“It’s a big studio.”
“It is. But when baby makes three and you have all that infant paraphernalia, no space is big enough.”
The cases had been archived. The room that held the files was dim and dusty, but the boxes were organized properly. Four of them—one for each student plus a box for anything that the three had in common. There were no coroners’ reports or crime-scene photos in the notebooks because there had been no bodies. There were long lists of interviewed people and artifacts belonging to each boy for DNA purposes. While there was a great deal of overlap, some names appeared on one list and not the others. Or some names appeared on two lists but not the remaining one. Lists of relatives, friends, teachers, interests, and anything else that may link the three boys.
There were also multiple photographs of each of them.
According to the health records from the school and the drivers’ licenses, Ezekiel Anderson was caucasian, five eleven, and 175 pounds. His face appeared wide, but that could have been because of the beard. Brown eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a mop of unruly brown hair. Although no one could tell the police what he was wearing when he left for camping, his usual dress was a plaid shirt under a sweater with jeans. Often he wore high-top sneakers. He was an English major with a political science minor and had made remarks to quite a few people about joining the Peace Corps when he graduated. He was an excellent student and a committed member of several socially active campus associations. He was fond of physical activity. More than a few interviewees had stated that he worked out almost every day. He was described as an intense man who wanted to make the world a better place.
Maxwell Velasquez was five six and 180 pounds. He had an olive complexion with a round face and dark eyes that peered out behind dark-rimmed glasses. He was doing a double major in math and bio. and he had hoped to go to medical school, carrying on his father’s family tradition. He was an excellent student, but not much for extracurricular activities. People described him as very smart but shy, especially in a crowd. He didn’t appear to have a lot of friends or even many acquaintances. While no one had a bad word to say about him, most didn’t have a good word either. He had come across as a nonentity. His usual dress—as far as anyone could remember—was a collared shirt under a sweater, jeans, and sneakers or Vans. The few people who did seem to know him—even a little bit—had been surprised that he had gone camping, especially in mid-October. His activities were sedentary—reading or playing video games. But college was all about experimentation, and the camping might have been his stretch from his comfort zone.
Bennett McCrae was six one, 160 pounds. From the photos, he appeared to be a light-skinned Black man with a lean face, dark eyes and a narrow nose flared at the nostrils. In this picture he wore a wide, white smile. His major was still undeclared, but McCrae favored classes in African studies as well as political science. He and Anderson had been members of some of the same associations, and people often saw them in the gym together. People described McCrae as outgoing, charismatic, and very opinionated. He was the first one to join in discussions and often played devil’s advocate for the fun of it. He, like Velasquez, also came from a medical family, but his class choices suggested that he was charting a different course from his father. Some of those interviewed recalled Bennett as meticulous in his appearance and dress. His closet, when the prior detective had checked it out, contained everything from workout garb to a tux and, unlike Zeke, he didn’t favor any particular type of clothing.
The boys were last seen on October 15. The temperature was mild—sixties during the day, forties at night—but it was often colder in the woods and colder still at the higher elevations. The boys had to have packed warm clothing, which made Decker think about what might have happened to Zeke Anderson’s jacket. No one had mentioned any outerwear with the remains. Anderson’s car—a two-year-old black BMW 3 series—was missing from its parking spot near his dorm. It was found later at the trailhead. An exhaustive forensic search of the vehicle yielded nothing: no leads as to where the young men might be.
There were a few students who had suggested that the camping trip was a ruse and the car had been left to throw the police off the track. That didn’t make a lot of sense to Decker. No one wastes a good Beemer. But neither did it make sense that three strapping young males would suddenly vanish utterly and completely. And if the boys hadn’t gone camping, why were Zeke Anderson’s remains—well, possible remains—found in the woods and his car near the trailhead?
The files gave addresses for each of the students’ parents. As Decker wrote them down, he noticed that all three of them were from New York. Zeke lived in Brooklyn, and McCrae and Velasquez were from Queens. Not exactly a big coincidence in a city whose population was over eight million, but a closer look revealed that McCrae and Velasquez had gone to the same high school. Were they friends before college? Did their fathers—both of them in health care—know each other professionally?
Decker loaded up the boxes, carted them upstairs, and dropped them on his desk. The noise made McAdams look up from his computer. “Need help?”
“You can go home, Tyler. I’m about ready to quit anyway.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. It’s been a long day. See you tomorrow.”
“Lila tov, Rabbi. Get some shut-eye yourself.” He picked up his jacket and left.
Shut-eye sounded like a bully idea. But he wanted to organize the material as well as his thoughts before he went home. Ten minutes later, he felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up. Rina placed a cooler at his feet. She wore a white shirtdress with tan espadrilles on her feet. Her rich, dark hair, drawn into a ponytail, was covered on top by a pink bandana. “Sorry to distract you.” She handed him the paper cup of coffee from a cardboard tray she was holding.
“You’re never a distraction.” Decker took the coffee and sipped deeply. “That’s way too good to be station-house coffee.”
“It’s from across the street.” She set another paper cup on his desk. “For Tyler. Where is he?”
“Sent him home.” He looped his foot around the leg of a chair and dragged it over. “Have a seat.”
“How’s it going?”
“Lousy.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I’m utterly frustrated. It would have been nice to follow up on Bertram Lanz before opening up a ten-year-old cold case. And if the remains don’t belong to one of the campers, then we’re really in the dark.”
“Have you stopped looking for Bertram?”
“Not at all. But it’s been over twenty-four hours and we’ve gone over the area meticulously. We haven’t found so much as an errant hair follicle. My opinion? He had arranged to be picked up by someone when the Loving Care bus stopped at the diner.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“A person of interest, as we now call it. Bertram was very close to a nurse named Elsie Schulung, who worked at the home. She spoke German. Bertram was German. She quit two weeks ago. She doesn’t appear to be home—hasn’t been for around four days. She’s not answering her cell. The house doesn’t look tampered with. It’s not a crime to go away on vacation. Since Bertram’s a legal adult, it’s also not a crime for him to go with her.”