The Victim (9 page)

“
Is Anton Mackey a suspect?”

“
Mr. Mackey, as well as all of the fraternity members we’ve interviewed, have denied any involvement in the crash. All members claim that they traveled in four rented Winnebagos from Tempe to Payson, parked all four Winnebagos in a designated parking lot, and hiked approximately one mile into Tonto Natural Bridge State Park along the Pine Creek Trail to their campsite.”

From the comfort of her tiny apartment she sat on the edge of her couch, her elbows resting on her knees, a wet tissue wadded in her hand.

The footage changed to an image of a two-story red brick building with a flat roof. The chrome letters ΘΦΣ hung above the double doors.

A polished female voiceover said, “Theta Phi Sigma, known as Theta Sig, is one of the largest college fraternities with over two hundred and twenty thousand initiated members since its founding in 1859 at the University of Virginia. There are nearly eighty-five hundred active members on over three hundred college campuses throughout the United States and Canada.”

The news report went on to discuss an incident from the 1990s where a pledge was killed at Ohio Wesleyan after being dropped on his head while doing a keg stand, reportedly as part of a hazing ritual. The chapter’s charter was revoked and the national organization paid out an undisclosed sum as part of a settlement.

“
No word from the families of Kelsie McEvoy and Evan Rangel as to whether legal action will be taken against the national organization.”

White letters on a blue screen highlighted a written statement issued by a man named Mark Wessel, identified as Executive Director, Theta Phi Sigma Fraternity, in Indianapolis, Indiana.

It’s always tragic whenever people are killed violently in the prime of their lives. The brothers of Theta Phi Sigma, the Grand Chapter members, and the staff here at our national headquarters, send our deepest condolences to the McEvoy and Rangel families. We will continue to cooperate with the Office of Greek Life at Arizona State, as well the the Arizona Department of Public Safety, in getting to the bottom of this horrific event.

She hit
stop
, took a breath, then
fast forward
.

They trudged out of the Department of Public Safety office in a line, down the walkway, hands covering their faces, trying to pass the gauntlet of reporters snapping photos and peppering them with rapid-fire questions. She counted seven of them. A black Suburban was waiting at the curb. They moved swiftly under the direction of their lawyer, a stocky man in a tan suit with black hair, slicked back and glistening, and dark sunglasses. He didn’t look much older than the fraternity members themselves, probably an alum who was offering his services to the chapter for free in exchange for a little camera time.

Once he’d ushered all seven into the Suburban, he stood by the open passenger door and said, “The brothers of the Omega Psi chapter of Theta Phi Sigma Fraternity are saddened by this unfortunate event and are continuing to assist all state and local law enforcement agencies with their investigations.”

He shouldered past two aggressive photographers, palming their lenses out of his face as he slid into the backseat and shut the door. The footage captured the Suburban speeding away from the curb amid the flashing strobes of a dozen cameras.

She pressed
pause
.

She referenced the photocopy of the composite she’d obtained from the Arizona State University Office of Greek Life. It was laid out on her coffee table, the most current, the years indicating 2002–2003. Eighty-four square headshots of the active members, all wearing the same black sport coat and red tie.

He was the chapter president. His photo was center, top row. Hair short, closely cropped, styled to trendy perfection with some expensive hair product. He wore tapered sideburns and had a jaw like a flathead screwdriver. A car salesman’s smile, perfectly straight white teeth. His skin kissed by the Arizona sun.

She rewinded the footage back to where the seven members were walking out of the DPS office, presumably after giving statements with the aid of their lawyer. She paused on him, jammed in the middle of the line, trying to conceal himself. He looked good in the photo, she had to admit. Not a bad looking guy at all. But on the television screen that sharp, angular nose in the photo seemed swollen and shapeless. He held up his hand as a camera panned in front of him, his eyes concealed behind a pair of wraparound Arnettes.

So that’s Anton Mackey
, she thought, eyeing the red lighter, twisted, shaped by fire, resting on her coffee table in a ZipLoc bag.

***

It took twenty minutes in afternoon traffic to get from Phoenix to the ASU campus in Tempe.

They were all seated around the table on the patio of Einstein’s Bagels outside the Memorial Union like dopey pack animals in Greek-lettered T-shirts.

Jesus, these guys have shirts commemorating everything.
Barn Dance, Fall 2002. Spring Formal 2001. Fall Rush 2002.

She recalled her favorite frat guy joke.

How many frat guys does it take to screw in a light bulb? Six. One to screw it in, five to make the T-shirt.

Some wore Polos with popped collars and Von Dutch caps, like a dozen little Ashton Kutcher clones. They smoked Parliament cigarettes and drank cans of energy drinks. A few of them sucked on wintergreen Skoal pouches, spitting the tobacco juice into empty Gatorade bottles.

She sat three tables over, sipping a latte, her eyes peering over her laptop screen.

She blended in beautifully, could have easily passed for a student.

An anti-war protest was picking up steam in the quad. Students shuttled in and out of the MU, grabbing a quick lunch before the next class. Foot traffic flowed, students on bikes and Razor scooters zigzagging through the slow-moving crowds.

