by John Locke
His lip quivers. He tries to speak, but his voice breaks. He clears his throat. Then says, “I’m not saying anything without an attorney.”
I click my phone to stop the recording.
“You don’t need an attorney, Rick. Not yet, anyway. But you will if this case goes to the police.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong!” he says.
“If the police get involved they may accuse you of obstructing justice.”
“Why?”
“Because on Sunday or Monday, someone told you what happened to Riley Freeman at Kelli Underhill’s slumber party.”
“Not true.”
“The police will expect an honest answer.”
“If the police ask me about it, I’ll demand an attorney.”
“I can save you the time, trouble, and expense, and make sure the police know you cooperated from the start.”
“No way. I’m not saying anything.”
“Look, Rick. I know you had nothing to do with it. You weren’t even there. But you know something.”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“You’re wrong. It’s huge. A serious crime has taken place. Think about it from Riley’s perspective.”
I pause a moment, hoping he will. Then I say, “You remember when you were a kid in school, and the teachers said if you did something wrong it would go on your permanent record, and follow you the rest of your life?”
“They still say that.”
“Seriously? At your age? Well, I can promise you, it’s bullshit.”
“I’m not sure I understand your point.”
“Police reports are different. They’re the ultimate permanent record. What do you think the detectives will put in the police report when they investigate Riley’s case? They’re going to say the investigation was launched because of a comment made by Rick Hooper.”
His face goes from pale to paste.
“I-I can’t talk about this,” he says.
I touch his arm, look into his eyes. “Rick, you’re a good guy. I’m almost certain you are. And maybe you think Riley’s a stuck-up bitch, and maybe there’s a part of you that’s happy this happened to her, because maybe it’s nice to see a popular girl getting knocked off her pedestal for once. Or maybe you want to protect the person or people who told you what happened Saturday night, because they’re the cool kids, and you were impressed they confided in you.”
“No one confided in me. They don’t give a shit about me.”
“You overheard it?”
He looks around.
I don’t know if he’s making sure no one’s listening, or hoping someone in the lobby might require his attention. In any event, the lobby’s dead, and no one’s going to rescue him.
He says, “I might have heard someone talking about it on a cell phone. But that’s all I’m going to say.”
I frown. “That’s not enough, Rick. I need to know what was said.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not my job to tell you. I’m not like you, Ms. Ripper. I’m an outcast. A social misfit. I just want to get from one day to the next. You caught me by surprise a minute ago, but you can’t prove I know anything. If the police ask me, I’ll tell them I never called her Strawberry, and never overheard anything. It’ll be your word against mine, and I’ll have an attorney with me. No one can prove I overheard him talking about Riley Freeman. No one!”
“Him?”
His face flushes. “I’m not saying anything else.”
He turns to leave.
“Rick?”
“What?”
“I know you wish you hadn’t spoken to Riley yesterday, but you did. And you can’t take it back.”
“You can’t prove I called her Strawberry, and she can’t prove it either.”
“You already admitted it to me.”
He smiles. “Not on tape.”
I reach into my jeans pocket and remove my other cell phone, touch a couple of buttons, and play back what he just said.
His face flushes. Now I can’t nickname him Casper.
I put the phone back in my pocket and say, “It’s just a matter of time, Rick. The fact you overheard something proves it’s being talked about. When this blows up it’s going to be huge. It’ll be on the evening news and the front page of the paper.”
“So?”
“Right now, guess how many names Riley can give the police? One. Yours. Do you really want the police to have your name, instead of the guys who actually did something? Do you want them to start this investigation by coming to your house, talking to your parents?”
His lips twitch again. In a very small voice, he says, “Can you keep my name out of it?”
“Probably not. But I can make sure the police know you cooperated fully. And I can guarantee you won’t get in trouble over it.”
“This totally blows,” he says, practically in tears. “If only I’d kept my mouth shut.”
“You couldn’t. You wanted Riley to think you knew her secret. It gave you power over her.”
“You make me sound pathetic.”
“I was in high school once upon a time.”
He frowns. “Don’t even try to tell me you weren’t the most popular girl in school. Head cheerleader, homecoming queen, the girl every guy dreamed of having.”
“I might’ve been all those things,” I say. “Except that a rapist named Colin Tyler Hicks kidnapped me, beat the shit out of me, stole my innocence, locked me in his fucking basement, and—”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Please don’t cry.”
What?
Am I crying?
Shit.
He gives me a hug.
I cry some more.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s all right. It’s my fault.”
I pull away and say, “I feel like an idiot.”
He smiles. Then says, “Welcome to my world. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised Riley even knows my name.”
“Go figure,” I say.
