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Authors: William Landay
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feel that way.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You don’t believe that?”
“No. You don’t even know me.”
“That’s true. Still, I care what happens to you just the same. I care about this school, this town. I’m not going to just let this happen. This isn’t going away. You understand that?”
“Is anyone talking to Jacob?”
“You mean my son Jacob?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course.”
“Okay.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason.”
“There must be a reason. What is it, Sarah?”
The girl studied her lap. “The cop who came to our class said we could tell you things anonymously?”
“That’s right. There’s a tip line.”
“How do we know you won’t try to, like, figure out who gave a tip? I mean, that’s something you’d want to know, right? Who said something?”
“Sarah, come on. What is it you want to say?”
“How do we know it will stay anonymous?”
“You just have to trust us, I guess.”
“Trust who? You?”
“Me. Detective Duffy. There’s a lot of people working on this case.”
“What if I just …” She looked up.
“Look, I’m not going to lie to you, Sarah. If you tell me something here, it’s not anonymous. My job is to catch the guy who did this, but it’s also to try him in court and for that I’ll need witnesses. I’d be lying if I told you any different. I’m trying to be honest with you here.”
“Okay.” She considered. “I really don’t know anything.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
I looked her in the eye just a moment to let her know I wasn’t fooled, then I accepted her lie. I pulled a business card from my wallet. “This is my card. I’m going to write my cell phone number on the back. My personal email too.” I slid the card across the desk. “You can contact me anytime, okay? Anytime. And I’ll do what I can to look out for you.”
“Okay.”
She took the card and stood up. She looked down at her hands, at her fingers. Her fingertips were stained with black ink, imperfectly wiped off. All the students at the school were being fingerprinted that day, “voluntarily,” though there were jokes about the implications of refusing. Sarah frowned at the ink stains, then crossed her arms to hide them and in that awkward posture she said, “Hey, can I ask you something, Mr. Barber? Are you ever the bad cop?”
“No, never.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not me, I guess.”
“So how do you do your job, then?”
“I have a mean streak, deep down. Trust me.”
“You just hide it?”
“I just hide it.”
That night, a little before eleven, I was alone in the kitchen, using my laptop computer which I had set up on the kitchen counter. I was cleaning up some odd bits of work, answering emails mostly. A new message arrived in my inbox. The subject line read—shouted—“RE: BEN RIFKIN >>> README .” It was from a Gmail address, [email protected]. The time stamp read 10:54:27 PM. The message contained a single line, a hyperlink: “
Look here
.” I clicked the link.
The link took me to a Facebook group called “♥ Friends of Ben Rifkin ♥.” The Facebook group was new. It could not have been established more than four days before; the day of the murder, CPAC had looked at Facebook and it was not there.
We had found the dead boy’s personal Facebook page (almost every kid at the McCormick was on Facebook), but Ben’s page contained no hints about the murder. For what it was worth, in his profile he had been keen to present himself as a free spirit.
Ben Rifkin
is out boarding
Networks:
Sex:
Male
Interested in:
Women
Relationship Status:
Single
Birthday:
December 3, 1992
Political Views:
Vulcan
Religious Views:
Heathen
The rest was the usual clutter of digital junk: YouTube videos, games, pictures, a stream of vapid, gossipy messages. Relatively speaking, though, Ben had not been an especially heavy user of Facebook. Much of the activity on his page happened after he was murdered,
She rolled her eyes.
“You don’t believe that?”
“No. You don’t even know me.”
“That’s true. Still, I care what happens to you just the same. I care about this school, this town. I’m not going to just let this happen. This isn’t going away. You understand that?”
“Is anyone talking to Jacob?”
“You mean my son Jacob?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course.”
“Okay.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason.”
“There must be a reason. What is it, Sarah?”
The girl studied her lap. “The cop who came to our class said we could tell you things anonymously?”
“That’s right. There’s a tip line.”
“How do we know you won’t try to, like, figure out who gave a tip? I mean, that’s something you’d want to know, right? Who said something?”
“Sarah, come on. What is it you want to say?”
“How do we know it will stay anonymous?”
“You just have to trust us, I guess.”
“Trust who? You?”
“Me. Detective Duffy. There’s a lot of people working on this case.”
“What if I just …” She looked up.
“Look, I’m not going to lie to you, Sarah. If you tell me something here, it’s not anonymous. My job is to catch the guy who did this, but it’s also to try him in court and for that I’ll need witnesses. I’d be lying if I told you any different. I’m trying to be honest with you here.”
“Okay.” She considered. “I really don’t know anything.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
I looked her in the eye just a moment to let her know I wasn’t fooled, then I accepted her lie. I pulled a business card from my wallet. “This is my card. I’m going to write my cell phone number on the back. My personal email too.” I slid the card across the desk. “You can contact me anytime, okay? Anytime. And I’ll do what I can to look out for you.”
“Okay.”
She took the card and stood up. She looked down at her hands, at her fingers. Her fingertips were stained with black ink, imperfectly wiped off. All the students at the school were being fingerprinted that day, “voluntarily,” though there were jokes about the implications of refusing. Sarah frowned at the ink stains, then crossed her arms to hide them and in that awkward posture she said, “Hey, can I ask you something, Mr. Barber? Are you ever the bad cop?”
“No, never.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not me, I guess.”
“So how do you do your job, then?”
“I have a mean streak, deep down. Trust me.”
“You just hide it?”
“I just hide it.”
That night, a little before eleven, I was alone in the kitchen, using my laptop computer which I had set up on the kitchen counter. I was cleaning up some odd bits of work, answering emails mostly. A new message arrived in my inbox. The subject line read—shouted—“RE: BEN RIFKIN >>> README .” It was from a Gmail address, [email protected]. The time stamp read 10:54:27 PM. The message contained a single line, a hyperlink: “
Look here
.” I clicked the link.
The link took me to a Facebook group called “♥ Friends of Ben Rifkin ♥.” The Facebook group was new. It could not have been established more than four days before; the day of the murder, CPAC had looked at Facebook and it was not there.
We had found the dead boy’s personal Facebook page (almost every kid at the McCormick was on Facebook), but Ben’s page contained no hints about the murder. For what it was worth, in his profile he had been keen to present himself as a free spirit.
Ben Rifkin
is out boarding
Networks:
Sex:
Male
Interested in:
Women
Relationship Status:
Single
Birthday:
December 3, 1992
Political Views:
Vulcan
Religious Views:
Heathen
The rest was the usual clutter of digital junk: YouTube videos, games, pictures, a stream of vapid, gossipy messages. Relatively speaking, though, Ben had not been an especially heavy user of Facebook. Much of the activity on his page happened after he was murdered,
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