Caitlin pointed toward another complex past the walkway’s end, maybe two hundred feet of thin forest away. “Is that the Villas?”
“Yes. There’s a path through the woods on the other side of the complex.”
Lakshmi opened Chapman’s door and stepped inside. Caitlin followed. She saw a room to the left, maybe fifteen by twenty, with a secondhand couch and TV setup, a cocktail table with two chairs, and a sliding door to a wooden deck. On the other side of the wall, a kitchen.
“It still smells like her,” Lakshmi said.
Caitlin hoped the girl’s memory, rather than actual senses, had spoken. The place smelled like rotten carpet and stale beer.
She walked the other way, saw a narrow half bath on one side of the hall, a longer full bath on the other, then two doors at the end, both closed. Caitlin opened the one on the right, found an empty room, no furniture. Devon’s room.
Lakshmi opened the door on the left and walked in. The pressure change rattled the posters on the wall. The whole room seemed ready to yell, “Welcome home.” Angela’s desk, an imitation-beech particle-board concoction, still looked new. Caitlin studied a plastic frame that held five photos: Angela and a soccer team—Lakshmi one of four in the shot. Angela and a basketball team—Lakshmi one of five in the shot. Angela next to Lakshmi at a party, a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. Angela in a cap and gown with her parents, high school–graduation style. Angela seated in a tattoo parlor chair, showing off the new hummingbird tattoo on her neck.
“I come here sometimes,” Lakshmi said, quiet, like someone in a funeral home. “To be with her, to see if there’s anything I missed.”
Caitlin looked at the bed in the corner, a queen-sized mattress on a simple frame, the sheets a neutral cool gray. A two-year-old poster of the US Women’s National Soccer Team hung on the wall above.
Lakshmi continued, “I don’t know what I expect to find.”
Caitlin opened the closet, saw two rows of hanging clothes, shoes on the floor, a three-drawer dresser on the far right, a laundry basket on top. She opened the top drawer, found underwear, nothing too frilly.
The top row of the hanging clothes were T-shirts and jerseys. The bottom row, skirts, jeans, and dresses. Two rows for two different Angelas.
“Not very girly,” Caitlin said.
“She could be when she wanted to be.”
Caitlin’s image of Angela started to flesh out. There was the Angela the world expected her to be and the Angela she was trying out.
“I made a spreadsheet,” Lakshmi said. “All of her clothes—the ones from the closet, anything I found in pictures in the room, on social media.”
“Why?”
“In case she came back or someone came back for her, grabbed more clothes than what she was wearing that night.”
“Anything missing?”
Lakshmi shook her head.
Caitlin saw the weight of the guilt Lakshmi carried on her shoulders, but telling the girl to let go of her dead best friend in the dead best friend’s apartment wouldn’t help anything.
“What time is it?”
Lakshmi checked her phone. “Ten thirty-two.”
Caitlin turned for the door. “Let’s hit the gym.”
* * *
Caitlin followed Lakshmi up the thirty steps into the Student Recreational Sports Center. Even the entrance was a workout. The building not only housed a full-size gym every bit as modern as a Hollywood health club, but also basketball and volleyball courts and Pilates, spin, and yoga rooms. After twenty minutes of dodging young, sweaty bodies, Caitlin had seen enough.
A fifty-dollar parking ticket waited under the windshield wiper of her rental.
“Might as well leave it here. Which way would Angela have walked?”
Lakshmi pointed south. A concrete path led to the railroad tracks.
“Perfect,” Caitlin said. “Takes us right by Lennie’s at lunchtime.”
* * *
Caitlin dipped her stromboli in marinara and got a nice chunk of Italian sausage and cheese. She was enjoying the experience much more than her previous visit there with Greenwood. “So Angela liked acting?”
Lakshmi munched on a roasted carrot. “She liked the people we met in the Theater Department. She didn’t find a lot of creativity in her other courses.”
“Were you in her class?”
