Chapter Nineteen
Laurel waited until Lane’s sorority sister had picked her up before getting ready to leave. She was tying her oxfords when her phone started ringing. She glanced at the readout, rolled her eyes, and flashed the screen at me. It was Reyes.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asked. He said something in response. “I haven’t been looking at my phone. Give me a sec. I’m putting you on speaker.” She hit the speaker button, then started scrolling through her messages. “What the fuck?”
“You’re reading it?” Reyes asked.
“Yeah. Give me a sec.”
I leaned over so I could see her screen. She angled it so I could read. Her browser was open on a Sac Bee article. “Sacramento State Rapist: Is there a serial rapist on Sac State’s campus?” The article proceeded to speculate if the school was experiencing an uptick in sexual assault reporting as a result of Me Too or if a serial rapist was operating on campus.
“Fuck. How much information do they have?” Laurel asked.
“We think at least one victim talked to the reporter. They know about ketamine, but not about Locus. It’s only a matter of time though. You need to get down here now,” Reyes said.
“Yep. I’m on my way.” Laurel hung up.
“Will you send the article to me?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She tapped her phone a few times and my phone lit up. “This is bad. If they report on Locus, we will lose our biggest lead.”
“I know. Get out of here.”
“Thanks.” She kissed me too briefly, then turned to the door. She got about halfway there before turning around, panic in her eyes. “Do I tell Lane?”
“Shit. Well, she needs to know. People will be talking about it on campus. Anyone she’s told or anyone she tells today will ask if she’s one of the victims.”
“Dammit.”
“It doesn’t need to be a whole conversation, just a heads up.”
“Yeah, okay. Good point. I’ll call her on my way.”
I nodded. “Good luck today.”
As soon as the door closed, I sat and read the whole article. I agreed with Reyes. At least one victim had spoken to the reporter, but it appeared she’d withheld significant amounts of information. The article discussed the frat parties and drugs, but that was it. The number of victims was conjecture based purely on tweets, which was interesting. The tweets might have been more accurate because rape survivors were far more likely to discuss their assault on social media than with police, but also it was Twitter. So that was iffy.
My phone rang. It was Lane.
“What’s up, buddy?”
“Any chance I can convince you to pick me up in about two hours?”
“Sure. Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. I just got off the phone with Laurel. After my lecture, I was going to hang at the Tri Ep house until my afternoon class, but I really don’t want to answer questions.”
“Got it. No problem.”
“Thanks, Cash.”
I checked the time so I’d know when to leave to pick her up. Then I reread the article. Then I did what I thought I’d never do. I downloaded Twitter and made an account. It took me twenty minutes to admit I couldn’t figure out how to navigate it. Being a Millennial wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I knew I could ask Andy for help, but she would mock me. Lane would ask why I wanted to use Twitter. So I asked the only other Gen Z person I knew: Duarte. He gave me a thorough two-minute tutorial complete with screenshots. It was great. Kids, man.
I started reading through the accounts quoted in the article. There were a ton of threads specific to the case. Some predated the article. Most had been posted after the article went live. It didn’t take me long to figure out the difference between the legit discussions and the douche bros defending rape culture, probably because they outright said that was what they were doing.
Duarte texted to ask how my foray into Twitter was going and tentatively ask why I was suddenly interested in social media. So I told him the truth, which sucked him right in. I figured out real quick how to send a thread via text and was quite proud of myself.
By the time I left to pick up Lane, I was equally convinced there was a serial rapist at Sac State and that there was no serial rapist because literally all of the guys on campus were rapists. Logically, I knew that couldn’t be the case. But at the very least, they all seemed quick to defend rape. Duarte seemed reluctant to jump on board my all dudes are rapists train, but he was wavering.
Like Lane said, a piece of hay in a haystack.
* * *
That evening, Lane was back on campus finishing a lab, Laurel was still radio silence at the station, and I had a deep and nuanced understanding of what a Twitter hole was.
My front door opened. I looked up from my phone. Laurel nodded at me.
“Hey,” I said.
“Sorry to show up unannounced.” She kicked off her shoes and started emptying her pockets. “I was going to text, but I…” She got distracted by the action of stacking her wallet and phone on the table by the door.
“It’s cool. Are you okay?”
She nodded a couple of times. It wasn’t convincing. “Fine.”
“Want some chips and salsa?” I pointed at the spread on the coffee table.
“Fuck yes.” She detoured into the kitchen to grab a beer.
“I can make something more substantial, if you want.”
Laurel ate a chip and shook her head. “These really are the best tortilla chips ever.”
“I know.”
“So what did you do today? Tell me about anything that isn’t sexual assault or Sac State related.” Laurel leaned back and took a sip of beer.
“Umm.”
“What?”
“Well, I learned Twitter.”
She cocked her head and grinned. “Why?”
“To research the tweets used in the article,” I said. She groaned. “Sorry. Not much of a distraction.”
“Wait. You’re the reason Duarte was all up on social media today.”
I shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, probably. He taught me how Twitter worked and I kinda roped him into my research project.”
“He’s convinced there are at least ten unreported victims.”
