The Last Good Girl (18 page)

Steve handed out papers where he'd sketched out the layout of the house. “There are reportedly no dogs on the site, and no one living at the house has a gun registered. However, four of the men have prior arrests.”

He listed their names and arrests: one drug offense and three petty assaults. Anna could sense the agents' hackles going up. Every raid could be dangerous, and a criminal history, however petty, made it more likely there would be problems.

After a few questions, the agents loaded back into their cars and drove to the fraternity house. They parked at the curb in front of Beta Psi. Anna and Sam both pulled on bulletproof vests. “Good luck,” Anna said. She would go in for the search but was not allowed until the FBI agents had cleared the house of people.

“See you in a minute.” Sam got out of the car and took a long rifle out of the trunk. Anna watched as the other agents filed out of their cars and lined up behind Sam and Steve. In the early morning, they were the only movement on the street. Gone were smiles and muffins. The agents were heavily armed and wore the grim looks of professionals about to do a job that required total focus. The agents moved with quiet, deadly grace as they formed a line and strode up the front yard of Beta Psi. Sam led her team up the front porch. Anna sent up a quick prayer for their safety. The entry was the most dangerous part.

T
his was the second time Sam would walk through the fraternity's front door, but now she'd do it on her terms. She rang the doorbell and knocked loudly. “FBI, police!” She started counting. “One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand.” If she got to thirty, she'd signal for the agent with the battering ram.

At twenty-one, the door opened. A skinny white guy wearing checkered pajama bottoms and an undershirt squinted into the morning light. Sam held up her badge. “FBI. We're here to execute a search warrant.”

The kid blinked at the collection of federal agents on his porch. “What's your name?” Sam asked. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Pop science said there are two reactions to fear: fight or flight. But in Sam's experience there were three: fight, flight, or freeze. She appreciated those who froze. It was better than a chase or a gunfight. She put a gentle hand on the back of the boy's T-shirt and, in the manner of a mama lion taking a cub by the scruff of his neck, guided him out of the house, onto the porch. The kid looked around with bugging eyes.

“Take a deep breath,” Sam said. “Everything's going to be okay. Let's try this again. What's your name?”

“L-l-l . . . L-l-l-l—” He eventually managed to say, “Lou Griwatsch.”

“Hi, Lou. We're going to go into your house now, and as long as you cooperate, you'll be fine. Can you tell me how many people are in there now?”

He stared at her.

“Are there any weapons in the house, Lou?”

He held his hands up. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost, because as a member of this fraternity, he had to be one of the most privileged boys in America.

“What about any animals? Dogs?”

“I d-d-d—” He took a breath and tried again. “I d-d-d—”

“Stay out here,” Sam said. She handed the kid off to another officer.

She turned back to the house, raised her rifle, and pushed the door open. The foyer was empty. Her team followed her in. It was a grand wood-paneled space with ten-foot ceilings and scrolled woodwork she hadn't been able to see during the highlighter party. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. But she couldn't dwell on the interior design. Now she had to clear the place, make sure no one could jump out and kill an agent. She strode toward the grand sweep of the staircase.

A low, guttural growl stopped her. A big Doberman stood in the hallway to her right. Its lips curled back, baring pink gums and rows of gleaming white teeth. Saliva dripped from its snapping jaws.

“Crap.” Sam pointed her gun at the dog.

“Wait,” Steve said.

She kept her finger on the trigger but said, “You have thirty seconds.”

Steve reached into his jacket and threw something at the Doberman. A little bone-shaped biscuit landed on the floor in front of the beast. The dog stopped barking and cocked its head at the biscuit. It looked at Steve, then back at the biscuit. “It's okay, girl,” Steve said softly. The dog took one hesitant step forward, paused, then snapped up the biscuit. She looked back up at Steve. “Good girl.” Steve threw another treat, and this time the dog ate it without hesitation. “Sit,” Steve said. The dog sat. He put a biscuit in his hand and held it out. “Come.” The dog trotted over and ate the biscuit daintily from Steve's palm. Steve scratched behind her ears and murmured what a good dog she was. As he did, he took a leash from inside his jacket and latched it to the dog's collar. He handed it to a younger agent. “Take her outside.”

