"The door closed behind us so we won't be overheard. And there are no cameras down here."
"Are there some upstairs?"
"Oh, yes. And as you saw for yourself, the front door is not only locked but you need a code to enter. The code changes every semester."
"Why the security?"
"We get threats at times. The door's is pure steel, so unless you know the code, you can't get in. If anybody gets too belligerent and demands entrance, we have time to call security."
It's not wonder they take so much precaution. In this day and age, you can't be too careful.
We've been wondering through a corridor lined with filing cabinets on the right. She stops in front of one labeled 2009, and slides out the file drawer. From its depths, she retrieves a closed box. "This is what I wanted you to see. Actually, what I wanted you to hear."
It's a box of tapes and cassette ones at that. I thought those things had gone the way of the dinosaurs. "Okay."
"Yes. Our student editor at the time was a female student. She didn't trust men as far as she could throw them. So when this story hit, she started taping the conversations of everybody she talked to about the sexual assault case. Of course, she didn't share she was doing, so the whole thing's illegal."
"Who did she tape?"
"Everyone, from Emily Suarez herself, to the frat boys who attended that party and swore up and down they hadn't seen or heard a thing. Yeah, fat chance of that. There's one in particular I want you to hear."
Please don't let it be Ty. Anyone but him. I don't think I could face him if he'd witness the events leading to Emily Suarez's assault. I gulp back the bile that's suddenly risen in my throat. "Whose interview was it?"
"Coach Gronowski."
What? "The Outlaws' head coach?"
"That's the one. He coached the Nebraska State football team for a number of years. The last team? He led all the way to a national championship. As far as the students were concerned, he could do no wrong. I think that's why our college advisor, Professor Leonard, gave in to his demands. He was afraid of the repercussions if he turned him down."
"So what did Coach Gronowski ask the newspaper to do?"
"You'll see." All this time, she's been going through the box of tapes, each one labeled with a name and a date. "Ah, here it is."
The tape she holds out to me is labeled Gronowski discussion, "March 7, 2009." She injects the tape into a cassette player she brought down with her. "It's my own. Don't want anyone to know I retrieved the newspaper's unit from storage. I'd need to sign it out if I did."
At first Coach Gronowski lays it on thick with praise about the great job the newspaper's doing. But then it turns nasty.
"I understand you have a list of everyone who was questioned by the police."
"Yes, we do. But we have no intention of publishing those names," Professor Leonard insists.
"You expect me to believe that? If you reveal a couple of my players were interrogated, you'd cause quite a stir on campus. A football player involved in this type of scandal might seriously injure any chances he'd have at the NFL. And I have several who fit that bill."
"You'll have to take my word for it, Coach."
"I don't believe you. This is just too juicy a story to let go." Something that sounds like the scraping of a chair comes through. "But if my players' names are mentioned in your piddly paper in connection with happened at that fraternity, I'll make sure that your rag gets shut down. Permanently."
"You can't do that." Professor Leonard's voice wavers.
"I can and I would. Not only that. You'd find your sorry ass out on the street."
"But I have tenure."
"So? That doesn't prevent the school from firing you for financial mismanagement or sexual misconduct."
"I've never taken a dime or . . . the other thing."
"You sure, Professor? You sure I couldn't find one instance of wrongdoing?"
Dead silence greets him.
"I thought so."
Stephanie stops the tape. "That's it."
"So Coach Gronowski threatened the professor with shutting down the paper and getting him fired in order to protect his players."
"Yeah."
"Did this discussion occur right after the party?"
"About a week later. It was right at the beginning of the investigation. The police didn't even have the DNA results back. They were talking to everyone who attended the party, not just the football players."
"Who was there from the team?"
"Ryan Taylor and Ty Mathews."
My heart plummets. "But Ty had nothing to do with it, did he?"
"He was never charged, that's correct."
"That's not an answer."
"There's another tape you should listen to. It's the one of the victim, Emily Suarez."
This time she'd been told they were recording the information so they ask for her name and age. "Emily Suarez, eighteen."
"So young."
"She was a freshman."
The student interviewing offers a couple of softball questions, mainly to establish rapport. I've done that myself many a time, but then she gets to the hardball questions.
"So Emily, were you invited to the party?"
"No. Not really. I heard about it, and my boyfriend was there."
"Your boyfriend?"
"Well, the guy I've been dating."
"Who's that?"
"No. I can't."
"You don't want to name him."
"No. He wouldn't like it if I did. You see, Coach Gronowski would not approve. He doesn't want his players to have girlfriends. Says it takes away from their focus of the game."
"Oh?"
"So, I wasn't surprised when he didn't invite me. But I though I'd drop by and say hi. You know, casual like."
"Right."
"But then I saw him talking to another girl. So I didn't feel comfortable going up to him."
"And then what happened?"
"This . . . I'm sorry can I have a glass of water."
"Sure."
A minute or so passes in silence.
"Here."
"Thanks."
"So this guy came up to me. I didn't recognize him, and asked me if I wanted a drink. I should have said no. I know that. But I . . . Didn't. Next thing I know my head's spinning. And the guy takes my hand. "Here you need to lie down."