“What did she say about me?”
“Honestly?”
He nods.
“She called you a nerd.”
He laughs.
I laugh.
“Please, Rick. I know she might not be the most thoughtful person in the world, and maybe she’s had it a bit too easy in life, and maybe she’s treated you badly in the past. But she’s a human being. And only seventeen. And the victim of a crime. Peer pressure got to her. She screwed up and drank too much. But what happened to her isn’t right. It’s not fair. And it’s not her fault.”
He sighs.
“Give me a name,” I say.
He sighs again, looks around, then whispers, “Ethan Clark.”
“Close your eyes, Rick.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He does.
I give him a quick kiss and say, “You’re one of the good ones. I’ll make sure Riley knows you came through for her.”
He opens his eyes. “You think there’s any chance in the world that…”
“What?”
“You think I’d ever have a chance with Riley?”
I shrug. “Who knows, right? Stranger things have happened.”
“What’s your honest opinion?”
“Not in a million years.”
We laugh.
“Story of my life,” he says. Then adds, “Why is that, do you suppose?”
“Are you asking why girls like Riley aren’t interested in guys like you?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Cheeseburgers.”
“Riley likes broccoli.”
“Ugh.”
“There you go.”
I start to leave, then turn and say, “One last thing.”
He rolls his eyes. “What now?”
“Did Ethan have personal knowledge of what happened, or was he repeating the story?”
Rick closes his eyes, shakes his head as if h
e can’t believe this is happening. “I’d rather not say.”
“Then don’t. Just nod if he had personal knowledge of what happened to Riley Saturday night.”
I wait.
He nods.
“Thanks, Rick.”
“Please. Keep me out of it.”
“I’ll do my best. Will you tell me what you overheard?”
“No.”
I give him my card and say, “We’re friends now. If you change your mind, call me, okay?”
He nods.
As I walk away he says, “Thanks.”
I turn. “For what?”
He shows me a sheepish grin. “That was my first kiss.”
Could that be true? I study him a moment.
It can.
“I’m honored,” I say.
At five o’clock I unlock the front door of my office, look at the vacant reception desk, yell “Damn it!” and text Fanny.
Where are you?
Hospital.
Oh yeah? Which hospital? Which room?
Sorry, ER nurse just told me to turn off my cell phone.
The front door opens and a very red-faced Eric Cobblestone enters, holding a paper bag at arms’ length.
He takes a seat across from me, places the bag on the desk.
“Your wife’s panties?” I say.
He nods. “They’re in the plastic bag inside.”
“Congratulations!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You weren’t sure she’d have sex with you.”
“It wasn’t easy, I can tell you that.”
I believe him.
“Well,” I say, “That part’s behind us. Your determination is about to pay off.”
“I hope so, because this is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“It is? Seriously? Why?”
“Are you kidding me? That’s fluid from my body. You’re going to be looking at it. Inspecting it.”
I say, “Have you never given a doctor a urine sample?”
“Not on a pair of my wife’s panties.”
“Good point. Still, I can’t help but think you’re making too much out of this.”
I peek in the bag.
He says, “What happens next?”
“We apply a chemical to the stains.”
“To what purpose?”
“The stains will turn a specific color based on the unique protein compounds in your semen.”
“Like a fingerprint?”
“Exactly.”
“And how will that help us?”
“We’ll compare it to the backflow in her panties next week.”
“What do you mean?”
“Next week, or whenever you suspect she’s cheated on you, you’ll bag the panties she was wearing, and bring them in.”
“And?”
“I’ll test them. If they contain semen, it’ll show up a different color than yours.”
“What if she’s sleeping with my identical twin brother?”
“Do you have an identical twin brother?”
“Not that I know of, unless we were separated at birth.”
“Well, in that absurdly ridiculous case, the stains would probably be the same color.”
“So it’s not so unique after all.”
“I suppose not.”
“So you might not be able to prove anything. This could be a complete waste of my time.”
I sigh. “If your wife is fucking any human on the planet Earth, aside from a non-existent identical twin brother, the stain will be unique, and easily distinguishable from yours. Can you trust me on this?”
He shrugs. “What choice do I have? I can’t continue carrying this paper bag around with me wherever I go. Today a co-worker asked if he could share my lunch.”
“Well, her panties are safe with me. And we’ll get to the bottom of them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’ll soon have our answer.”
He says, “Is there some sort of international semen database I don’t know about?”
“What do you mean?”
“How can you tell who she’s sleeping with based on the stains in her panties?”
“I can’t. But if they contain semen stains that don’t match yours, we’ll know she’s cheating on you. And if she is, I’ll have her followed.”
