker, the father of a student at Preston. Taylor had reported there were about fifty people there. Others said roughly the same, but none of them could remember more than a few names, or so they claimed. Bennet had eventually come up with the fifteen by bluster, coercion and deduction. But not a single one of the fifteen remembered Taylor, let alone anyone who’d been taking phone pictures or slipping a roofie into a wine glass.

  On the margin of the scant list, Bennet had written in angry pencil: WALL OF SILENCE.

  “Have you tried contacting mutual friends, people who might’ve been there?” Avery asked Taylor.

  She hesitated again. “Some, sure. Hard to do, but I gave it a shot. And I talked to Jamie—the friend I went with? She knew a few people there and gave Detective Bennet a name or two. But she can’t remember anything else. Or says she can’t.”

  From the file, Jon Avery had learned that Jamie Katz had a touch of amnesia about that night. She’d even told Sarah Bennet that she “really didn’t know Rose so well.”

  Avery didn’t share this betrayal, if that’s what it was, with Taylor.

  “I don’t have any more questions just now. I’ll talk to this Karesh. See what he has to say.”

  As they rose, Avery reflected that in all criminal cases the truth is elusive. Sometimes it hides in disguise, sometimes it’s as wispy and fleeting as steam. He knew instinctively that this would be a tough one; it wouldn’t be at all easy to learn exactly what had happened to Professor Taylor. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

  He saw that she’d moved on from the topic, though, and he wasn’t surprised at her answer.

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  He didn’t expect what she then said. “There’s the embarrassment, the sense of violation. You get mad. But what you don’t think about? It’s been exhausting. A weight you can’t throw off.” Taylor’s eyes turned briefly in his direction but did not meet his.

  They walked to the front door. As she opened it and they stepped onto the porch, Avery noted a man in his early twenties walking up the path. He was thin and gangly, wearing two sweatshirts, gray over red, and jeans with a waistline five inches too big for him. He glanced toward Avery, pausing and then continuing up the steps.

  “Rosie.” He hugged Taylor, then turned to the detective.

  “This’s Devon. My brother. Detective Avery.”

  They shook hands. She explained that he was a senior at Preston College, studying prelaw.

  Avery recalled his name from detective Sarah Bennet’s file: Devon was president of his fraternity, active on campus, the kind of student who might catch wind of rumors about the incident. He’d tried but hadn’t learned anything either.

  To her brother, Taylor said, “Detective Avery came by about the incident.”

  Brows tightening slightly, Devon asked, “You found them?”

  The rule is you’re generally tight-lipped about progress in a case; family members, close ones, at least, are on the OK-to-tell list.

  “No, but we have some leads.” Avery pulled the picture of Karesh out of his pocket again. “Amir Karesh. Do you know him? He’s a student too, at Preston. He bought the phone that was used to upload the picture.”

  Devon leaned forward and looked closely at the picture. “No.” His mouth grew taut. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Devon,” his sister chided gently.

  “We don’t know if he took the pictures,” Avery said. “Just that it was his phone.”

  Devon’s lips tightened and his eyes narrowed, signaling exasperation. It was a look that Avery observed when a victim or loved one believed justice was being derailed by those little inconveniences called due process and the rule of law. When a suspect appears guilty, he must be guilty. Of course he did it. Lock him up.

  Avery slipped the photo away.

  Taylor asked her brother, “So? What’s up? Everything OK?”

  “Yeah. Sorta. I just screwed up my chem exam, and I decided you can take me out to lunch to drown my sorrows.” He looked at Avery. “She’s the employed one.”

  “Go inside. I’ll be right there.”

  The men shook hands, and Devon vanished into the town house.

  Taylor had seemed surprised at the young man’s presence. Avery’s impression was that a drop-by was unusual. Her brother had come over simply to see how she was doing, he decided.

  He shook her hand as well. Her dark eyes held his for a portion of a second and then returned to the doorstep at her feet, and she started inside.