“No, I took the first level my freshman year. I thought it might help if I ended up in broadcasting. Each class started with a massage circle. Who doesn’t want that? Plus, great professor. One of those brooding grad students, you know?”
“Did Angela get the broody professor?”
“Totally. Chad Branford. So cool.”
“Is that where she met Kieran and David?”
Their names transformed the relaxed young woman into a defensive tiger. “No, she met them where you meet all the d-bags—the gym. They were playing on the girl’s basketball court.”
“There’s a girl’s court? Like segregation?”
“Sort of. There’s a limited number of courts, so they reserve one as a priority slot for women. Anyway, we showed up ready to play, and they didn’t want to leave, so Angela challenged them to two on two—whoever won got the court.”
Caitlin could see who won in the smile growing behind Lakshmi’s frown. “A blowout?”
“Kieran had a foot on both of us but couldn’t handle the ball. Dave’s only contribution was smack talk. We destroyed them, so they upped the bet. Whoever lost had to buy pizza and wings. We probably gained five pounds that night.”
“You all hung out?”
Lakshmi took a deep breath. “They were fun.”
“Does it hurt to say that?”
She nodded. “They didn’t seem like monsters.”
“It doesn’t sound like they are.”
Lakshmi started to respond, but Caitlin didn’t give her the opening. “Look at this from my perspective. A college girl goes out with two male friends. From all reports, she gets drunk—way too drunk—and possibly high on cocaine, but maybe something else, that makes her lose control of her body. Her friends don’t notice, which means they’re either just as drunk or riding the same high.”
“They could have—”
Caitlin held up her hand. “So they all go back to the apartment to pass out. The natural assumption is something awful happened. How awful do you think these guys made it?”
“What do you mean?”
“These were her friends—your friends, even. Isn’t the likely conclusion something accidental? Alcohol poisoning, an overdose, a slip and fall?”
“Yes, of course, but that’s not the crime.”
“I know,” Caitlin continued. “The crime is covering up what happened to her.”
“Which makes them monsters.”
“Well, assholes, sure. Scared college kids, high out of their minds, afraid of losing everything because maybe they bought the drugs—maybe even thought they’d be culpable for her death. Probably could be, but there’s plenty of evidence that Angela participated willingly. To me they sound like scared kids who made the wrong choice.”
Lakshmi pulled her posture out of beaten-dog pose. “I see your point.”
“I’m not saying they aren’t guilty, Lakshmi, but the best journalists in the world can interview drug smugglers, dictators, and serial killers, and leave themselves out of the story.”
“Could you sit down with the man who raped you and stay neutral?”
Caitlin thought about seeing Troy Woods again. Professional as she was, she couldn’t say. Last she checked, he was confined in the Miami Correctional Facility in Kokomo, north of Indianapolis—two hours away.
“Fair point,” she said. “But that crime’s been solved. Let’s concentrate on yours.”
* * *
Heading west down a tree-lined concrete path, the first beads of sweat appeared on Caitlin’s brow. A beautiful Indiana afternoon in the seventies still carried more humidity than the rainy season
in Los Angeles.
“So, this Professor Branford?”
“Chad,” Lakshmi answered.
“Right, Chad Branford. He was a grad student at the time. Any chance he’s still in the program?”
They crossed the street with a handful of students on foot and bicycles, headed toward the theater complex.
“Are you kidding?” Lakshmi sped up. “I think that was him.”
Caitlin jogged to catch up. Lakshmi cornered a cyclist near the bike racks. He took off his helmet and smiled.
Chad Branford had great teeth, straight and white, just like the commercials. Under thirty, clean-shaven, short brown hair, maybe six foot, with a lean physique, he looked like he cycled other places than campus. Hardly what Caitlin would have called dark and brooding. He even had blue eyes.
Lakshmi motioned her over. “Caitlin, this is Chad Branford.”
He strapped his helmet to his backpack, held out his hand. “Hi.”
Caitlin shook his hand. “And the devil appears. I asked Lakshmi if we might see you today, and you rode right past us.”