“Softie,” Sam said. Steve shrugged, but a smile played on his lips. Over beers tonight, she would tease him without mercy, but secretly she admired that he always tried to work with the dogs in the homes they raided—and he was mostly successful. Dogs trusted him.

The agents split up as planned. Sam and Steve jogged up the front staircase to the second level. At the top, she took out a mirror on a retractable pole. She used it to look around a corner, saw no one, then swung around, gun first. Sure, these were just frat boys, but fifteen years at the Bureau had taught her: you never know.

The dark wood hallway was lined with multiple doors. It looked like a B and B but smelled like sweat socks and weed. She knocked on the first door then went through it.

The bedroom was dim and dank, with dirty clothes piled on the floor. A single young man slept in a bed. He cracked an eye. “FBI, police,” Sam said. “Executing a search warrant. Get up.”

The kid raised his head off the pillow. He looked at Sam and smiled. “Okay, this is worth getting up for.” He sat up. He wore boxer shorts, which did little to hide that fact that he was excited. “Go ahead,” he said. “I've been a bad boy. Do you want to put me in handcuffs? And spank me?”

Sam kept her gun pointed at the young man and kicked open the closet. No one was inside.

“I don't know who sent you,” the kid said, as his eyes traveled from her curly dark hair, to her snug cargo pants, to her steel-toed boots. “But I will have to thank him. C'mere, baby.”

Sam heard a muffled choke in the doorway. Steve was trying not to laugh. Sam kept her eyes on the kid but spoke to Steve. “Should I toss him a biscuit?”

“Nah. I didn't bring another leash.”

“I'm not a stripper, sir,” Sam said to the kid, using her deepest, scariest Voice of Authority. “This is a real gun with real bullets, this is a real badge, and you need to put on a real pair of pants.”

The kid tripped on his clothes as he rushed to pull them on. Sam escorted him out to the hallway and handed him off to an agent who led him away.

She went to the next bedroom. A frat boy lay in bed with two blondes, who shrieked when Sam announced herself. Sam sighed as the blondes frantically pulled on lace Hanky Panky underpants. Didn't anyone go to college to
study
anymore?

The next suite was empty—the only movement was miniature sharks zigzagging in a huge aquarium. Sam strode through the bedroom and into the attached bathroom. There she found Dylan Highsmith in boxer shorts, standing by the toilet. Water swirled down, in the last throes of a flush. Dylan looked up triumphantly.

Sam cursed under her breath. Whatever he'd flushed was now gone. “Sir, we're conducting a search warrant. You have to leave the house now.” She let him put on clothes, then steered him out to the hallway.

“This is a total violation,” Dylan said, as Sam handed him off to another agent. “My father and his lawyers will get this all thrown out. And they'll get your badge too.”

“You know what every guy whose house I search tells me?” Sam smiled. “They tell me they'll have my badge. And guess what? It's been fifteen years. I've still got it. Tell your father to give it his best shot.”

• • •

Anna leaned on the unmarked Taurus, sipping coffee and stomping her feet to stay warm. Soon boys started to pour out of the frat. A few girls too. They were groggy, in pajamas or mismatched clothes. They came out quietly, with murmurs and shuffles. It looked like a fire drill, not Waco.

When Dylan Highsmith came out, the other boys clustered around him. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

Sam gave Anna a thumbs-up and Anna walked up the driveway. As she passed him, Dylan said loudly into his phone, “Yeah, let's get her disbarred.”

Anna ignored him and walked into the house. She nodded to Sam. “Let's go see what they've got stashed in here.”

MEMORANDUM

To:
Dylan Highsmith, Emily Shapiro

From:
Yolanda Skanadowski, Title IX Coordinator

Date:
January 5, 2015

Re:
Disciplinary Committee's Written Memorandum of Verdict, Case No. 14-073

Procedural Background:

On November 13, 2014, this committee convened to hear the case of Emily Shapiro versus Dylan Highsmith, wherein Mr. Highsmith was charged with sexually assaulting Ms. Shapiro. Testimony was taken from Ms. Shapiro and Mr. Highsmith. No physical evidence was presented.

Verdict: Responsible.

