know; he was the money guy in the department. But he really did need to get back to work. “Thanks,” I said, and left the donuts there.
I went over to Cherabino’s cubicle, still empty, and borrowed her phone book and phone. I was not too proud to make phone calls if that’s what this took, and it was still early enough that I had the energy to process whatever new information I had. This hunch of mine . . . well, I was going to follow it all the way through before I screwed up Kubrick’s case. I owed him that much at least, but I also owed the judge an answer.
The phone rang on the other end of the line. Maybe if Raymond wasn’t dead, I could find him and pay back the judge that way. Good news was good for me, and good for my old convictions. Maybe I’d get away from this with no jail time after all.
“Hello, can I speak to the registrar?” I asked, and waited while they got the person, for the first time in a long time actually singing a little tune under my breath.
“Hello?” a man’s voice came over the phone. “Who is this?”
I introduced myself and said I was with the DeKalb County Police Department, which wasn’t technically a lie. “Would you be able to fax me over your records on George Babel?”
“Do you have a warrant?” the man asked, cautiously.
“He’s been connected with an open murder case,” I said, also not technically a lie. “And my colleagues tell me that if the student receives financial support from the state, privacy laws do not normally apply.”
The man sighed. “Let me go look this up.”
Happy little hold music came over the line, and I hummed along.
With a heavy
click,
the guy came back on. “George doesn’t receive financial backing,” he said.
My face fell.
“But he’s also a month late on his rent to the college, and your number matches the police directory I have. So, what do you need to know?”
“Late? Why doesn’t he get financial help?” I asked.
“His roommate is two months late. The crazy thing is George’s father is the CEO at Coca-Cola. He’s loaded. There’s no reason to be late on payments, and when we called the father, he said he’d put plenty of money in George’s account. Irresponsible, if you ask me, for the student not to be paying, but we can’t kick him out mid-semester either. This is why I’ve been pushing to go back to the semester payment system. Teaching responsibility is not our job and the college has bills to pay too. Why—”
“Thank you,” I interrupted. “Could you fax over the record? Raymond Datini’s as well?” I wanted to see how long they’d been rooming together, if George had been lying about that, or if there was anything else about the records that stood out. I had a suspicion George was covering for Raymond; he’d been way too nervous over the questions, and I wanted to have information in hand to confront him with.
I finished up with the registrar—who actually agreed to send the records, no further proof required, as Andrew had said, and hung up the phone. Then I wandered over to stand in front of the public fax machine and waited. And waited.
And waited.
Just when I was about to go for a chair to sit down on, the fax machine warmed up and started printing, all too slowly.
When the first page—a summary page, with a black and white picture—dropped into the tray, I picked it up. And stared. George looked . . . like he had more weight on him in this picture, and the acne scarring was on his left side. Left.
The acne had been on the right when I’d interviewed him.
I left the rest of the record where it sat and went to find Paulsen. I needed backup and a driver, and I needed them now.
* * *
I knockedon the dorm room door, Bellury and another beat cop—Phillips—behind me with guns at the ready.
“Just a second!” came a muffled call. The sounds of rustling clothes and a few clanks came through the door.
I knocked again.
“Just a—”
I gestured at the beat cop to
I went over to Cherabino’s cubicle, still empty, and borrowed her phone book and phone. I was not too proud to make phone calls if that’s what this took, and it was still early enough that I had the energy to process whatever new information I had. This hunch of mine . . . well, I was going to follow it all the way through before I screwed up Kubrick’s case. I owed him that much at least, but I also owed the judge an answer.
The phone rang on the other end of the line. Maybe if Raymond wasn’t dead, I could find him and pay back the judge that way. Good news was good for me, and good for my old convictions. Maybe I’d get away from this with no jail time after all.
“Hello, can I speak to the registrar?” I asked, and waited while they got the person, for the first time in a long time actually singing a little tune under my breath.
“Hello?” a man’s voice came over the phone. “Who is this?”
I introduced myself and said I was with the DeKalb County Police Department, which wasn’t technically a lie. “Would you be able to fax me over your records on George Babel?”
“Do you have a warrant?” the man asked, cautiously.
“He’s been connected with an open murder case,” I said, also not technically a lie. “And my colleagues tell me that if the student receives financial support from the state, privacy laws do not normally apply.”
The man sighed. “Let me go look this up.”
Happy little hold music came over the line, and I hummed along.
With a heavy
click,
the guy came back on. “George doesn’t receive financial backing,” he said.
My face fell.
“But he’s also a month late on his rent to the college, and your number matches the police directory I have. So, what do you need to know?”
“Late? Why doesn’t he get financial help?” I asked.
“His roommate is two months late. The crazy thing is George’s father is the CEO at Coca-Cola. He’s loaded. There’s no reason to be late on payments, and when we called the father, he said he’d put plenty of money in George’s account. Irresponsible, if you ask me, for the student not to be paying, but we can’t kick him out mid-semester either. This is why I’ve been pushing to go back to the semester payment system. Teaching responsibility is not our job and the college has bills to pay too. Why—”
“Thank you,” I interrupted. “Could you fax over the record? Raymond Datini’s as well?” I wanted to see how long they’d been rooming together, if George had been lying about that, or if there was anything else about the records that stood out. I had a suspicion George was covering for Raymond; he’d been way too nervous over the questions, and I wanted to have information in hand to confront him with.
I finished up with the registrar—who actually agreed to send the records, no further proof required, as Andrew had said, and hung up the phone. Then I wandered over to stand in front of the public fax machine and waited. And waited.
And waited.
Just when I was about to go for a chair to sit down on, the fax machine warmed up and started printing, all too slowly.
When the first page—a summary page, with a black and white picture—dropped into the tray, I picked it up. And stared. George looked . . . like he had more weight on him in this picture, and the acne scarring was on his left side. Left.
The acne had been on the right when I’d interviewed him.
I left the rest of the record where it sat and went to find Paulsen. I needed backup and a driver, and I needed them now.
* * *
I knockedon the dorm room door, Bellury and another beat cop—Phillips—behind me with guns at the ready.
“Just a second!” came a muffled call. The sounds of rustling clothes and a few clanks came through the door.
I knocked again.
“Just a—”
I gestured at the beat cop to
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