There he was, seated at a round table between two young girls—one blonde, the other brunette. Sorority types, without a doubt, Scottsdale princesses with orange-tinged spray tans and tight-fitting jeans. He wore a backwards Sun Devil hat and those wraparound shades, the ones he’d worn a week earlier in the news footage. They rested on an uneven spot on the slope of his nose, a misshapen lump of broken bone slowly mending itself. The black lenses did a good job of concealing the remnants of the bruising that formed dark half-moons under his eyes. She wondered what story he had given to the authorities, to anybody who asked. Intramural football injury? Maybe a bar fight?

He laughed loudly, without a care in the world.

She skimmed a copy of the
State Press
that had been left on her table. The cover story was a student interest piece about the firing of a popular sociology professor. She leafed through the thin pages. Not a word about the crash. The Fox affiliate in Phoenix had been running follow-up bits in the evening and the Payson media was still giving the story its due—although other than the occasional forest fire and the proposed increase for hunting permits there wasn’t much else to discuss.

The latest report out of DPS was clear—without the firm identification of the driver no charges could be filed.

He clutched a can of Red Bull, downing the last bit before crushing the can in his hand and tossing it in an overflowing trash bin. He slung a book bag over his shoulder, made a round of hand-slaps and fist bumps, and headed off.

She reached into her purse, slipping on the latex glove, pulling it until it snapped. Glancing side to side, assured that nobody was watching, she walked casually to the trash bin and picked up the crushed Red Bull can, concealing it in her purse without losing a step.

***

The sign in the window read
as seen on maury povich!

She wasn’t sure that was something to brag about, but given his line of work—and the condition of the building—it was probably best to get any advantage he could.

The address on the website said Tempe, but this wasn’t Tempe. This was Guadalupe. The shopping center anchored the corner of Calle Senora and Priest, a U-shaped block of crumbling stucco storefronts. His office was tucked away in the corner, next a liquor store with a neon Corona sign hanging above the door. A yellow bottle with a green lime wedge on the lip flickered in the window. A rusted Ford F350 was parked beside her, a mess of lawnmowers and weed wackers sticking out of the bed. The driver was catching a
siesta
, his Diamondbacks hat pulled over his face, a Budweiser Tall Boy wrapped in a paper bag between his thighs.

The door chimed as she walked in. She could smell the dank odor of mold. The floor was beige linoleum, stained with footprints, peeling at the edges. A cheap IKEA coffee table sat in the middle, adorned with a spread of outdated tabloid magazines. There was a receptionist’s desk but no receptionist.

She tapped her palm on the service bell.

“
Hello?”

She could hear the buzz of a television in the back room.

She pressed the bell twice.

“
Hello?”

“
Yes?” he shouted from behind an open door. “Com-ing!” She could hear the pitter-patter of quick footsteps on the linoleum.

He appeared from behind the open door. He was a short, pudgy man with red hair and a mottled complexion. He wore a short-sleeve white dress shirt, exposing pale freckled forearms.

He extended a hand. “Dennis Wilson.” His words had the nasal inflection of a midwesterner. Michigan, Wisconsin maybe. Another transplant. Nobody was ever from Arizona.

She shook his hand. “Like—”

“
Yes, like the Beach Boy.” He chuckled, resting his stubby hands on his belly. “No relation. Please, please. Come with me.”

She followed him through the open door. He waved to the one available seat opposite a gray aluminum desk cluttered with papers, manila folders, and Big Mac cartons. A bulky twelve-inch TV with rabbit ear antennas rested atop a filing cabinet in the corner.
Jeopardy
was on, the picture encumbered by static. It was the point in the show where Alex Trebek would walk over and talk to the contestants. She always thought that Trebek had a smugness to him and the sight of him making time-filling chitchat with an overweight second grade teacher from Cleveland made her roll her eyes.

She took a seat.

He punched away at his keyboard for a few seconds before directing his attention to her. A Big Gulp doubled as a paperweight, forming a wet ring on a stack of invoices. No photos of a wife or children or any signs of a life outside of that stuffy little office. Just a framed poster on the cracked plaster wall behind him of an astronaut floating above the earth. The caption at the bottom read
your attitude determines your altitude
.

“
So?” He leaned forward on his elbows, hovering above her seat, examining her with cockeyed curiosity. “Where’s the child?”

“
No, no, no. I’m not here for paternity testing.”

His mouth formed an ‘oh.’ “You’re not?”

“
No. I need somebody to test some items for DNA. Your website said that’s what you do.”

“
I offer a range of services, from your run-of-the-mill paternity testing to proving Native American genes. You know those tribes don’t let you in on a piece of the casino profits without the right documentation. The work is done in a lab out in Mesa. Takes anywhere from two to five business days for results. What, what exactly are you looking for, ma’am?”

She reached into her purse and set two items down on the little available space on his desk. Two ZipLoc baggies—one containing the red lighter, the other containing the crushed Red Bull can.

“
Can you test these two items, tell me if there’s a match?”