by Mike Markel
I parked in back, but we led him around the side of the building and in through the main entrance. The floor tiles, the flags, and the portraits of the president, the governor, and the police chiefs set the tone: You’re in our house now, and we don’t fuck around. We walked over to the sergeant in reception, who hit a button that made a nasty growling noise as it unlocked the steel door that led inside.
Ryan understood that I was interested in the atmospherics. We headed for Interview 2, the room we used for our more aerobic interrogations. The steel bar with handcuffs on the table set the tone. I directed Martin Hunt to sit in the plastic chair that had the best camera angle, and Ryan turned on the system. I announced the date, time, and people in the room.
“Mr. Hunt, we took a look at the computer from your fraternity. Very nice.”
“I want to go on record that you had no right to take that computer. You didn’t have a search warrant.”
“We asked your permission. You said okay.”
“You threatened me.”
“You know we didn’t threaten you. We simply told you who we were going to contact if you refused to let us see it.” I then put on a worried expression and turned to Ryan. “Gee, Detective, maybe Mr. Hunt is right. Did we violate his rights?”
Ryan put on a solemn expression. “There’s quite a bit of case law on that. It was perfectly legitimate. Especially when it’s electronic records that are easy to alter. You know, files on computers.”
I turned back to Martin Hunt. “Like I said, very nice, what you have on the computer, I mean. You know, we’re shipping a mirror of your hard drive to the FBI.” I put on a smile. “You know about computers; you’ll appreciate this: Did you know the FBI has all sorts of cool software for doing video analysis—and it’s free for local law enforcement? Which is a real service to us. Anyway, they’re gonna take a look at those videos in the mattress room, see if they can match up any of the guys and girls in there with their photo IDs from DMV and their school IDs.”
“You don’t have any right to do—”
“If any of those girls are under eighteen, that’s statutory rape, which is a felony. You’re a sex offender, for life.” I put up my hand to signal that I had misspoken. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hunt. I didn’t mean to say you’re a sex offender. I meant any guy screwing any girl under eighteen.”
“How the hell is a guy supposed to know a girl is under eighteen?”
“That’s a tough one, Mr. Hunt. Especially since some girls lie—you know, they say they’re eighteen when they’re not, just to get into the party. Unfortunately, that’s not relevant, legally speaking. You’re supposed to not screw a girl if you don’t know she’s eighteen.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I did it again. I didn’t mean to suggest that you did that.”
I gave him another smile. “Anyway, let’s move on. I just wanted you to know where we are with the computer. We’ll return it just as soon as we can. You should have it hooked up to your widescreen by the weekend. But let’s turn to the Virginia Rinaldi case. That’s what we want to talk with you about. You told us yesterday how you showed some porn at the ‘Bye, Bye Virginia’ party. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” It was starting to dawn on him that it was probably smarter to say as little as possible.
“We noticed that recently you visited this site—what’s the name of that site, Detective?”
Ryan looked down at his notebook. “CollegeGirlsXXX.”
“And there was this video showing two girls going at it. I can’t remember the name of the video. Do you remember the name, Mr. Hunt?”
He shook his head.
“I need you to answer my question. You know, in case this goes to court.”
He squirmed. “No, I don’t know the name of the video.”
“Detective?”
Ryan looked down at his notebook. “‘Two Hot Lesbos Find Their Secret Spots.’”
“That title ring a bell, Mr. Hunt?”
“Don’t pay much attention to the titles.”
“Sure, I understand. Anyway, ‘Two Hot Lesbos’ stars a couple of people you know.” I raised my eyebrows. “Were you aware of that?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Well, that’s really interesting. Because one of them is a student in a course you’re taking. Virginia Rinaldi’s course. Her name is Abby Demarest. You didn’t know that? Remember that meeting in the sociology department Tuesday morning? When my partner and I told you and the others that Professor Rinaldi was dead? Abby was sitting there, about ten feet from you. Remember? Blond hair?”
“I didn’t realize that.” He paused. “When you see people you know from one context in another context, you don’t necessarily make the connection.”
“I never thought of that, but it makes sense. Now, the other woman in the video. Her name is Elena Moranu. Professional name is Krista. That name ring any bells?”
He shifted in his plastic chair. “No.”
“I know you’ve seen her. But she had her clothes on, so maybe it’s one of those context things. She came to your class. Professor Rinaldi’s class, about a month ago. She’s a prostitute, right here in Rawlings. The professor invited her to talk about being a sex worker. And Monday night, at Professor Rinaldi’s house, Krista and Virginia Rinaldi got in this fight upstairs and she stormed out of the house? And the other day, when we asked all of you what Krista was doing upstairs, you made that clever remark about how that was where the bedrooms are? Remember any of that?”
I paused for him to respond, but he didn’t.
“So that’s how we know you know her, too. Isn’t that interesting, Mr. Hunt?”
“It’s legal to view adult entertainment on the Internet.”
“Indeed it is,” I said. “I haven’t accused you of doing anything illegal by watching the video with Abby and Krista. I’m just trying to determine whether any of this is related to the murder of Virginia Rinaldi—by the way, it was murder. We’re gonna announce that later today. This is officially a murder investigation. And just so you understand what’s going on: You’re officially a suspect.”
