THE COED MURDER CLUB. Ken Salter
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she got loaded, loose-hipped and horny and took them all on. He admits he and his buddy screwed her, but only after she was swinging her pussy in their face and daring them to get it up. I’ve got six guys confirming their version of the story with their attorney looking on and a now sober Miss Muffets, who admits she got shit-faced drunk and can’t remember the sequence of events clearly. She says she told them to stop. They swear on bibles she shoved it in their face and dared them to perform. Does that sound like a winning case to prosecute?”
“The guys’ stories sound too pat.”
“Yeah, they are. These young men know the rules of the game. If the woman says ‘No,’ they have to back off or it’s rape. If the woman keeps drinking to the point where she’ll willingly go upstairs to bed one of the frat brothers, then she’s fair game for a gangbang. She might start yelling her pretty head off when she realizes that they all mean to have her, but by then, it’s too late. Her protestations are muffled by the loud music and partying downstairs. In the end, they get what they want and it’s her lone word, reputation and version of what happened against them all if she’s willing to go public and face being labeled as a slut and an easy lay.”
What she said reminded me of the many conversations I’d overheard in gym locker rooms while playing ball in school and in the Navy. Guys did discuss the fine points of individual and group seduction: how “no” could be turned into maybe and then yes, and how to keep their stories straight after the fact.
“Do you think that’s the way it happened with Mindy Rohnert? That she led them to believe she would be a willing sex partner by stripping, dancing and continuing to drink with them?”
Mary paused before replying. “No, I think her case was different. Those guys pretended to be something they weren’t. The girls who go to frat parties know the object of the game is to get them drunk, then bed them. The girls know they are playing with fire. The fact that a woman initially corroborated that the guy she met in the library was an okay guy makes things different. Mindy reasonably thought her new friends cared about her as a person and she’d be safe with the guy. She was given no reason to suspect that she was the object of a planned sexual assault.”
“Since you felt that way, why was the case not pursued?”
“Sawyer was convinced it was too weak. We have a lot of cases that are difficult to prove. I wanted to find the guys and interrogate them; see how well their stories held up. He nixed my request. You’ve read the file; you know the rest. I was told to close the file and work on other assault cases.”
Mary locked her dark eyes on mine to say, “So what else is new?” I nodded my assent. “Any ideas where to start to find those guys?”
Mary suddenly fixed her eyes on me with renewed intensity. “You were bullshitting me about Sawyer authorizing me to discuss the case with you, weren’t you?” she said accusingly.
“Absolutely. He brushed me off like so much lint on a black suit. I was afraid you wouldn’t give me the time of day unless I fudged his authority. I need your help,” I said, meeting her glare head on.
“Yeah, I bet you do, but I don’t like being lied to or used.”
I nodded my agreement and took a big swig of my beer to lubricate my now dry throat so I wouldn’t squeak. Mary was laying the ground rules for whatever our relationship in this matter might be. I didn’t want to get more than one foot stuck in my mouth at a time if I could help it.
“I apologize. I saw in the report that you got shot down for wanting to find Mindy’s attackers. I wanted to talk to you before Sawyer ordered you not to talk to me …”
“And you thought I’d just buy your line like another dumb woman police officer, right?” she said, interrupting my attempt to placate her.
“No, I know any police woman with staying power on the force has to be hardboiled and tough. You are a lot nicer than I expected.”
Mary gazed at me intently. “You realize you could get me into trouble if I cooperate with you, don’t you?”
“Sure. But I’ll make it worth your while. I’m gonna find the guys who suckered Mindy and dig up what you need to get a conviction. At least one of those guys has AIDS and he’s gonna keep wrecking young ladies’ lives if we don’t take him out of action.”
“I’ll help you on condition you report everything you find on those creeps to me and only me. Is it a deal?” Mary’s face had softened, but her piercing eyes held me pinned.
I extended my hand. Her grasp was firm. She filled me in on her thoughts about how to proceed with the investigation while we finished another round of drinks. She was convinced the guys had some kind of tenuous connection to the Psychology Department at the university and so did I. It was a logical place to start in any case. Mary agreed to run a computer check on aspects of Mindy’s assault that might show up in related cases. We exchanged our private phone numbers and agreed to keep in touch.
CHAPTER 4
I was frustrated and empty-handed. I’d spent most of the day poking around campus trying to get a lead on the guys who’d raped Mindy. Her descriptions were just too general and vague. I called Monty, the sketch artist, and gave him Mindy’s phone number with instructions to get me likenesses I could use to track the culprits. He promised me preliminary sketches by the next day and promised to fax them to me. I really wanted to see the face of the enemy.
I stopped off at Reggie’s Place to grab an early meal before going home to finish the report for Attorney Schultz. Reggie specializes cooking down home Creole dishes from his mama’s recipes that he learned as a boy fetching logs and stoking the big wood burning stove in his mama’s café for colored folks in rural Louisiana. I often eat and meet family, friends and clients there. It’s also a quiet retreat away from the incessant ringing of the phone and urgent requests I have to field at the office.
“How you doin, R.C.? Looks like the Man got you on the run the way yo’ feet draggin.”
“You sure got that right, Reggie.”
“Well, it ain’t sumthin’ Reggie’s catfish gumbo gonna make worse. I’ll get you some hot cornbread an’ coffee to help wash it down.”
I smiled at Reggie’s understanding of my funk. His solution was just like Dad’s folks would offer.
They also hailed from Reggie’s neck of the woods. Grandma was always fussing around her stove and ready to serve a hot soup or steaming cup of strong coffee to help lift the morale of her men folk when the world was bearing down hard.
“Thanks, Reggie. Smells like that gumbo is just the ticket to get my juices flowing again.”
“Seems to work for most folks. Be along with yo’ plate shortly.”
After my tasty meal, I dictated the rest of my report for Barney Schultz on the portable tape recorder I carry in my briefcase. Instead of dropping off the cassette at the office, I headed for home.
I rent a turn-of-the-century cottage from Al Johnson, a political science professor at the university. Al lives in a gingerbread Victorian that faces the street and my cottage is tucked into the rear of the large lot on the north side of campus. We share the large backyard that separates the two dwellings.
I’d planned to take a shower, call my girlfriend, Rita, a graduating senior in psychology at U.C., Davis, and then climb in the sack with a good mystery story to keep my mind off the new case. I debated whether to ignore the blinking red light on my answering machine. I’m rarely in the mood to answer the phone after fending calls and clients all day at the office. Since I hadn’t spoken to Rita in a few days, I assumed the call was from her.
“Hi, R.C. It’s Mary. I think I’ve found something important on the Rohnert case. Give me a call at home as soon as you get in.” Instead of calling Rita first, I let my