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Kyle almost said, “Yes, sir,” but instead managed only a slight affirmative nod.

“So you plan to do some charitable work for a couple of years?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll join a firm somewhere, start a career.”

“What do you think of Scully & Pershing?”

“Big, powerful, rich. I think it’s the largest law firm in the world, depending on who got merged or swallowed yesterday. Offices in thirty cities on five continents. Some really smart folks who work very hard and put enormous pressure on each other, especially on their young associates.”

“Your kind of work?”

“It’s hard to say. The money is great. The work is brutal. But it’s the big leagues. I’ll probably end up there.”

“In what section did you work last summer?”

“I moved around, but most of my time was spent in litigation.”

“Do you like litigation?”

“Not especially. May I ask what these questions can possibly have to do with that matter back in Pittsburgh?”

Wright took his elbows off the table and tried to relax a little deeper into the folding chair. He crossed his legs and placed the legal pad on his left thigh. He chewed the end of his pen for a moment, staring at Kyle as if he were now a psychiatrist, analyzing the patient. “Let’s talk about your fraternity at Duquesne.”

“Whatever.”

“There were about ten members of your pledge class, right?”

“Nine.”

“Do you keep in touch with all of them?”

“To some degree.”

“The indictment names you and three others, so let’s talk about the other three. Where is Alan Strock?”

The indictment. Somewhere in that damned file less than three feet away was the indictment. How could his name be listed as a defendant? He had not touched the girl. He had not witnessed a rape. He had not seen anyone having sex. He vaguely recalled being present in the room, but he had blacked out at some point during the night, during the episode. How could he be an accomplice if he wasn’t conscious? That would be his defense at trial, and a solid defense it would be, but the specter of a trial was too awful to imagine. A trial would come long after the arrest, the publicity, the horror of seeing his photo in print. Kyle closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, and he thought about the phone calls home, first to his father and then to his mother. Other phone calls would follow: one each to the recruiting directors who’d offered him jobs; one to each of his sisters. He would proclaim his innocence and all that, but he knew he would never shake the suspicion of rape.

At that moment, Kyle had no confidence in Detective Wright and whatever deal he had in mind. If there was indeed an indictment, then no miracle could keep it buried.

“Alan Strock?” Wright asked.

“He’s in med school at Ohio State.”

“Any recent correspondence?”

“An e-mail a couple of days ago.”

“And Joey Bernardo?”

“He’s still in Pittsburgh, working for a brokerage firm.”

“Recent contact?”

“By phone, a few days ago.”

“Any mention of Elaine Keenan with Alan or Joey?”

“No.”

“You boys have tried to forget about Elaine, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she’s back.”

“Evidently.”

Wright readjusted himself in the chair, uncrossed his legs, stretched his back, and returned to the most comfortable position with both elbows stuck on the table. “Elaine left Duquesne after her freshman year,” he began in a softer voice, as if he had a long tale to tell. “She was troubled. Her grades were a mess. She now claims that the rape brought on severe emotional distress. She lived with her parents for a year or so in Erie, then began drifting. A lot of self-medication, booze and drugs. She saw some therapists, but nothing helped. Have you heard any of this?”

“No. After she left school, there was not a word.”

“Anyway, she has an older sister in Scranton who took her in, got her some help, paid for rehab. Then they found a shrink who, evidently, has done a nice job of putting Elaine back together. She’s clean, sober, feels great, and her memory has improved dramatically. She’s also found herself a lawyer, and of course she is demanding justice.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“I’m a cop, Kyle. I’m skeptical of everything, but I have this young woman who is credible and who says she was raped, and I have a video that is pretty powerful evidence. And on top of that, there’s this lawyer who’s out for blood.”

“This is a shakedown, isn’t it? All about money?”

“What do you mean, Kyle?”

“The fourth defendant is Baxter Tate, and of course we know what that’s all about. The Tate family is very rich. Old Pittsburgh money. Baxter was born with trust funds. How much does she want?”

