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The rave? The night Serena disappeared? Mia froze, couldn’t breathe. She whispered, “Do you see her, Gail? Do you see who took her?”
“I don’t know, but maybe you can see something.”
Mia brought up the photos. The first one showed a roomful of college kids, laughing, talking, dancing, most of them drinking, even on the dance floor. She made herself out, standing beside—yes, it was Norton Canberry, now a professor at MIT. He was probably trying to explain vector analysis or some such thing to her and she was laughing her head off.
“The second photo,” Gail said, “Serena’s photo—it’s blurry because I probably just raised my cell and snapped it.”
Serena, Mia’s best friend for three years at Godwyn. She looked wildly happy and wildly drunk. Mia felt a horrible punch of loss, of rage. She managed to get hold of herself, swallowed her tears, and concentrated on the man standing next to Serena. A profile, but she could see he was gesticulating with his hands. “Gail, do you recognize the man talking to Serena?”
“No. Remember, Mia, there were lots of grad students who crashed the rave, hoping to find an undergraduate hookup, or at least get laid. This guy could even be from another college. The Godwyn Delta Rho Phi raves were legendary.” She paused. “You told me Godwyn canceled every rave on campus after Serena disappeared. Mia, do you know someone who could work some magic on these photos? Help identify all those people, especially that man with Serena?”
Mia’s heart was pounding. Finally, after all these years, seven years to be exact. Maybe now, just maybe. “Yes, I do. His name is Dirk Melcher, the Guardian’s photographer. He’s a pro’s pro, has a gift, really, and if anyone can sharpen up these pictures digitally he can. Now, the guy she’s talking to, I can tell he’s not that much taller than Serena, which makes him maybe five foot ten, eleven. And look, Gail. Do you see the other man standing off to the side? We see only his profile. He’s wearing jeans, a black tee. He’s much taller, at least six foot two. Look closely, Gail. Isn’t he reaching his hand out toward those drinks on the table? And he’s got a bracelet on his wrist.”
Gail said, “I don’t know him, either. You think he might be roofieing Serena’s drink?”
“Maybe. Gail, look at the bracelet.”
“Okay, he’s wearing what looks like a chunky silver chain on his left wrist. I never knew any Godwyn boys who wore a bracelet like that.”
“Me either. Even blurry, you can recognize lots of people, right? Even if you’ve forgotten their names? But this guy talking to Serena, and the other one standing off to the side—Gail, I don’t think they belong there. One of these guys might have drugged her, took her, maybe even set the fire to get her out.”
“Lots of maybes, Mia. Don’t jump the gun. Maybe this Dirk Melcher can sharpen the photo enough so we can identify them. Then maybe the police can contact them, speak to them.”
Mia magnified the photo of Serena, sharpened the edges with her cell phone photo app. “Okay, the shorter guy has light hair, nearly blond. He’s slender, nothing really distinctive about him that I can see. He’s waving his arms, maybe slashing down like he has a sword? Like he’s acting out a character in a video game? And look, Serena is laughing, pretending she’s getting sliced through. I remember Serena told me, when we were coming back from the bathroom, about a guy she met, but I never saw him. She said he was a gamer, like she was. World of Warcraft, that was Serena’s favorite. Her handle was Aolith.” Mia swallowed. “Serena thought Aolith was a magical name.
“Wait, Gail—look closely at the guy with the chunky bracelet. Do you see a sort of notch in his earlobe, like he was wearing an earring and it was ripped off? Or maybe it’s a shadow, can you tell?”
“Okay, maybe, but I can’t be sure. Look, we have only the two photos I shot at one point in the evening. Early? Late? I don’t remember. There were so many of us packed into the frat house, and we were all over the place, including the upstairs bedrooms.” Gail paused a moment. “Mia, I wondered if I should even send you the photos, but I knew I had to. You loved her so much.”
“Thank you, Gail. I’m so glad you did. Now I have to do what I can with them. After Dirk works his magic, I’ll email them back to you, see if they ring any bells.” As she spoke, she was staring at the notch in the larger man’s earlobe and the chunky silver bracelet on his wrist. “Give Lucia a big kiss for finding your old cell phone.”
“Mia, wait! I’ll admit I was hesitant to send them to you because I worried what you’d do, that it could be dangerous. I know you, and I want you to promise me you won’t go playing Lois Lane and haring off after these two men by yourself. Please promise me after this Dirk cleans them up, you’ll give the photos to the police.”
“And tell them what, exactly, Gail?” Mia said. “Serena was murdered, Gail, probably raped. You know as well as I do that’s what happened. I owe her whatever I can do, and right now I can do more than the police can. I promise I’ll be careful, and I’ll give the police whatever I find.” That wasn’t the promise Gail wanted to hear, but it was the best Mia could do.
She ended their call and dialed Dirk Melcher at the Guardian, caught him just before he was off to a crime scene in SoHo with a reporter. She offered to make him her famous meatloaf if he’d sharpen two old photos for her. Dirk had told her once he’d kill for her meatloaf, and so the deal was quickly sealed. She emailed him the photos. She got to her feet, stretched, stared again at them, then got herself a fresh cup of tea and went back to Kali’s landing page, but it was hard to concentrate. Mia got up and walked to the large window overlooking Central Park. Not many people out, too cold, the wind whipping the naked tree branches. For the first time in seven years, she felt a leap of hope. The two young men in the photos, they were seven years older now, in their thirties. Were the bastards still out there somewhere roofieing and killing women? Was Serena just one of many? Did they even remember her? No matter if they’d stopped, they were still monsters, still deserved to be in prison for the rest of their lives.
The police and the FBI had both done their interviews, looked into date rapes, deaths, and disappearances at other universities at about the same time. They’d had no luck.
But that was then.