“I didn’t kill her. Why would I kill her?” His voice was high and a little wobbly.
“Motive is a tricky thing. At this point, we’re not sure why she was killed. And, listen to me carefully, I said you’re a suspect. We haven’t charged you with anything yet. Not with statutory rape. Not with murder. You hear what I’m saying? We’re just interviewing you.” I leaned toward him. “Just interviewing you at this point. No reason to be concerned. Everybody knows guys like porn. It’s a little embarrassing, but certainly not illegal. Once we catch the killer, it’ll blow over pretty fast. You’ll go on with your life. You’ll graduate, get a good job. Don’t worry about it. All right? Just answer my questions honestly and you’ll be fine. Are we good?”
An oily sheen was forming on Martin Hunt’s forehead and his nose. He nodded.
“Oh, there’s one other thing I forgot to mention, Mr. Hunt. Before we bring you back to campus, I mean.” I stopped.
“What’s that?”
“There’s one other reason we know you know Elena Moranu. You know, Krista?”
Martin Hunt sat there, a twitch starting in his right shoulder. Little dots of perspiration were forming on his forehead.
“Detective,” I said to Ryan. “Pass me that poster, will ya?”
Ryan slid me the “$/Fuck” paper. I had put it in a plastic evidence sleeve for theatrical effect, although it was probably useless as forensic evidence because it had been contaminated in the dumpster.
“Do you recognize this, Mr. Hunt?”
He looked at it and frowned, then shook his head. “No.”
“When I first saw this, I was a little intimidated—I mean, all the numbers. But when I figured it out, I thought of two other numbers: ten and fifty-thousand. Ten years is the maximum sentence for promoting prostitution here in Montana. And fifty-thousand dollars is the maximum fine for that offense.”
“You
can’t prove any of that. We were just play acting. Probably one of the brothers saw it in a movie or something.” He tried to smile. There was some spit bubbling in the corner of his mouth.
I nodded. “Yeah, that will be a pretty strong defense.”
“Besides, there’s no proof that had anything to do with Alpha Phi Sigma.”
“It was in the dumpster behind your house.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s ours. Someone could’ve planted it. You know, to frame us.”
I put on a thoughtful expression. “Yeah, I can see that. Maybe some other fraternity wanted to make you look like a bunch of fucking assholes. You should definitely tell that to your attorney. Someone planted it.” I nodded. “That’s solid.”
Martin Hunt looked pale. “Are you going to arrest me for anything? Am I free to go?”
“Oh, no, like I said, Mr. Hunt, this is just an interview. You’re absolutely free to go. But before you leave, do you want to hear that other reason we know you know Elena Moranu?”
“What?” It came out annoyed and sarcastic.
“We have a signed statement from her that she worked the party. She told us who hired her. And we showed her the photos of all the brothers in your chapter—we got the photos from the national. And she picked out a bunch of the brothers who did her. She just pointed her finger—did you notice that purple nail polish?—and tapped on the—Detective, do you remember how many times she tapped her finger?”
“Seven times,” Ryan said.
“She tapped her finger seven times. She identified seven members of Alpha Phi Sigma.”
Martin Hunt leaned forward and started to cry, out of control, all tears and snot. “Oh, shit.” It was full of disgust and panic. “Oh, fuck.” His hands disappeared beneath the table. Then he half stood up.
I didn’t know what was happening. “Mr. Hunt, are you—” Then the smell hit me.
Ryan stood up. “I got it, Karen.” And for the second time in an hour, Ryan escorted Martin Hunt to a locker room.
Chapter 19
When I had finished reducing Martin Hunt to the snot-nose, pants-crapping little prick I had already known he was, I got a call that Larry Klein, our county prosecutor, was in the chief’s office. He had come over to help us understand what we were permitted to do to contact Abby Demarest, the student in the porn video with Krista.
Ryan and I went to the chief’s office. Margaret waved us in. Larry Klein popped out of his chair when we entered the room. He looked like he looked every time I’d seen him since I arrived in town over seventeen years ago: wiry, patchy black hair cut short, black stubble, black plastic glasses, and an expression that, if not black, was on the darker side of the grey spectrum. He was wearing his usual black suit, black tie, and white shirt over a sleeveless undershirt. We all said our hellos, shook hands, and sat down to work.
Larry started to explain the situation. “I spent a half-hour on the phone with Arthur Vines, the university chief counsel. Let me tell you what I got from him, and how I think we ought to proceed. This student, Abby Demarest, notified the university that she was the victim of sexual harassment and threats of sexual violence. That complaint went right to Arthur Vines because sexual harassment is outlawed by Title IX. The university immediately advised her to leave her apartment because she said some of the people making the threats knew where she lived. The university arranged for alternative accommodations for her—Arthur wouldn’t tell me where—and she’s living there. In addition, the university has a Title IX Coordinator, as required by law, who’s in the process of opening an investigation. That’s where we are right now.”
“Why didn’t the university contact us?” I said.
