The Associate

“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.”

“That’s correct.”

“So our man pulls out his cell phone and sneaks over to the counter, and in the midst of a wild party he turns it on and hides it next to a book. The opening scene is pretty wild. We’ve studied it carefully, and there are six girls and nine boys, all dancing and in various stages of undress. Ring a bell, Kyle?”

“Some of it, yes.”

“We know all the names.”

“You go

“Don’t be so anxious to see it.” With that, Wright punched another key. “It’s 11:14 p.m. when the video begins,” he said, then hit another key. The screen suddenly exploded into a frenzy of loud music — Widespread Panic playing “Aunt Avis” from Bombs and Butterflies — and gyrating bodies. Somewhere in the back of his brain Kyle had hoped for a dim, grainy, fuzzy clip of a bunch of Beta idiots drinking in the dark. Instead, he gawked at a remarkably clear video shot from a tiny phone camera. The angle chosen by the unknown owner of the phone provided a view of almost the entire den at 4880 East Chase, apartment 6B.

All fifteen hell-raisers appeared to be very drunk. All six girls were indeed topless, as were most of the guys. The dance was a group grope with no two partners moving together for more than a few seconds. Everyone held a drink in one hand; half had a cigarette or a joint in the other. All twelve bouncing breasts were fair game for the guys. In fact, all exposed flesh, male or female, was available to everyone. Touching and clutching were encouraged. Bodies came together, hunching and lurching, then parted and moved to the next one. Some of the guests were loud and rowdy, while others appeared to be fading under the flood of alcohol and chemicals. Most appeared to be singing along with the band. Several locked lips in long kisses while their free hands searched for even more intimate places.

“I believe that’s you with the sunglasses,” Wright said smugly.

“Thank you.”

Sunglasses, yellow Pirates cap, off-white gym shorts drooping low, a lean body with pale winter skin in need of sunshine. A plastic cup in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Mouth open to sing along. A drunken fool. A twenty-year-old lunatic on the verge of another blackout.

Now, five years later, there was no nostalgia, no longing for those rowdy and carefree college days. He didn’t miss the hell-raising, the hangovers, the late-morning wake-ups in strange beds. But at the same time, there was no remorse. Kyle felt a little embarrassed that he’d been caught on tape, but it was a long time ago. His college days had been pretty typical, hadn’t they? He’d partied no more and certainly no less than virtually everyone he knew.

The music stopped for a moment, between songs, and more shots were prepared and passed around. One of the girls fell into a chair and appeared to be done for the night. Then another song began.

“This goes for about eight more minutes,” Wright said, glancing at his notes. Kyle had no doubt that Wright and his gang had analyzed and memorized every second, every frame. “As you will note, Elaine Keenan is not present. She says she was next door, drinking with some friends.”

“So she’s changed her story again.”

Wright ignored this and said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll fast-forward a little, to the point where the police show up. Remember the cops, Kyle?”

“Yes.”

The video scrambled forward for a minute or so, until Wright pressed a key. “At 11:25, the party comes to an abrupt halt. Listen.”

In mid-song, and with most of the fifteen still in view, dancing and drinking and yelling, someone off camera clearly yelled, “Cops! Cops!” Kyle watched himself as he grabbed a girl and disappeared from view. The music stopped. The lights were out. The screen was almost completely dark.

Wright continued: “According to our records, the police were called to your apartment three times that spring. This was the third time. A young man by the name of Alan Strock, one of your roommates, answered the door and chatted up the officers. He swore that there was no underage drinking. Everything was fine. He’d be happy to turn off the music and keep things quiet. The cops gave him a break and left with a warning. They assumed everybody else was hiding in the bedrooms.”

“Most of them fled through the back door,” Kyle said.

“Whatever. The cell phone video was on voice activation, so it clicked off after sixty seconds of near silence. It was at least twenty feet from the front door. Its owner ran off in the panic, forgot about it, and in the melee someone knocked things around on the counter, the cell phone got bumped, so the picture got adjusted. We can’t see as much as we could before. About twenty minutes pass and all is quiet. At 11:48, there are voices and the lights come on.” Kyle moved closer to the screen. About one-third of the view was blocked by something yellow. “Probably a phone book, the yellow pages,” Wright said. The music started again, but at a much lower volume.

The four roommates — Kyle, Alan Strock, Baxter Tate, and Joey Bernardo — were walking around the den, in shorts and T-shirts, and holding drinks again. Elaine Keenan walked through the den, talking nonstop, then sat on the edge of the sofa, smoking what appeared to be a joint. Only half of the sofa was visible. A television, unseen, was turned on. Baxter Tate walked over to Elaine, said something, then put his drink down and yanked off his T-shirt. He and Elaine fell into a pile on the sofa, obviously making out while the other three watched television and milled about. They were talking, but the music and TV drowned out their words. Alan Strock walked in front of the camera, pulling off his T-shirt and saying something to Baxter, whose view was blocked. There were no sounds from Elaine. Less than half of the sofa was visible now, but a tangle of bare legs could be seen.

Then the lights were turned off, and for a second the room was dark. Slowly, the glare from the television focused and bounced off the walls to provide some illumination. Joey Bernardo came into view, also pulling off his shirt. He stopped and stared at the sofa, where some ma

“Listen,” Wright hissed.

Joey said something that Kyle could not understand.

“Did you get that?” Wright asked.

“No.”

Wright stopped the video and said, “Our experts have studied the audio. Joey Bernardo says to Baxter Tate, “Is she awake?” Tate is obviously having sex with Elaine, who’s passed out drunk, and Bernardo stops by, takes it all in, and wonders if the girl is actually conscious. You want to hear it again?”

“Yes.”

Wright reset the video, then replayed it. Kyle leaned down, and with his nose six inches from the screen he watched hard, listened even harder, and heard the word “awake.” The detective shook his head gravely.

The action continued, with the music and the television as a backdrop, and though the den of their apartment was dark, figures could be seen in the shadows. Baxter Tate finally got off the sofa, stood, appeared to be completely nude, and walked away. Another figure, Joey Bernardo, quickly took Baxter’s place. Some of the sounds could barely be heard.