“At least he didn’t tell you my theory.”
“Which is what?”
“That one hundred percent of the cis dudes on campus are rapists and you guys are just connecting the dots between the common ones.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, thanks. That’s very helpful.”
“Okay, I know they can’t all be, but all of them are fueling rape culture. So, you know, they are all at fault.”
“I wish I could argue that.”
“You can’t. I’m very smart.”
“The article prompted three more women to come forward today,” she said.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Three?”
“Yep. I’m sure tomorrow there will be more.”
“Your turn,” I said.
“For what?”
“Tell me something that isn’t sexual assault or Sac State related.”
She looked at me wide-eyed. “There’s a world outside of sexual assault and Sacramento State? What’s it like?”
I grinned. “We need to get you to a movie or something.”
“That sounds great.” She took a few long gulps from her beer and settled into the corner of the couch. “Are we allowed to do that?”
“I’m free.” I pulled out my phone to look up movie times. I knew there was only a thirty percent chance I’d get her to go to a movie, but I figured it was worth playing out the fantasy on the off chance it worked.
“Actually, I have a much worse idea of how to spend the evening.”
“What’s that?”
She grimaced. “You want to go to a frat party?”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“I know, but we’ve tried everything else. We just need one idiot with ketamine to build a case.”
Her grimace deepened. “Sig Ep is having a hump day party.”
“Imaginative.”
“It gets worse.”
“Not possible.”
“The hump day theme extends to attire. Apparently, it’s business casual. Nineties business casual.”
I chugged the rest of my beer. “You’re so lucky you’re hot.”
“I know.”
Thirty minutes later, we walked into an absolutely idiotic frat party. Laurel thankfully hadn’t made me dress for theme, but everyone else seemed delighted to have done so. I was not surprised to find that a bunch of college kids born in the late nineties to early aughts were completely unaware of nineties fashion. There were slim khaki joggers and skinny ties mixed with colorblock windbreakers and wide sweater vests.
“I’m going to find us something to drink,” I said.
“Nothing in an open container.”
“Oh, really? Why?” I did my best to look confused.
“Cash.”
“Laurel.”
“Because someone is going around dosing people with ketamine,” she said.
I broke into a grin. “I know.” I kissed her cheek and dashed off.
When I came back with bottled water, Laurel look relieved. She cracked it open.
“Look at that. It’s even sealed,” she said.
“Yeah, girl, nothing but the best for you.” I slung my arm around her shoulders. “Isn’t Sigma Epsilon the frat your mom said was rapey?”
“She did? When?” Laurel leaned to the side so she could look at me. “Was it before I got there?”
“Got where?”
“To your house.”
“What?” I replayed the conversation. “Oh, no. She didn’t tell me they were rapey. She told you. It was when she showed up at your apartment. You said she kept asking you what frat house Lane was at.”
“Oh. That. Yeah, she asked if Lane was at the Sig Ep house.” Laurel turned to stare pointedly at the twelve-foot Sigma Epsilon crest painted on the wall.
“So we’re in the rapey frat house?” I asked.
“That’s somewhat worrisome.”
“Mildly.”
We sipped our not drugged water and people watched. No one came up and offered us ketamine, nor did anyone ask me for ketamine. So that was disappointing. I started watching the women. Most of them showed signs of intoxication, but it was impossible to tell if it was a result of alcohol or something else.
“Are you watching the girl on the stairs?” Laurel asked.
“No. Which girl?”
“Cream high-cut pleated pants. Like really pleated. And a floral top.”
It only took me a moment to pick out the massive cream color pants on the stairs. Laurel was right. They were very pleated. The woman was clinging to the banister to make it up each stair. She finally reached the top and stumbled into the hallway and out of sight. A guy halfway down the stairs started taking the stairs two at a time.
“Is that guy following her?” I asked as he also disappeared into the hallway.
“Yeah.” Laurel took a step toward the stairs. I grabbed her hand and pulled her back. “What are you doing?” She glared. “I need to check on her.”
“Alone in the rape house? I don’t think so,” I said.
“Well, come on then.” She yanked me forward.
We wove up the stairs as quickly as possible. They were littered with people and actual litter. When we emerged in the hallway, the drunk girl was at the far end and the guy who had followed her was coaching her to walk. He sighed and picked her up. He turned back to the stairs with the now passed out young woman in his arms.
“Finally. Where the fuck were you guys?” he asked.
Laurel and I stopped walking. That was not the response we expected.
“Excuse me.” Another young woman pushed past us. “You found her,” she said to the frat boy.
“Yeah, but I texted you like five minutes ago.” The guy huffed and readjusted his grip on the woman in his arms.
“Sorry. Jill’s getting the car because I can’t drive. She’s pulling up out front.” The woman smoothed the drunk girl’s hair. “I’m so glad you found her.”
“Yeah, same.” He rolled his eyes. “Can you clear the stairs so I can take her down?”
“Yeah, sure.” The young woman turned again. “Sorry, you two mind moving?” she asked us.
“Sure,” I said. We pressed against the wall so they could get past. It took them a minute to get downstairs.
“We might have misjudged that situation,” Laurel said.
