The 4th Man, Page 3

  D.D. took up position in the hall.

  They went back to work.

  * * *

  In contrast to Dennis Ringham, Laurel Santana was a professional security guard. The night Jaylin Banks died, he’d already logged fifteen years at his uncle’s security firm, which supplied personnel to the university as well as several area businesses. According to the initial report, he’d taken on the night shift, as he and his wife had just welcomed their first baby and he’d wanted to be home during the day to help out.

  He looked up now as Quincy and Rainie walked in. Clear-eyed, short-cropped silver-dusted hair, casual in a T-shirt and jeans. He wasn’t a large man, not, say, compared to James Duchovny. But he had a look about him. A guy who exercised regularly, probably logged weekly time on some form of self-defense, and felt confident in his ability to handle himself. The fingers of his right hand drummed the table restlessly, but he didn’t speak as Rainie pulled out her chair, then Quincy. A security guard who still worked graveyard, he was no doubt accustomed to long spans of silence.

  Rainie and Quincy considered him the wild card. Certainly he presented a better front than the overly muscled Duchovny and obviously weak-willed Ringham. Family man. Long-term employment. A direct, steady stare.

  And yet, he’d been the one to find the body. In Rainie and Quincy’s line of work, you always had to wonder about the person who found the body.

  Rainie opened the file, began removing the photos. Santana glanced at them once, then returned his gaze to Rainie and Quincy.

  “Jaylin Banks. It’s been ten years.” He didn’t sound surprised. “What do you want to know?”

  “Walk us through that night,” Rainie said. She leaned forward, resting her crossed arms on the table. “Tell us anything, everything you think might help.”

  “I logged on eleven fifty. Checked in with Dennis Ringham from the previous shift.”

  Rainie nodded encouragingly.

  “He said there had been a student in the computer lab, which was due to close at midnight. Also, he counted fifteen students on floor three, six on floor one.”

  “But only a single student on the entire second floor?” Quincy asked. Which still struck him as odd. Especially as Ringham was now saying he’d seen an older woman also in the computer lab around eleven forty.

  “Second floor was rarely populated that time of night. Most of the floor was composed of the computer lab, accompanied by general reference materials. Given the lab closed at midnight, I’d usually find the floor next to empty. Maybe a stray student catching some shut-eye between the stacks, that sort of thing.”

  “And that night?”

  “When I conducted my initial walk-through, I counted ten students on the first floor, not six.” Santana didn’t come right out and say that Ringham was an idiot, but his tone implied enough.

  “Second floor, however, appeared deserted. Computer lab was usually staffed by a single student—maybe a computer science major, that sort of thing. But as you can imagine, kids didn’t always show up for their shifts. In that case, the lab worked on the honor system. At midnight, the last student should lock the door, pull it shut. My job was to double check. Night in question—lights were still on. Looking through the windows, space appeared deserted. I tested the knob, found it locked as required. I inspected the rest of the second floor, all was quiet.

  “I made my way to the third floor, identified fourteen more students—”

  “Fourteen, not fifteen?” Quincy interjected quietly.

  “I counted fourteen, sir.”

  Quincy nodded, filed that away. Which could mean one student was unaccounted for, or that Dennis Ringham had done just as good a job of counting occupants on the third floor as he had on the first.

  “You check the stairwells?” Rainie asked.

  “Next stop, make a round of the stairwells. One in each of the rear corners of the building. I completed my first walk-through at twelve twenty-two. Both stairwells were clear.”

  “At which point . . . ?”

  “I took up position at the front desk in the lobby. Waited till one a.m. Walked my next sequence of rounds.”

  “More or less students at one a.m.?” Quincy asked.

  “About the same, sir. Five left, while three new students signed in—”

  “Male or female?” Rainie spoke up.

  “Two females, one male. They appeared to be together. They said they were headed to the third floor. I confirmed their presence during my next walk-through, shortly after one.”

  “And the stairwells?” Quincy pushed.

  A slight hesitation this time. “Clear, sir.”

  “Any sign of Jaylin Banks?” Rainie asked.

  “No, ma’am. I didn’t know her by name at the time. But after . . . everything. I’ve gone through my first two passes time and time again in my mind, ma’am. To the best of my knowledge, I never spotted anyone who matched Jaylin Banks’s description anywhere in the library.”

  “What about an older woman?” Quincy asked. “Someone more like a professor, say, than a student?”

  Santana looked at them, shook his head.

  Quincy resumed his original line of questioning: “You continued down to the front desk. You’ve conducted two walk-throughs. It’s now two a.m. Hear anything? See anything of note?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But your rounds,” Rainie spoke up. “They take around twenty-five minutes based on your times.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “During which time you’re not in the lobby. Other students could be walking in or walking out.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But after eight p.m., all entering students have to swipe their IDs to access the library. Not just anyone could enter.”

  “We saw two approved access entries shortly after midnight.” Quincy pushed now. “Two students who would’ve entered the library right after you took over from Dennis Ringham and right before you made your first rounds. The students were both males, both seniors. What can you tell us about them?”