“If she’s meeting someone, it will probably be Saturday morning.”
“Why?”
“She said she has to run errands.”
“Maybe you should follow her.”
“I’ve got my Space Ace convention.”
“Whatever that means, I’ll assume you’re indisposed.”
“Obviously!”
We look at the bag. He says, “Can I watch?”
“Watch what?”
“The test.”
“Are you serious?”
“Totally.”
I sigh. Why do I get all the crazies? Of course his wife is cheating on him. Who wouldn’t?
“Let’s go,” I say.
He follows me to the testing room.
“This is your lab?”
“I’ll concede I may have overstated when I referred to it as a lab.”
“It’s a kitchenette!”
It’s actually a break room, with a small table, two chairs, a refrigerator, a microwave oven, and a sink.
I say, “All I need’s a place to spray the chemical. This is as good as any.”
He looks around. “You eat in here?”
“Of course.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You remove soiled, stained panties from plastic bags, spray them with a chemical above the sink, then sit at that table and eat your lunch?”
I frown. “Maybe not after today.”
I point to one of the chairs. “Care to sit?”
“Not on your life!”
A few minutes later I show him the multi-colored hue that uniquely identifies his sperm.
“Where do you store them while waiting for the next pair?” he says.
“Uh…you don’t want to know.”
He follows my gaze, walks to the refrigerator, opens it, says, “I don’t fucking believe this!”
I shrug. “Can I offer you a yogurt?”
“I’d rather have a root canal from a witch doctor.”
“A simple ‘no thank you’ would suffice.”
“After the case is closed, can I have them back?” he says.
“What, the panties?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll insist on it,” I say.
“What can you tell me about Ethan Clark?”
I’m on the phone with Riley. She says, “Ethan Clark? What have you heard?”
“Rick overheard someone talking about what happened at the sleepover.”
“What did he say?”
“He wouldn’t give details, but Ethan’s the key. Was he there Saturday night?”
“Yes. He was driving one of the cars.”
“He’s got a license?”
“Provisional.”
“Meaning he’s not supposed to drive after midnight?”
“Yes. But he does.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“He’s the richest kid in school. His parents, I mean. His dad’s a corporate attorney, and married well. His wife is a Bennett.”
“As in the Fortune Five Hundred Bennetts?”
“Uh huh.”
“Carson Collegiate’s a private school, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Terribly expensive?”
She pauses, then says, “You want to know how we manage to pay the tuition?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“I’m on scholarship.”
“Academic? Athletic?”
“Both.”
“Full tuition?”
“Yes, ma’am. They also pay for books, supplies, activities, and projects.”
“You must be pretty smart.”
“I was. Until Saturday night.”
“There’s that,” I say. “What are you planning to major in, at college?”
“Criminal justice.”
“Wow. You are smart!”
She says, “You might want to check out Ronnie English.”
“Who’s he?”
“Ethan’s best friend.”
“Was Ronnie at Kelli’s?”
“Yes. Wherever Ethan goes, Ronnie follows.”
“Could they have slipped away from the others?”
“You mean when they were all in the basement?”
“Yes. Could they have snuck off for ten or fifteen minutes without being missed?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Unless the others were playing a game or something.”
“Like Truth or Dare?”
“Or Beer Pong, or Spin the Bottle.”
“Kids still play Spin the Bottle?”
“Sure. It’s a classic.”
“Do Ethan and Ronnie have girlfriends?”
“Ethan’s dating Melanie Hughes. Ronnie’s in between girlfriends, I think.”
“Are they the sort of kids who’d take advantage of an unconscious girl?”
“They’re the sort who’d try to drug her first.”
“Have they been in trouble with the law?”
“Not that I know of. But if they have, their daddies probably paid someone off.”
“Where can I find Ethan?”
“Alone?”
“Uh huh.”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t have a job like Rick. And like I said, he’s got his own car. A brand-new Mercedes, if you can imagine. But he’s usually with Ronnie, or Melanie, or both.”
“Must be nice to be seventeen, rich, and driving a Mercedes.”
“There’s something else,” Riley says.
“What’s that?”
“Ethan’s above the law.”
“No one’s above the law, Riley.”
“I’d like to believe that,” she says, with a tone that suggests I’m naïve.
I say, “If he did something to you, we’ll get him.”
“I think not. But I would like to know.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Is your husband home?”
“What’s this about?”
I’m on the porch, talking to Kelli’s mom, Lydia Underhill, who doesn’t recognize me from the recent news coverage.
“How do you know my husband?” she says, letting me know she can recognize a possible marriage threat when she sees one.
“I don’t know him. I was hoping to catch you together.”