"Yeah, I think I better."
But the farther I walked the more I knew something was wrong. We passed my friend. I said hi or something like that. He asked me what I was doing. I said I was going to lie down. I wasn't feeling well. He looked at the guy who had given me the drink. "What are you doing with her?"
"I'm going to show her a good time."
Even sick as I was, I knew what that meant. I said "No. I don't want to."
But my friend winked at the guy and said, Have a good time." And he turned right back to the girl he was talking to. I don't remember much after that, except fighting off a bunch of guys came into the room. And they hurt me. They pushed themselves inside of me and they hurt me. Sometime in the middle of the night. I got up. I couldn't find my panties, so I put on my pair of jeans and crawled out of the room. The guy who'd brought me to the room was passed out on the floor."
"I'm so sorry, Emily."
"Yeah, me too."
"When I got to my dorm, my roommate was waiting up for me. She took one look at me and drove me to the hospital. The rest was kind of a nightmare. I got examined, probed, DNA kits were taken, photographs were taken. I had bruises on my arms my legs, my face, my neck. One of them tied me up. Another one almost choked me. After what seemed forever, the police showed up and I had to repeat the whole thing again. I didn't get back to my dorm room until mid morning. By then it was all over campus. They withheld my name to protect me."
"But now you want to come forward."
"Yes, I think it's important to put a face to the victim, don't you? Or so I've been told."
"Are you sure, Emily?
Are you sure you want to reveal your name?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Very well. I'll write the article. It'll be on the front page of the school paper. I imagine you'll be interviewed by the press as well. Does your family know?"
"No. I couldn't tell my mother. It would kill her."
"Have you gone to counseling?"
"Yes. They've been very kind."
"I'll let you know when the article will appear in the paper. If I have more questions—"
"Call me. I want to make sure you get the true story out."
"Okay."
"And that's it," Stephanie Colton says.
"She wasn't interviewed again?"
"There are no more records of her. Poor girl."
Clearly, there was a connection between Emily Suarez and one of the football players. The dastardly coward seemed to have known or at least approved of what was going to be done to her. And yet, he did nothing. No wonder Coach Gronowski didn't want any of the football players mentioned.
"And there were only two football players living in the fraternity house?"
"Yes. Ty Mathews and Ryan Taylor. Buchinsky was a member but he had an apartment off campus. The only reason I know that is that his girlfriend was a friend of mine."
"So much for Coach Gronowski's rules about no girlfriends."
"Oh, believe me, Mad Dog didn't share that detail with his coach."
"But one of the players witnessed Emily Suarez being taken to a room to be raped."
"Yes."
"And the choices are Ryan Taylor or Ty Mathews." I can't see Ty ignoring the girl taken anywhere to be raped, no wonder how drunk he might be.
"My vote's on Ty Mathews."
"Why?"
"After the rape, he was seen coming in and out of her dorm. Turned out he knew her. They both came from the same town in Texas. Apparently, she had a crush on him."
"It can't be him. He wouldn't have ignored his friend being taken to a room to be assaulted, much less encouraged it."
"How do you know?"
"I'm interviewing him. I know what he's like."
"From what I understand, he's got quite a bad boy reputation in Chicago."
"Yes. But deep down, he's not like that."
"I only know what I've heard."
I've got to clear Ty's name, even if he's never been charged with anything, I have to find out for myself. "Whatever happened to her? I hope she made it through okay."
"Emily Suarez?"
I nod.
"But I thought you knew?"
"Knew what?"
"She found out she was pregnant. Two months after the rape, Emily Suarez killed herself."
Chapter 23
MacKenna
THANKSGIVING DAY, Marigold and I spend the morning at the food kitchen, peeling about a billion potatoes, and boiling a zillion ears of corn. Once the afternoon shift takes over, we head for my apartment, where we cook our humble feast. Turkey breast, mashed potatoes, and corn with pumpkin pie for dessert.
The Chicago Outlaws are playing an away Thanksgiving Day game, so, thankfully, I don't have to face the agony of holding the celebration separate from Ty. He calls once a week, even though I've asked With dinner cooked and eaten, Mar and I park ourselves on the sumptuous couch in front of the wide screen HD television to enjoy our slices of pumpkin pie with home made whipped cream, and coffee made from a top notch espresso machine while Rosco settles himself in front of us on the rug, hoping a crumb or two will fall his way.
"Ummm, great pie, MacKenna."
"Thanks. It's my mother's recipe."
She wipes her mouth with a napkin and looks around the living room. "Such a beautiful condo. You're going to miss this when the owner returns."
"I'll find something else."
"Another lousy apartment in another crappy part of town?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"You could be living in a much better place."
Ever since the break in, she'd been gently bringing up the subject of my living situation. Since my stay here is only temporary, I'll have to find a new place to live come May. Seeing how that's months away, I haven't given it much thought. But it does seem to preying on Mar's mind. And I know where she's headed. "With Ty Mathews, you mean?"