  Santana shifted restlessly. “Honestly, sir? It was ten years ago; I don’t recall. But assuming they used their student passes, the electronic log should list their names.”

  “Matthew Shepherd. Stan Hobson. Either name ring a bell?”

  Santana shook his head.

  “Both shared a class with Jaylin Banks. Shakespeare’s England, or something like that.”

  Again, Santana shook his head.

  “You know the most vulnerable time for a security system?” Quincy asked the guard.

  “Switchover,” Santana admitted.

  “Presents a window of opportunity. Granted, a small window, where one guard is winding down and another guard is gearing up and so neither guard is completely paying attention. On a night when something goes wrong, that’s the time period we have to consider: What happened during the window of opportunity?”

  “When these two guys, who knew Jaylin Banks, entered the library,” Santana filled in. “Can you give me their descriptions?”

  Rainie did the honors. Two photos in the back of the file. Blown-up shots from student IDs, ten years old. Two of the three students D.D. hadn’t yet been able to track down.

  Santana didn’t speak right away but took the time to study each image.

  “They do look familiar to me, sir. I believe they were on the third floor.”

  “Not the second?”

  “No, the third.”

  “By themselves, with a group. With a girl?” Quincy suggested.

  But Santana shook his head. “I only remember seeing them sitting together. No one else. Sorry, sir.”

  Quincy nodded, still staring hard. Which brought them to the next phase of the evening.

  “And at two a.m.?” Rainie asked.

  Santana straightened his posture, placed his
hands on the table. “I conducted my normal drill. Inspected floors one, two, three, then hit the stairwells. Two eighteen a.m., rear south stairwell, I noticed . . . I noticed something white, one floor down. It looked almost like a piece of paper.” His voice grew hoarse. The security guard glanced away. “I thought someone had dropped something. Maybe a report. It wasn’t until I made it down to the second-floor landing . . . She was sprawled on the steps, between floors one and two. Like maybe she’d slipped. It wasn’t until I drew closer that I saw, I noticed . . . the bruising on her throat. Then I realized what had happened.”

  Rainie and Quincy didn’t speak right away, but let the silence draw out. This was the moment, the key moment, as disclosed on Sergeant Warren’s list of lies.

  “You never saw Jaylin Banks before then.” Rainie pushed. “Your entire shift, you never saw her?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But you knew about her. A lone female in the computer lab. Dennis Ringham had told you about her.”

  “The computer lab was locked and empty when I first saw it. Like I said, I’ve thought about it and thought about it. To the best of my memory, I never saw her that night. At least . . . not alive.”

  “But how can that be?” Rainie pressed. “Jaylin had been there. Eleven forty in the computer lab. Ringham swears it. And there’s no activity in the logs showing she ever left or reentered the library. Meaning once your shift started, where did she go, Santana? Where was Jaylin Banks hiding, and who was she with?”

  “I figured she exited while I was walking my first rounds. Twenty-five minutes out of every hour, I’m not in the lobby. So by definition, I don’t see everyone come or go.”

  “You assumed she left,” Rainie repeated.

  “It happens. And it’s not like I had specific instructions regarding her or anything. I checked the computer lab as advised. Once I saw it was locked . . .”

  “You didn’t give her a second thought,” Rainie provided. “Until two eighteen, when you were walking down the rear stairwell, checking out a piece of paper.”

  Santana looked down, had the good grace to flush.

  “Do you know how long it takes bruising to form, post mortem?” Quincy interjected quietly.

  Santana shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “At least an hour for initial bruising. Fully formed can take as long as four to six. In other words, for there to be enough color around Jaylin Banks’s neck for you to see obvious strangulation marks . . . Jaylin Banks hadn’t just been murdered when you discovered her on the stairwell. She’d been there for a bit.”

  Santana was holding rigid now. As if he could finally see the trap. And just how easily he’d walked right into it. “It was the first time I saw her, sir. I swear it.”

  “How?” Rainie piled on. “If you’d been inspecting the stairwells all along? If you’d been checking them since midnight.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “See her?” Rainie interrupted. “Or complete your rounds? Which is it, Mr. Santana? Because it couldn’t have been both. Jaylin Banks never left the library that night. She entered around ten, was last seen alive at eleven forty, then according to you, suddenly disappeared after midnight. Except that couldn’t have been the case. She was in the library. The entire time. So tell us. It’s been ten years. For the sake of this girl, tell us the damn truth!”

  Santana put his head in his hands.

  For a moment, Quincy thought the man might continue to resist. Then . . .

  “I didn’t walk the stairwells. First couple of times. Midnight. One a.m. I just . . . pushed open the doors. Glanced into the landings. I was tired, okay? The new baby. Me and my wife, we hadn’t been sleeping. . . . So I didn’t walk the stairs. Not till two a.m. Not . . . till then.”

  Santana’s voice broke. He stopped holding his head and looked directly at the photos. Stared at them hard. The beautiful young woman. Her dark, sightless eyes. The clear line of bruises marring her throat.

  “She was dead well before two,” he stated roughly. “That’s what you’re telling me. After she left the computer lab . . . The whole time I was there. She was dead all along.”

