you’d make the mistake. But Raymond Datini has two artificial teeth and a gold crown as of a year ago, and this man has virgin teeth, all natural, with not a single corrective procedure or cavity filling to his name. There’s no possibility—none—that this is Raymond Datini. I’m sorry.”
I felt like the universe had just dropped out from under me.
“I’m sorry, Adam. Was there something else you needed? I’ll get you the full report by the end of the day. Cherabino said you’re the primary on this now.”
“That’s right,” I said automatically, and forced myself through the niceties before I left.
Not Raymond? Who was in the morgue if it wasn’t Raymond?
* * *
I walked back in a haze. The air was particularly bad today, and I’d forgotten the protective mask, not that it’d do me much good with the cigarettes causing so much trouble anyway. So I coughed a lot more and walked more slowly. But Cherabino had gotten me too much in the habit of walking for me to give it up now.
The drugs. The senator. The roommate talking about Raymond’s horrific course load and money troubles. Blackmail—blackmail that had succeeded, and yet the pictures had been sent to the judge anyway. And a speech from a drug dealer that sounded an awful lot like a description of what had really happened to the guy-who-was-not-Raymond, the guy in the dumpster.
I’d been working on the assumption that Oden was behind all of this or that the drug dealers had done it to Raymond because he’d tried to pay them off or something. But if it wasn’t Raymond dead . . .
* * *
“Andrew,” I said, to Cherabino’s next-door cubicle neighbor.
He looked up. “Yes?”
“Could I possibly beg ten minutes’ help for a case?” I asked. “It really is, literally, ten minutes.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I’m not supposed to help you unless you’re on the schedule.”
I held up the dozen donuts I’d collected from the small shop down the street. “They’re powdered sugar and real cinnamon,” I said, coaxingly. Just for the cinnamon they’d cost me a fortune, but they were his favorite. “And it really is ten minutes.”
His eyes lit up and he stood to take the box. “Just this once,” he said, and dove in. “What’s going on?” he mumbled around a mouthful of fried dough.
“Could we get to the student database from your machine?” I asked. “George Babel’s information should be in there. He’s Raymond Datini’s roommate if that helps.” We got a new database every six months or so and George had been in the school long enough to show up.
Andrew turned around and started typing on his computer; he was one of a short list of people—including Cherabino—who went through the twice-yearly deep background checks to have a personal machine, and even his usage was recorded, and his data Quarantined periodically. The world hadn’t crumbled in the Tech Wars sixty years ago just for everyone to be careless now.
Andrew typed some more and turned around. “Sorry, Adam, I’m not going to be able to get to that info without a lot of hoops and a lot of waiting. Have you tried calling the registrar’s office? They might even be able to tell you if he banks at the university. Legally, because the state pays half the tuition even at private universities, the financial records are open to investigation with reasonable suspicion. And since the registrar handles tuition payments he’ll have access to that information.”
“What about privacy laws?” I asked.
Andrew tilted his head. “Those only matter as much as the individual institution wants to push them. There’s precedence in the courts for financials; it’s something that can go either way depending on interpretation. And historically, college students don’t end up with as much privacy support as you’d expect, especially if they’re taking state funds and not paying independent taxes.”
My head was spinning from the new information, but Andrew would
I felt like the universe had just dropped out from under me.
“I’m sorry, Adam. Was there something else you needed? I’ll get you the full report by the end of the day. Cherabino said you’re the primary on this now.”
“That’s right,” I said automatically, and forced myself through the niceties before I left.
Not Raymond? Who was in the morgue if it wasn’t Raymond?
* * *
I walked back in a haze. The air was particularly bad today, and I’d forgotten the protective mask, not that it’d do me much good with the cigarettes causing so much trouble anyway. So I coughed a lot more and walked more slowly. But Cherabino had gotten me too much in the habit of walking for me to give it up now.
The drugs. The senator. The roommate talking about Raymond’s horrific course load and money troubles. Blackmail—blackmail that had succeeded, and yet the pictures had been sent to the judge anyway. And a speech from a drug dealer that sounded an awful lot like a description of what had really happened to the guy-who-was-not-Raymond, the guy in the dumpster.
I’d been working on the assumption that Oden was behind all of this or that the drug dealers had done it to Raymond because he’d tried to pay them off or something. But if it wasn’t Raymond dead . . .
* * *
“Andrew,” I said, to Cherabino’s next-door cubicle neighbor.
He looked up. “Yes?”
“Could I possibly beg ten minutes’ help for a case?” I asked. “It really is, literally, ten minutes.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I’m not supposed to help you unless you’re on the schedule.”
I held up the dozen donuts I’d collected from the small shop down the street. “They’re powdered sugar and real cinnamon,” I said, coaxingly. Just for the cinnamon they’d cost me a fortune, but they were his favorite. “And it really is ten minutes.”
His eyes lit up and he stood to take the box. “Just this once,” he said, and dove in. “What’s going on?” he mumbled around a mouthful of fried dough.
“Could we get to the student database from your machine?” I asked. “George Babel’s information should be in there. He’s Raymond Datini’s roommate if that helps.” We got a new database every six months or so and George had been in the school long enough to show up.
Andrew turned around and started typing on his computer; he was one of a short list of people—including Cherabino—who went through the twice-yearly deep background checks to have a personal machine, and even his usage was recorded, and his data Quarantined periodically. The world hadn’t crumbled in the Tech Wars sixty years ago just for everyone to be careless now.
Andrew typed some more and turned around. “Sorry, Adam, I’m not going to be able to get to that info without a lot of hoops and a lot of waiting. Have you tried calling the registrar’s office? They might even be able to tell you if he banks at the university. Legally, because the state pays half the tuition even at private universities, the financial records are open to investigation with reasonable suspicion. And since the registrar handles tuition payments he’ll have access to that information.”
“What about privacy laws?” I asked.
Andrew tilted his head. “Those only matter as much as the individual institution wants to push them. There’s precedence in the courts for financials; it’s something that can go either way depending on interpretation. And historically, college students don’t end up with as much privacy support as you’d expect, especially if they’re taking state funds and not paying independent taxes.”
My head was spinning from the new information, but Andrew would
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