Reasoning:

Considering all the testimony, the committee concludes that Mr. Highsmith is responsible for sexually assaulting Ms. Shapiro. There was not enough evidence to support Ms. Shapiro's charge that Mr. Highsmith drugged her with an intoxicating agent in order to render her unconscious and sexually assault her. However, there is ample evidence that Ms. Shapiro was extremely intoxicated from the effect of alcohol, and that a reasonable man in Mr. Highsmith's position would know, or should have known, that she was incapable of giving informed consent. Therefore, when he had vaginal intercourse with her, it constituted a sexual assault.

Punishment:

Mr. Highsmith will be expelled from Tower University, effective today. He will not graduate from Tower University. His transcript will indicate that he was expelled for a violation of the student honor code. Mr. Highsmith is ordered to stay away from the Tower University campus. If he is found on the campus, he will be considered trespassing, and all appropriate legal action, including criminal and civil charges, will be pursued.

Oh my God. I feel like I can breathe again. Like, I didn't even realize this huge heavy barbell was sitting on my chest, till finally something came and lifted it off.

Justice.

They found him “responsible.” That's like the college equivalent of “guilty.” And he's being kicked off campus. Expelled! He won't graduate. He'll have, like, a permanent mark on his record. Every employer that ever looks at his transcript will ask him why, and he'll have to answer. He'll come up with some cover story, obviously. But I hope he thinks of me every time.

Did they nail him because I'm the president's daughter? Maybe. Oh well. It's rough justice, I guess.

In the real world, he'd get jail time. He'd be, like, wearing an orange jumpsuit and trying not to drop the soap in the shower. It's totally what he deserves.

But at least this is something.

Someone heard me, believed me, tried to make it right. It's like—wow. That feels amazing.

L
et's go down to the Crypt,” Anna said.

Sam shook her head. “The metal door is locked. We're trying to pick it.”

“If you can't?”

“There's always dynamite.”

They walked through the living room, where Anna recognized the flat-screen TV and antique bar from Jody's description. Behind the bar, an agent was packing bottles of liquor into boxes. She watched with interest as he pulled out a gallon milk jug filled with red liquid. By end of the day, every drop of alcohol would be taken out of the house and transported to an FBI lab to be tested for date-rape drugs.

But the warrant allowed for more than liquor bottles. The FBI could search any area where a date-rape drug might be stored. And if they found evidence of any crime—say, the crime of abducting Emily Shapiro—they could seize that evidence too. Unorthodox as her method had been, Jody had unlocked the house for them.

Anna and Sam headed up the stairs. Other than the Underground, the thing she most wanted to see was Dylan's room. Sam handed her a pair of latex gloves, which Anna snapped on.

Dylan's room was the best one in the house, with large windows overlooking the clock tower. It smelled of cologne and a more organic musky scent, the smell of a college boy learning to do his own laundry. It was neat, except for the unmade bed, which Dylan must've jumped out of when he heard the raid. His desk was lined with expensive men's colognes. In the aquarium, the sharks regarded Anna suspiciously as they circled.

Over his desk hung a framed sorority composite: a big frame filled with dozens of portraits of young women. Each woman wore a black V-neck, pearls, and a big smile. Each had her name inscribed below her portrait in lovely script. Someone had written in black Sharpie on the glass above their faces. “Slut,” said the handwriting over Jennifer Welch's portrait. “Ball-buster,” it said, over Joette Schisler. “Bitch,” it announced above Susanne Sachsman. Each girl had her own description written above her face. Whore, cunt, heifer, dyke, dicktease, cow. Several of the girls' portraits had mustaches or horns drawn on them.

“Charming,” Sam said.

“I love it,” Anna said. “Hatred of women is an element we need for a hate crime. This is Exhibit A.”

Sam placed a placard on the composite and took a picture to show where it had been found. They would seize it as evidence.

The FBI agent opened Dylan's desk drawers. They held pencils, condoms, Chapstick, and notebooks, each neatly lined up in its own plastic container. Dylan or his mom had made careful decisions at the Container Store. A prescription bottle made Anna's heart beat a little faster, until she saw it was Ritalin. A lot of college kids used it to study because they believed it helped them concentrate. It was prescribed to treat ADHD, and Dylan's name was on the bottle. It was not a date-rape drug.