He laughed. “Finally, someone asks me to play the devil.”
Lakshmi laughed harder than the weight of the witticism. Caitlin had a feeling most of his students would.
“Why would you ladies be talking about me?”
Lakshmi put her arm around him. “She wanted to know who the best professor I’ve had at IU was.”
“And when you couldn’t find that prof, you talked about me?”
Lakshmi, a little color to her cheeks, laughed again. “Didn’t I tell you, Caitlin? He’s the coolest.”
Caitlin addressed him. “Lakshmi’s giving me the campus tour today. I’m working with her as part of a mentorship.”
“So, not an acting student?”
“There’s some crossover. Where are you headed?”
“Acting 101.” He checked his phone. “Shoot, I’m running late, but it was so nice to bump into you.” He gave Lakshmi a little hug. “Don’t be a stranger.”
They watched him jog up the steps into the building.
“Fun guy,” Caitlin said. “Great teeth.”
“Plus he owns Pizza Monster.”
“Pizza what?”
Lakshmi didn’t get to answer. A window above them slid open, and Branford popped his head out. “Any chance you ladies want to audit my class?”
Lakshmi turned to Caitlin. “Do we have time?”
Caitlin’s phone rang. “Hold that thought.”
The caller ID read Bloomington Police.
She answered. “This is Caitlin Bergman.”
“It’s Maverick. You busy?”
“What’s up, Detective?”
“Campus PD’s got a student who claims she was sexually assaulted. Your name came up.”
Caitlin apologized to Lakshmi and Branford. “Change of plans.”
CHAPTER
17
CAITLIN SAT BACK in the hardwood chair. “Is this where you break them, Jane?”
Maverick took the opposite seat. “That’s right, Bergman. Now talk.”
“Oh no, you have to trap me with seemingly meaningless questions, let my lies trip me up. You’d better start.”
Maverick set a folder on the table. “A female student under the legal drinking age claims a male campus police officer sexually assaulted her last night.”
Caitlin recalled the name. “Laura Baker?”
“That’s the girl.”
“Is she okay?”
“Nothing a stomach pump and a Pedialyte couldn’t improve.”
“There’s no evidence of assault?”
Maverick answered by placing a recorder on the table and hitting “Start.”
Caitlin leaned toward the gear. “You are listening to the one and only Caitlin Bergman.”
Maverick’s lips might have curled a millimeter. “Miss Bergman, could you describe what you saw take place on Third Street last night?”
Caitlin recounted her walk while Maverick jotted notes on a pad.
“One last question. How long would you say it was from when you started talking to Miss Baker and the male officer to when the female officer arrived?”
“One, maybe two, minutes tops.”
“Great.” She stopped the recorder. “Greenwood wants to know if you want to get lunch.”
“Just ate.”
Maverick stood, opened the door. “You should watch him eat. It’s walking distance.”
Caitlin took the cue and followed her out.
* * *
She found Greenwood on a park bench. “So the bike cops wear body cameras?”
He combined a nod with a swallow of grocery-store salad.
“Why bother me if you knew Laura Baker lied?”
“Video footage is fine, but an eyewitness is even better. Plus—”
She took over. “Plus, you wanted to see if I’m biased against law enforcement in the town where I was raped. I’m a professional, Greenwood.”
“So are we.” He laughed. “And you looked pretty drunk.”
Caitlin shook her head. “Why’d she make the accusation?”
“’Cause of a scholarship with a morality clause. She’ll lose the money if she’s caught drinking underage. Some kind of church thing.”
Caitlin thought about the desperation of a selfish choice, wondered how desperate the last people to see Chapman had felt.
Greenwood stood, dumped his food in a trash can, and walked toward an unmarked cruiser. “Meet anyone in the sheriff’s department yet?”
“Not yet. Something happen?”
“Missing person, female, twenty-four years old.” He opened the car door and pointed to the passenger seat. “Interested in a ride along?”