Larry shook his head. “Arthur said he wanted to take action immediately because the university is required to be proactive in responding whenever it knew about, or should have known about, a threat. He wanted to be able to say—honestly—that he acted right away. There’s some language that universities shouldn’t wait until a criminal investigation or a criminal case concludes. He wanted to be extra safe.”
“Did Arthur say whether he suggested Abby contact us?”
“Not in so many words, but he indicated she made it clear she didn’t want to bring in the police. Maybe she felt safer keeping it inside the university. At least, that’s her position now.”
“Did he say exactly what her complaint was?”
“Not exactly. By which I mean he didn’t tell me who she said was harassing or threatening her—or what exactly they did. But she did say she felt sexually threatened.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I took it to mean someone threatened to assault her sexually.”
“That rally—the Christian group yesterday, you heard about that?—the leader told me and Ryan there’s this student who’s in a porn video, and he’s gonna remove her like a doctor would remove a cancer. That’s what he said to us.”
Larry shifted in his chair. “That could be what it is. Arthur didn’t give me any specifics. But he did tell me there’s a lot of social-media chatter about a porn-star student the last few days. Presumably, that’s enough to qualify as creating a hostile environment. That’s part of the description of what the university has to fix: a ‘hostile environment’ that prevents a student from pursuing his or her normal educational activities. That’s what motivated him to take action right away.”
Ryan said, “Larry, did Arthur say whether the university has issued any no-contact directives against anyone?”
“No, not yet.” Larry nodded his approval of the question. “Which implies she didn’t give them any names.”
“Larry,” I said, “if we can’t talk to her, how do we even know she doesn’t want the police involved?” I turned to Robert Murtaugh. “Chief, don’t you think it would be better if we could at least talk to her, see what it is she’s experiencing? See if she wants our help?”
“I agree.” The chief nodded. “If everything is filtered through the university, we can’t be certain what the facts are or what her state of mind is. Larry, what do you think of asking Arthur if he’d be willing to ask Abby if she’d talk with us—on an untraceable phone—to tell us what’s going on and confirm that she doesn’t want us involved?”
“That’s what I think we should do,” the prosecutor said. “If he says no to that, there’s something going on that we don’t understand.” He stood up. “I’ll call Arthur and get back to you, okay?”
Robert Murtaugh said, “Thanks, Larry. Get back to Karen. She’s the lead.”
As Larry turned and left, the chief said to me, “You’re thinking this guy Richard Albright is the one harassing the student?”
I sighed and turned to Ryan. “I don’t know about you, Ryan. I don’t understand what’s going on. But if I had to choose a guy who’s threatening Abby, the only one I can point to is Richard Albright.”
The chief looked confused. “What is it that’s not adding up? I see a girl gets drunk or stoned, makes a porn video, someone puts it online, some knuckle-draggers threaten her, she gets scared, calls the university.”
“Yeah, if that’s all there was to it, but there’s some other stuff going on you need to know about. We told you about the speech. We didn’t tell you about the party at Alpha Phi Sigma.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Day after we discovered Virginia Rinaldi’s body, Alpha Phi Sigma held this party they called ‘Bye, Bye Virginia.’”
The chief walked around behind his desk and sat down, cradling his chin in a palm.
“We went over to the fraternity and talked to this little shithead named Martin Hunt. He’s the president of the chapter. Plus, he’s a student in Virginia’s course. They showed porn at the party. Ryan discovered a computer hooked to the TV at the house. We brought the computer back here—”
“He okayed that?”
“Yeah, officially. Anyway, the computer has a lot of homemade videos of guys screwing girls in a room in the fraternity—one-on-one and some gr
oup sex, too. So we think we’ve got some leverage on this guy, at least until he gets a lawyer.”
“Has he said he’s going to do that?”
“No, he hasn’t. He’s pretty cocky, thinks he hasn’t committed any crimes—or that we’re too stupid to finger him for anything, so he doesn’t need a lawyer.”
“But you say he’s scared now.” The chief was squinting. He does that when he’s trying to figure out our next move.
“That’s why I’d like to move fast, before he realizes he’s in over his head and decides he needs an attorney. Anyway, his computer also shows that someone’s been watching that video on the Internet. The one with Abby that everyone’s talking about.”
“Okay. That’s not surprising.”
“Abby’s in Virginia’s course, too. And the other person in the video is this local prostitute named Krista. She’s Virginia’s girlfriend, the one living at her house.”
“The one that Virginia brought to her course to talk about being a sex worker.”
“And here’s the final piece of the puzzle we can’t figure out. Someone in the fraternity hired a prost to work the party. We think ten guys screwed her, at fifty bucks a screw. And we think the prost was Krista.”
“How do you know?”
“We just told Martin Hunt she signed a statement picking out seven of the ten guys who screwed her.”
“How’d he react?”
I turned to Ryan, who said, “The official phrase is he lost bowel control.”
“But you don’t have a statement from her about the party, right?”
“We didn’t bring that up with her yet. She doesn’t see herself as a working girl, so I decided to try to work up to it in stages. So far, she’s admitted she made the video with Abby—which she realizes she can’t deny since it’s on the Internet and it’s clearly her—but she doesn’t know how it got on the Internet, and she admitted Abby gave her five-hundred bucks.”