  Avery got to the bottom of the stairs and turned back. “Ms. Taylor?”

  “‘Rose’ is fine.”

  “Rose. I just wanted to say one thing.”

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “For what it’s worth, I haven’t seen the photo.”

  Avery had guessed she’d be wondering about that, and he wanted to put her at ease.

  “Appreciate that, Detective. But, fact is, it really doesn’t matter now, does it? Because everyone else has.” She offered a resigned smile and stepped inside.

  There were two of them now, working the case.

  After leaving Rose Taylor’s, Avery had returned to the office and promptly recruited Jesse Hobbs, twenty-six years old, sporting a close shave of a crew cut, muscular, the cookie-cutter ideal of an enthusiastic sheriff’s deputy. He was what would amount to a patrol officer in a city police department—assigned to take on much of the meat-and-potatoes work of any law enforcement organization.

  Hobbs was dependable and a workhorse, but the detective wanted him on board largely because of his job before he’d joined the sheriff’s office: he’d been a Preston College campus police officer. Since their one lead, Amir Karesh, was a student, Avery thought it might be helpful to bring someone with that kind of experience onto the case.

  And he was pleased with his decision. It had taken Hobbs only two phone calls to learn that Karesh was between classes and in the food court of the building Avery was now parking in front of: the Preston student union.

  They climbed from the car. Hobbs was a uniformed deputy, but for this investigation he’d dressed civilian, in a windbreaker, polo shirt and jeans. He’d explained to the detective, “Students’re a funny bunch. They see a gun or gear belt and either shut up entirely or get obnoxious.”

  The two of them entered the building—gothic and, of course, crowned with fearsome limestone spires—and found the massive food court, filled with hundreds of energetic students. The high ceilings and hard tile floors accentuated the noise. It seemed impossible to have a conversation over the din, but students were certainly trying. The smell of limp burgers and onions warming on the steam table was pervasive.

  Hobbs had a discreet talk with a campus cop, who pointed them to Karesh, who was sitting in the far back of the hall buried in a book. Avery and the deputy weaved through the jammed tables.

  Karesh glanced up as they reached him. Avery had half expected him to grab his book—calculus, he could see—and flee. But he gave no reaction.

  “Mr. Karesh?” Avery asked.

  “Yeah.”

  They quickly showed their badges. “I’m Detective Avery. This is Deputy Hobbs.” Heads nodded but no hands were shaken.

  “OK.” The young man was now smiling. And not showing a lick of concern.

  “Mind if we sit?” Hobbs asked.

  “Please.”

  The book before him was an advanced calculus text. Avery glanced at the squiggles and didn’t have a clue.

  Avery told him, “We’re investigating an incident at a party last Saturday. On Cedar Hills Street.”

  “Cedar Hill
s?”

  Avery would be wealthy if he had a dollar for every time a witness or suspect answered his question with a question.

  And a dollar for every time he bluffed. “Could you tell us when you arrived?”

  Karesh squinted, probably not trying to recollect the time at all, but debating if they really knew he’d been there. He opted to be smart. “Eight-something-ish. What’s this about?”

  “Your phone was involved in this incident.”

  “My phone?”

  Avery smiled to himself. “Do you mind if we take a look at it?”

  “Any chance you have a warrant?”

  “No. But we’d just like to see it. A courtesy.”

  “Courtesy.” He took an iPhone from his pocket. Pushed it toward Avery.

  The metadata had revealed the picture was taken by and uploaded from an inexpensive ZTE cell.

  “Your other phone. The burner.”

  The student hesitated. “Oh, the one I lost.”

  Avery noted that he didn’t try to deny he had one. Nor did he ask the more interesting question: How had they traced a cash burner to him?

  “That’s what happened? You lost it?”

  “I mean, it might’ve been stolen. I didn’t really care much. It was cheap. And almost out of minutes.”

  “When did you miss it?”

  “I guess a couple days ago.”