Caitlin got in. Greenwood pulled out and turned right on Tenth Street. “Find anything at Chapman’s apartment?”
“You have someone following me, Jerry?”
“Why? Did you think someone was following you?”
“No,” Caitlin said, sure no one had. “The cameras at Angela’s?”
“That door opens, I get a notice on my phone.”
Caitlin thought about Lakshmi’s keys and what the BPD thought about her visits.
“Where are we headed?”
“Little town outside of Bloomington called Unionville. Local woman, Paige Lauffer, part-time waitress in Bloomington, part-time student at IU, didn’t show up to work yesterday.”
“And they called you why?”
He waited for traffic. “Interdepartmental task force. Campus, city, county, state, federal. One from each office, plus the surrounding agencies. Woman disappears, we all get a call.”
Caitlin watched the scenery change from strip malls and campus buildings to single-family homes surrounded by trees. The houses looked safe and sturdy in the sunshine, but would a scream in the night reach a neighbor’s ears? Would the welcome mats welcome a woman covered in her own blood?
Greenwood brought her back to the moment. “Got another ten miles. Have any other Chapman questions?”
“You know I do.” She reached for her phone and started the voice recorder. “How many missing person cases are currently open in Monroe County?”
“Including Paige and Chapman, there are four. Two females and two males.”
Like the previous day’s meeting in the station, Greenwood’s answers came quick and professional. He had a media-ready polish Caitlin hadn’t expected to find in a small town.
“What about the surrounding counties?”
“Similar numbers, mix of teen runaways and probable battery victims who don’t want their exes to find them.”
“Any of them resemble Angela Chapman?”
“This Lauffer girl is five years older than Chapman was when she disappeared. That’s all I know so far.”
Caitlin guessed there weren’t more than one hundred and fifty thousand people in the whole county. “What about murders? How many per year?”
Greenwood glanced over, raised an e
yebrow. “You kidding? Maybe two, sometimes none at all.”
Five minutes into the countryside, Caitlin saw more trees than buildings, more churches than subdivisions. They passed a farm where two ponies grazed in a bright green field.
“Time for the good stuff, Greenwood. What do you believe happened to Angela Chapman?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Let’s go off the record.”
She stopped the recorder. “Is she dead or alive?”
He exhaled. “My guess is she died in the Varsity Villas.”
“Murder?”
“Can’t think of a motive. I think she overdosed or hit her head on the coffee table—the one Amireau supposedly went through.”
“And what? The frat boys disposed of her body? Could they do that?”
“Gets tricky there. Amireau’s good for a laugh, but definitely Michelson’s toadie.”
“And Michelson?”
“Top-of-his-class smart, despite the late nights and bar fights. Didn’t waste any time before he lawyered up, and didn’t have any financial blocks to the best representation in Indiana.”
Caitlin didn’t remember any mentions of Kieran Michelson’s parents in the articles she’d read. “Rich family?”
“Nope, and far as I could tell, Michelson found his own lawyer.”
Greenwood veered right at a fork in the road. Faded letters across a fifty-foot water tower read New Unionville.
“Any chance he called this lawyer before Angela was declared missing?”
“Neither his nor Amireau’s records show them contacting anyone, but these guys were known for having coke and pot. We never proved it, but I think they were dealing. They could have had prepaid burner phones we never found. As far as hiding a body”—he gestured to the thick woods lining the road—“we’ve searched forests, fields, quarries, and streams, came back with nothing but ticks and chafing.” He slowed, put on a turn signal. “I am one hundred percent sure those frat boys know what happened to Chapman, and I can’t prove a damned thing.”
He pulled off the road. “Here we are.”
Three sheriff’s department cruisers were parked on the long gravel driveway leading to the single-story, red-brick-and-vinyl-siding home. The only unofficial vehicle present, a lime-green Ford Focus.
“If you’re sure Michelson and Amireau are the guys, what are we doing here?”
Come and Get Me Page 7