“Duh.”
“I guess all frat boys aren’t rapists?”
“Seems unlikely, but okay.”
We laughed at ourselves and went back downstairs. We didn’t get a lead on ketamine, but we did get our faith in humanity slightly restored so it wasn’t a total wash of an evening. A movie still would have been better though.
Chapter Twenty
Duarte and I had been sequestered in the tiny conference room for three hours. In that time, the noise from the squad room had slowly dwindled. We were sitting at the conference table surrounded by a wealth of devices: laptops, iPads, police issue tablets, but we were both on our phones. The door opened. I looked up in surprise. I thought everyone had gone home.
It was Laurel. “Cash? Duarte? What the hell are you guys doing in here?” She stepped inside the room and pulled the door closed behind her. She was staring at the wall opposite us. “What the fuck is that?”
“Oh, uh, hey, Kallen.” Duarte locked his phone and set it down. “We made a murder wall.” He blushed faintly.
“A murder wall?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Not to catch a murderer. It’s just all the information we have. You know, about the serial rapist.” He glanced at me for help.
“Some of it isn’t official. We wanted to compare the confirmed information with our suspicions. Try to eliminate some of the cis men on Sac State’s campus.”
Duarte nodded. “We only suspect like a quarter of them now.”
“Well.” Laurel edged around the table so she could look at the wall up close. “The rookie detective and the CI.”
Duarte and I made eye contact and shrugged. We didn’t know what that meant. Laurel started in the center of the wall where we’d put up a map of Sac State and the surrounding neighborhoods. The map was where all the facts were. She traced the lines out. She seemed particularly confused by the list of Twitter and Instagram handles. Watching her made me feel strangely nervous. This wasn’t even my job. That morning, Duarte had texted me a photo of the mini version of the murder board tacked up in his cubicle. Somehow, ten hours later, we had ended up here. Yet, Laurel was giving me flashbacks to my algebra teacher critiquing a problem I’d solved on the whiteboard. Algebra had never been my strong suit.
“This is insane,” she finally said.
“I can take it down.” Duarte pushed his chair back and stood. “We just got carried away. I mean, I did. I dragged Cash into it, but it wasn’t her idea. I know she’s your CI. And I know this isn’t even my case. I just wanted to help out with more than identifying photos.”
Laurel spun away from the wall. “No. It’s good.”
Duarte stopped halfway around the table. “What?”
“I mean it, Jeff.” She looked at the wall, then back at him. “You did good work.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Laurel pointed at the map where we had marked time stamps. “Explain this to me.” She pulled out a chair and dropped into it.
Duarte hustled forward. “Okay. It’s color coded, obviously. Each color is a different victim. So this one, the lavender, is Haylee Prosser.” He traced an invisible line between silver pins holding cards in place. All of the cards with Prosser’s information had a wide lavender stripe at the top. “The assault occurred at the Zeta Beta Chi house between eleven p.m. and twelve f
ifteen a.m. We don’t have hospital records because she didn’t report. But we do know that she attended one other party at Sigma Epsilon.” He pointed to a different frat house. “She was there until approximately ten p.m. when she and her friends went to Zeta.”
“What’s up with that?” Laurel pointed at the far end of the wall where a lavender card was tacked under the Instagram list.
I came around the table. “We have three photos from Zeta Beta Chi during the time frame Prosser was there. And seven photos from the Sig Ep party.” I ran a finger down the Twitter list. “No tweets that obviously reference either party. From a cursory look, it doesn’t look like the vic has a Twitter account.”
“It is also worth noting that the information concerning which frat houses the vics were at is pieced together from interviewing them, their friends, their social media and is by no means exhaustive or even necessarily accurate,” Duarte said.
“Okay, burnt orange.” Laurel pointed at a card.
“Burnt orange is…” Duarte drew the word out as he looked for the name. “Kali Wayne.”
“Assaulted at the Sigma Epsilon house between two thirty and three a.m.” I pointed at Sig Ep on the map. “She was our second victim. Sexual Assault nurse noted that Wayne was still clearly suffering the effects of ketamine when she was brought in. That observation is one of the reasons the nurse was aware of the drug in the next victim, which is how she knew to ask the lab for that specifically.”
“Thank you, Mercy Hospital,” Laurel said.
“We only have one photo from Sig Ep, but Wayne and her friends attended a bar and two other parties.”
“The bar hasn’t been mentioned by anyone else.” Duarte pointed at a bar in East Sac.
“But there are twelve photos from Kappa Kappa Tau and nine from Alpha Pi Omicron in the approximate time frame.”
“You guys, this is impressive as hell. When were you going to let the lead detectives in on it?” Laurel asked.
Duarte looked at me and shrugged, but I didn’t know. This was his job. I was just indulging him.
“We aren’t finished yet,” I said.
“What else do you need?” Laurel asked.
“We were filling in some of the social media blanks.” Duarte nodded at the fringe lists I was standing in front of. “That’s what motivated us, actually. The Twitter chatter surrounding the frat houses paints a pretty clear picture of which houses are rapey.”
Cash and the Sorority Girl Page 17