"Yes. You have this gorgeous man who's crazy about you. He calls you every week, but you barely talk to him. He cares for you, but you push him away. Why are you doing this? You can't tell me you're not attracted to him. The chemistry between you is undeniable. The day he helped you move, you couldn't keep your eyes from him."
I wipe my mouth with the napkin, sip some coffee, to give me time to think. True, I want him with every ounce of my being. But that's not enough to form a lasting relationship, not the kind that that I want. "It's just lust, nothing serious."
"It may not be love, but maybe it can lead up to it. If you only give it a chance."
"What good would it do, Mar? He's a playah. You said so yourself."
She hitches up a brow. "He was. But not anymore."
"And how do you know this?"
"I've been spending time at the Outlaws compound on weekends. Setting up my office, getting to know the players, that kind of thing. Word has it that Ty has totally changed."
"Changed how?"
"He doesn't party any more. He comes to practice. Does what he has to do, and, at the end of the day, he goes home. Alone."
"Well, he's supposed to be taking it easy, so he can't very well party."
"Oh, come on, MacKenna. The man carried a bunch of boxes out of your place. How much was he taking it easy then?"
"There weren't that many boxes," I say in my defense.
"Apparently, the team physician told him he shouldn't exert himself in any way, shape or form which means he wasn't supposed to be lifting a thing."
"How do you know that?"
She shrugs as she forks another piece of pie. "I talked to one of the physical therapists. That shoulder was supposed to be immobile. And yet he risked harm to his arm and his career to move your things."
"But he's okay, isn't he? I mean he's playing again. They wouldn't have approved his return to the game unless he'd healed."
"Uh huh."
I rest the pie fork on the edge of the plate. "So what would you like me to do?"
"Give love a chance, MacKenna. After what happened to your sister, I get why you have an issue with men, but not everybody is like Tommy Hawkins. You're giving up an opportunity to date a man who cares for you, and maybe find something special with him. You're allowing the past to rule your life."
"You're right. I have issues when it comes to men. But that's not the only reason I can't date him. I can't socialize with him while I'm working on his story. And I have Ryan Taylor's to do before his."
"So what happens after the story's done. Will you date him then?"
Avoiding Mar's gaze, I carefully fold the napkin, before rising to our dishes to the sink. "I don't think so."
Mar follows me into the kitchen. "Why not?" Should have known she wouldn't leave things alone.
I rinse our plates, put them in the dishwasher and set it to wash. Done avoiding her question, I turn back to her. "I can't say. Please don't push me on this."
"Okay. I'll drop it. For now."
"Good." I dry my hands on a kitchen towel and hang it up on its hook. "Now can we change the subject?"
"All right."
"More coffee?"
"Please."
After I brew us some fresh java, I bring our cups to the coffee table in the living room.
She dumps four teaspoons of sugar in the coffee and enough cream to make the brew a cafe au lait. "So, have the police gotten any leads on Tommy Hawkins?"
"No. The detective called a couple of days ago. He didn't have much to share."
"Surely, that lowlife didn't disappear into thin air."
Before answering, I stir a teaspoon of honey and a dollop of cream into my coffee. "Maybe he left Chicago."
"He travels all the way here to revenge himself on you and then leaves? I don't buy it."
"You're not making me feel any better."
"I don't want you to feel better. I want you to realize the danger you're in."
"I take care. I do."
"You may now live in a secured building. But your parking lot at work is not safe. It's out in the open."
"At the end of the day, I walk out with somebody else to my car. Sometimes Dotty and I ride together. And I carry a baton in my purse and pepper spray on my key chain."
"What about when you have to go on an assignment? Like the women's shelter? That place is not in the best place in town."
"I took an Uber so I wouldn't have to park, got dropped right in front of their door. I did the same when I returned to the newspaper. I take care, Mar."
She shudders. "I worry about you, MacKenna. Please let me talk to Oliver. I'm sure he'd arrange security for you."
"And owe him more than I already do? No thanks." I click on the television. "Look, the game's about to start."
She gives me a side glance, but doesn't say anything more. She's not the only one worried. So am I. Until Tommy Hawkins is caught, I live in fear of what may happen. But I've taken as many precautions as I can. They will have to be enough.
Chapter 24
Ty
"READ ALL ABOUT IT, LADIES!" Ryan Taylor struts into the Outlaws' locker room, carrying an armful of newspapers. There must be thirty of them in his hand.
"What you talking about, man?" one of the linebackers asks.
"My article in The Chicago Chronicle. It came out this morning. Grabbed a bunch of copies so you could read all about me."
"Did that rookie reporter write the piece? The one who wrote about Ron and Mad Dog?" someone asks. After the articles of Todd and Mad Dog had given the Outlaws such great publicity and shed such positive light on the players, some of the Outlaws had clamored to be interviewed by MacKenna. But she'd only signed up to interview the four of us—Ron, Mad Dog, Ryan and me. Until next season. Maybe then she would interview more players.
"The very same one."
A defensive back grabs a copy. "Wish she'd write about me."
Dirty Filthy Boy (Chicago Outlaws #1) Page 16