“I’ll ask the questions. Did you ever have sex—”

“Yes, I had sex with Elaine Keenan, as did most of my pledge class. She was wild as hell, spent more time in the Beta house than most Betas, could drink any three of us under the table, and always had a purse full of pills. Her problems began long before she arrived at Duquesne. Believe me, she does not want to go to trial.”

“How many times did you have sex with her?”

“Once, about a month before the alleged rape.”

“Do you know if Baxter Tate had sexual relations with Elaine Keenan on the night in question?”

Kyle paused, took a deep breath, and said, “No, I do not. I blacked out.”

“Did Baxter Tate admit to having sex with her that night?”

“Not to me.”

Wright finished writing a long sentence on his legal pad as the air cleared. Kyle could almost hear the camera running. He glanced at it and saw the little red light still staring at him.

“Where is Baxter?” Wright asked after a long, heavy pause.

“Somewhere in L.A. He barely graduated, then went to Hollywood to become an actor. He’s not too stable.”

“Meaning?”

“He comes from a wealthy family that’s even more dysfunctional than most wealthy families. He’s a hard partier, lots of booze and drugs and girls. And he shows no signs of outgrowing it. His goal in life is to become a great actor and drink himself to death. He wants to die young, sort of like James Dean.”

“Has he been in any films?”

“Not a single one. Lots of bars, though.”

Wright suddenly seemed bored with the questions. He had stopped his scribbling. His hard stare began to drift. He stuffed some papers back into the file, then tapped a finger at the center of the table. “We’ve made progress, Kyle, thank you. The ball is at midfield. You want to see the video?”

Chapter 4

Wright stood for the first time, stretched, and stepped to a corner where a small cardboard box was waiting. It was white, and in a neat hand someone had printed, with a black marker, the words “IN RE: KYLE L. McAVOY et al.” Kyle McAvoy and others. Wright fetched something from the box, and with the steady purpose of an executioner preparing to pull the switch, he removed a disc from its sleeve, slid it into the drive on the laptop, punched a couple of keys, then took his seat. Kyle could barely breathe.

As the computer clicked and hummed, Wright began talking. “The phone was a Nokia 6000 smartphone, manufactured in 2003, with ETI Camcorder software installed, one-gigabyte memory card that holds about three hundred minutes of compressed video, megapixel quality at fifteen FPS, voice commands, voice activated, state of the art for the time. A really nice cell phone.”

“Owned by?”

Wright shot him a smart-ass grin and said, “Sorry, Kyle.”

For some reason, Wright thought it would be helpful to show the phone itself. He punched a key, and a still photo of the Nokia appeared on the screen. “Ever see this?” he asked.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. Here’s the scene, Kyle, in case you’re a little fuzzy on the details. It’s April 25, 2003, last day of classes, final exams start in a week. It’s a Friday, unseasonably warm for Pittsburgh, high of eighty-five that day, almost set a record, and the kids at Duquesne decide to do what all good college kids do everywhere. They start drinking in the afternoon and have big plans to drink all night. A crowd gathers at the apartment complex where you rent a place with three others. A party materializes by the pool. It’s mostly Beta brothers and a few girls. You go for a swim, get some rays, drink some beer, listen to Phish. The girls are in bikinis. Life is good. Sometime after dark, the party moves inside, to your apartment. Pizza is ordered. The music, Widespread Panic by this time, is loud. More beer. Somebody shows up with two bottles of tequila, and of course this is consumed as fast as possible. Remember any of this?”

“Most of it.”

“You’re twenty years old, just finishing your sophomore year—”

“Got that.”

“The tequila gets mixed with Red Bull, and you and the gang start doing shots. I’m sure you’ve had a few shots.”

Kyle nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“At some point, clothes start coming off, and the owner of the cell phone decides to secretly record this. Guess he wanted his own little video of the girls without their tops. Do you remember the apartment, Kyle?”

“Yes, I lived there for a year.”

“We’ve examined the place. It’s a dump, of course, like a lot of college housing, but, according to the landlord, hasn’t changed. Our best guess is that the guy with the cell phone placed it on the narrow counter that separates the small kitchen from the den. The counter seems to be a catchall for textbooks, phone books, empty beer bottles, pretty much everything that passed through the apartment at one time or another.”

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