  “Could you tell us who else was at the Cedar Hills party?”

  Karesh’s face grew thoughtful. “Gosh, no. I just don’t recall. Funny, I hit the place fast, and nothing was happening, so I left.”

  Gosh?

  “Do you know when you left?”

  “Little after nine, I’d guess. I went to a party on Bradford. There were dozens of people there who saw me. They can verify that’s where I was.” A minor frown that, to Avery, looked fake. “If I need an alibi, that is.”

  So he’d left before Rose Taylor was photographed, which according to the metadata on the JPEG was 10:32 p.m. But if Karesh lent the phone to someone who then took the picture, he might have gotten together later with that person and posted it with him, uploading it around midnight.

  “And when did you leave the Bradford Avenue party?”

  “A couple hours later, maybe.”

  Avery asked, “Could you give us some of those names of people who saw you there?”

  “Wow. Very American Detective.” He paused. Then he jotted down a few names on a yellow pad and handed the sheet to Hobbs.

  “Phone numbers?”

  “Hmm, couldn’t tell you. They’re not in my contacts.”

  “They’re all students?” Hobbs asked patiently.

  “Hmm. Maybe. Probably. So, gotta ask. What’s this ‘incident’ you’re talking about?”

  “That burner was used in a crime that evening.”

  “No! That’s terrible!”

  A hint of overacting? Avery couldn’t tell.

  “Look, I definitely didn’t have it at the party. It was gone by then.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t have it when you arrived on Cedar Hills?”

  He was thinking fast now, staring at his math textbook. “I can’t say, sorry. All I know is that I noticed it missing a couple of days later. Again, cheap. I didn’t care. I’m not going to fill out a police report for a prepaid.”

  A generic, noncommittal answer that most likely wouldn’t come back to bite him. And Avery noted he didn’t use the somewhat shady word burner.

  It was then that Jesse Hobbs said, “Uber.”

  Karesh was silent for a moment. Then: “What about it?”

  The young officer said, “Cedar Hills to Bradford Avenue is three miles. You didn’t walk and you don’t own a car. I checked. There aren’t that many metered cabs left in Rawlings. You Ubered.”

  Avery was impressed; he himself wouldn’t have thought about the ride service, which he’d never used.

  “I guess I did. I mean, yes.”

  Hobbs said, “Can we see your app? The log of where you were?”

  His smile didn’t falter, his eyes didn’t narrow, but there was a millisecond pause before Karesh offered the phone.

  Hobbs scrolled through the app; Avery could see him click on something that displayed the heading “Your Trips.” The young deputy looked up. “You mind if we take down the addresses, just to confirm? You can say no, but it’ll save the hassle of a warrant.”

  He paused again. Then: “Yeah, sure. Go right ahead.”

  As Hobbs read aloud the addresses and the times, Avery wrote them down. The detective reflected that Karesh could have used the Uber app to prove when he’d left the party where Rose Taylor was assaulted.

  Karesh asked, “Hey, what kind of crime was it?”

  “Sexual assault.” Avery had kept the description ambiguous, to see if he could get a reaction.

  Karesh’s face tightened into a deep frown. “Oh, man. That’s harsh.”

  Acting or not?

  “Well, I hope you catch whoever did it.”

  “Could you give Deputy Hobbs your number?”

  Karesh dictated it to Hobbs, who took it down in his phone. Avery and Hobbs both rose together.

  Avery leaned down toward Karesh, who’d begun to gather his class notes. “Just curious. Why was it you bought the ZTE with cash, when you used your credit card for that other purchase at the same time?”

  Karesh’s eyes flickered. Avery could sense the split-second recognition: That’s how they found him.

  He looked as if Avery had asked an immensely stupid question. “You use your credit card with a phone, the provider sells all your information. Data mining. Could lead to identity theft. That’s a real problem nowadays.”

  “But you have your iPhone,” Hobbs said. “You had to use a credit card for that one.”