  “Yes,” Quincy told him. “We believe so. Shortly around midnight, Jaylin Banks was strangled to death in the stairwell. Which brings us back to the two male students who entered the library right as you went on shift.”

  “This Matt and Stan,” Santana said. He grimaced, fingered their pictures. “I wish I could tell you they were twitchy, or up to no good. But I walked past them twice. Both times they were just sitting there, reading. If they’d really been the ones . . .” He looked up. “Why would they stay? I don’t know, sir. They might have known Jaylin, had a connection to her. But I never saw them with her. And they weren’t sitting anywhere near the stairwell door.”

  Quincy leaned forward. He tried one last time. “What about an older woman? Not a student, but maybe a staff member?”

  “All I can tell you is check the electronic logs. I’m sorry, sir. I truly am. I wish . . .”

  Quincy knew what the man wished. That he hadn’t been so tired. That he’d done his job correctly. That he’d not had a young woman die on his watch.

  Another moment passed. Santana dropped his head.

  Quincy and Rainie got up and left the room.

  * * *

  “We’re still missing something,” Quincy murmured, as he escorted Rainie out into the hall. “Sergeant Warren may have found an alibi for Duchovny on the night in question, but that doesn’t change the fact that even he thought there was someone new in Jaylin Banks’s life.”

  “A mysterious older woman?” Rainie asked doubtfully.

  “Or two male classmates who just happened to enter the library at the same time as the changing of the guards. And yet Santana swears there was nothing suspicious about either one of them.”

  “Santana also swore he did his rounds that night,” Rainie pointed out.

  Quincy nodded, tapping D.D.’s notes once more. “It’s amazing what you can discover, even in a cold case, with a talented detective.”

  They glanced down the hall, toward the final door, open and waiting.

  Except it was no longer open, or waiting.

  D.D. came bustling up behind them. “I found her,” she said. “Erin Pizzey.”

  They all stared at the closed interrogation room door. “And this Erin Pizzey is our fourth man?” Rainie asked, because she definitely wouldn’t have guessed that.

  “Yes. And no. Technically speaking, Erin Pizzey wasn’t a student at the university. The name is an alias, used by the woman running the university’s domestic abuse program.”

  Quincy got it. “In honor of the woman who opened the first shelter for battered women in England. That Erin Pizzey.”

  “Jaylin Banks’s secret meeting,” Rainie murmured. “With an older woman.”

  D.D. led them down the hall toward the final interrogation room. “And now, you can learn all about it.”

  * * *

  “Erin Pizzey” was indeed an older woman. Aging bohemian chic, Quincy thought. Direct blue eyes, flowing steel-gray hair, and a strongly sculpted unlined face that placed her years somewhere around ageless.

  She rose when they entered the room, extended a hand to Quincy, then to Rainie.

  “Rebecca Stein,” she said. “I understand from the detective you’ve been looking for me. I apologize for the confusion.”

  They all took a seat. D.D. was once again in the hall, if only because the interrogation room was too small to accommodate more. Rainie had the case folder, though how much it would apply in this situation remained to be seen. This was hardly the pre-prepped and well-strategized approach they’d had for their earlier conversations. Still, some of the best moments in a case came from working on the fly. And this is where Rainie and Quincy’s years of working tightly toget
her came in handy. They didn’t have to look at each other to know how to proceed.

  They just did.

  Rainie spoke first. “Tell us about your work as Erin Pizzey; how you came to know Jaylin Banks.”

  Ms. Stein smiled. “It all seems overly dramatic. The alias, fake student ID. And yet, it’s necessary more often than you’d think. It’s estimated that forty percent of college women experience violent and abusive dating behaviors during their time in school. Even in this day and age, it’s a topic many women find difficult to discuss, ask for help. As overseer of the university’s domestic-violence program, my job includes raising awareness, educating students and staff on reporting procedures, and, of course, establishing and manning a twenty-four-hour-a-day hotline. Most of the cases I’m personally involved in come via the hotline. Interestingly enough, Jaylin was first brought to my attention by another girl who I’d been counseling. We’ll call her F.”

  Rebecca paused, regarded them directly. Quincy got the message. Felicia. Duchovny’s former girlfriend, already known for her string of black eyes.

  “F’s boyfriend was a bit of a local thug. Not one to take no lightly. Appearances and respect were very important to him.”

  “James Duchovny,” Rainie said.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve heard of his . . . habits. Did F ever file a police report against him?”

  “No. I was working with F to build her courage toward taking such a step, when the relationship came to an abrupt end. James announced he’d met someone else. That was it.”

  “Jaylin Banks.”

  “F was relieved. And jealous and devastated and hysterical. Wanting to get out, then being suddenly cast out . . . These relationships are complicated.”

  “We understand,” Quincy assured her.

  “I continued to work with F. One of the myths of an abusive relationship is that when it ends, the woman is now safe, can move on. In fact, having once entered such a relationship, F remained at risk to repeat the pattern. Also, power-dominating abusers such as Duchovny have a tendency to feel like they can pick back up the relationship anytime they want. Their ex is just lucky they felt like revisiting the neighborhood.