  “Oh, my father got it for me. Family plan, you know. Saved a ton of money.”

  “So you use burners much?” Avery asked.

  “All the time. Everybody should have a second phone. Emergencies, you know.”

  Avery shot him a look. “As long as you don’t lose them.”

  Karesh offered a cool smile. “There’s that, true.” He glanced at a large wall clock. “I have to get to class. Good luck with your case.”

  “That was about as slick as I’ve seen,” Jesse Hobbs said as the two walked back to the cruiser. “But looked like he hiccuped when you asked for the iPhone.”

  “You saw that too, hmm? Hey, good call on the Uber thing.”

  “Nearly every student on campus has an account. Maybe not the smaller schools around here, but Preston? Mommy or daddy signs ’em up for Uber the day they register. You want, I’ll check out the addresses he went to after leaving Cedar Hills. See if he said anything about the party or Ms. Taylor.”

  “Good. Something’s off about that kid. I want to know more.”

  “Sure, Detective.”

  They returned to headquarters. Hobbs headed for his cubicle, and Avery continued down the main corridor to the sheriff’s office. The place was decorated in what his wife, Becky, called 1970s Uninspired. The style included brushed aluminum, yellowing acoustic tile and beige walls last painted two budgets ago.

  He stepped into the sheriff’s office.

  The big man looked up from a cluttered desk, his half-lens glasses perched low on his ample nose, which was a bit crooked from the time, off duty, when he’d collared a meth-wired carjacker who didn’t want to be collared (and in the First Methodist parking lot, no less).

  Elected six times to the job, landslides every one, Freddy Bascom aspired to nothing more or less than this: keeping peace in a county that he believed in his heart deserved it.

  The big man looked up. “You want something, I can tell.”

  “I need to spend some more of your money.”

  “The Rose Taylor thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Makes my blood boil, what happened to her. Whatta you need?”

  “More computer time. Find out what cel
l towers the upload pinged.”

  “Wasn’t from the party on Cedar Hills?”

  “Might’ve been. But doubt it. Wasn’t uploaded till almost three hours after it was shot. You can take it out of my budget.”

  “You don’t have a budget. I have a budget.”

  “How ’bout it, Freddy?”

  “Sure. Whatever you need.”

  Back at his desk, Avery filled out the warrant request and emailed it the magistrate, who approved it quickly. Avery sent all the paperwork—well, digitalwork—to the officer at Computer Crimes, who’d start following the digital bread crumbs. Avery reflected that Rose Taylor had been violated by bytes of data; the perp was being pursued by the same invisible electrons.

  As he waited for the upload information, he turned to tackling some of his own tasks. The Major Case disposition report for the Monroe County district attorney was the priority, due on Monday. A single incident could lead to a number of charges (a killer might be charged with murder, manslaughter or criminally negligent homicide), and, as senior detective, Jon Avery had to review every serious offense and recommend to the DA which charges the sheriff’s office thought were most likely to win convictions.

  One crime in the report in particular had him stuck. He wasn’t sure what charges to recommend. Phil Peabody, a student at Preston College, had been arrested for weapons possession and battery. A witness claimed Peabody had stolen a leather jacket from a chair at an outdoor restaurant downtown. Peabody, who’d been drinking, claimed the garment was his, and when the witness told him to wait for the police, he’d pushed the young man, who’d fallen and broken a finger. When the deputies arrived, they discovered a pistol in the pocket of the jacket. It was an old-time gun, and unloaded, but this was still a violation of the concealed weapon laws. Peabody changed his tune and admitted he’d stolen the jacket but insisted his goal was to return it to its owner. The county prosecutor, known to take weapons offenses very seriously, wanted to charge Peabody with aggravated assault.

  Avery read the file several times and debated which counts to go with. He finally decided less severe charges were called for. Peabody would still be convicted of a felony but would do only six months in jail, not two to three years. It was his first offense, and Avery had seen letters of support from his family, two of the student’s coaches and his minister.