The Sorority

"When was this posted?" he asks, and I look for any indication on the screen.

"Four years ago," I reply.

"I see nine new suspects," Lieutenant Queen says.

--

I finish the video, and if you know what I do it is a little hard to watch. It is not particularly violent or anything, and she never says no or stops, but there is so much reluctance. Peer pressure can be a horrifying thing.

I replay the video to take still shots of each person, and then decide to take a trip to the CSI lab downstairs. This is the first time I may have to rely on some facial recognition software as I continue more traditional detective work.

I talk to the woman at the reception desk who buzzes me in, and I enter through the double doors. The labs resemble a college science department or even a chemistry lab. What would be a workstation in the academic environment is a work desk here with a computer and some additional equipment. Clean and glistening white surfaces reflecting the light from the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. Several floor to ceiling containers with equipment and supplies, with multiple small and large refrigerators. I recognize some equipment like the centrifuges, a chromatograph, and a machine that does PCR DNA analysis.

There is only one private office in the entire lab, and that office belongs to Jill. Her door is currently closed but I see her in the lab at one of the stations going over some results from the earlier crime scene. She had already done all the steps and was waiting for the results to print so she could compare them.

I step into the lab and she turns her head and sees the DVD in my hand, and curiosity flashes across her face. We have already requested for the site to remove the video, but we have a copy for the investigation. She spins her chair around and gestures to the one next to her which I take.

"Anything?" Jill asks.

"Nothing. Her coworkers like her, and she's private. I got a random tip though, and did not expect it to pan out, but it might have," I say and hand her the DVD. She puts it into her computer and loads the video which starts to play, confusing her initially.

"The fuck?"

"Keep watching, skip to about five minutes in," I say and she does, then also pauses it when she sees her face.

"Holy shit," Jill says.

"Do we have facial recognition?" I ask, and she looks at me and thinks for a second.

"Technically yes, but ours is only attached to the state DMV records. Unless they have a driver's license or state ID from this state, we wouldn't find them," she says and keeps watching the video. "Do we know what college?"

"I'm working that. There are still a few records on her I'm waiting to get which could tell me what university this happened at. The video was uploaded four years ago, but if I had to guess it's closer to seven years old. That's when she would have been a college freshman."

"Possible motive is she was considering charging someone, and they found out," Jill says.

"Would the charges even stick?" I ask, and Jill shrugs as if saying probably not.

"Under a criminal trial, that might be difficult. Civil case on the other hand. It wouldn't have to though. You know how strong an accusation can be. You could be innocent, and a vindictive girlfriend decides to ruin your life, it happens," Jill explains, and I do not disagree. Trial by media could sometimes be worse. Weeks of a news cycle with a name next to words like rapist can tarnish a name before the facts come in.

"We'll run this through what we have and I'll let you know if we get hits. That is nine new suspects though," Jill says, repeating what Lieutenant Queen had said earlier.

"Ten," we hear Heath say and both turn over our shoulders at him. "I was watching and listening. It's ten people."

"Five men, four women, and the victim," Jill says, and Heath shakes his head.

"Who's holding the camera?" Heath asks. Oh my god, that is so obvious I feel stupid for not considering that. At least Jill missed it as well.

--

A second team of Jill's techs went to Amanda's apartment and had taken anything of investigative value, which was nothing. Her apartment is only four blocks away from her work, and I am surprised she even bothered to drive to be honest. Seems like a rather short distance.

The apartment is a single room with a small living room and kitchen. It was standard for her age, but she was making the most of the accommodations. She owned a television, but she had more books than movies. Most of the books were trashy dollar store romances, the most recent book on her nightstand next to her bed. Amanda was a hopeless romantic.

The fridge was stocked with more than just condiments, as was her pantry. I assume Amanda was someone decently achieved in the culinary arts. Her pots and pans were above average; all clad stainless steel. This was a woman who liked to cook. Next to the fridge was a small wine rack that could hold at most eight bottles, and all eight were occupied. She had a taste for red as four of the eight were reds. Two were white, and the last two were dessert wines.

What I am looking for is anything that could say what college she went to. A degree framed somewhere. A sweater for sporting events. A banner or streamer. I will take a god damn sticker by the time I sweep the entire apartment twice. There is zero indication she even went to college in her apartment. Why?

In her bathroom on the mirror are a few pictures of what I will assume are her family and friends. One stands out, because it looks more foreign than the others. It is a picture of a little boy, maybe five years old. I look back through her pictures and I do not see the boy in any of the others. Who is he? I know the techs took pictures of the entire place, but I feel something with this boy's picture, so I take it for evidence.

--

Jill pulls back nothing with the facial recognition, which means all these people are from out of state. That might be a lucky break. If I find out who any of them are and discover they traveled in a manner than aligns with the murder, I have reasonable suspicion.

I have one way of knowing where she went to school, and I have been avoiding doing so. Calling her mother. I do not want to explain why I am asking, but I also must do my job. Lieutenant Queen gives me the number and I call her mother. It goes straight to voice mail. Of course. She is on a plane in route to get her body.

I hear the beep of her voice mail. "Mrs. Hopkins, this is Detective Kramner, lead investigator. If you could, please call me back as soon as possible. You may have information that could be of great importance to the investigation." I provide my cell and office number and hang up.

While I was at it, I recalled her coworkers, and none of them knew where she went to college, in fact none of them even knew she ever attended. Mr. Ulrich informs me she was currently attending some classes, but did not recall where or for what.

All I can do now is sit on my hands and wait. Most people just assume when someone dies, we just pull out a big file on that person from storage just waiting for them to croak. Nope. HIPAA protects medical records, even after death for fifty years. You need a warrant for credit history. Same for school and either the school or the person of interest can block those. Right now, I do not even know what school to request records from.

I watch the video again, taking a vacant office to be left alone and really focus frame by frame. Kappa. "Do you want to be a Kappa?" Sorority that begins with Kappa. I look around the back drop and closer on their clothing. I am looking for sweaters with logos. A poster. It just looks like a normal large bedroom with a few beds. The girls are all either standing on, in front of, or sitting on the same bed. There are posters for drugs and bands, but nothing for the university.

At eleven minutes in I hear a name. I did not notice it before because I thought it was just a word until I heard the context more clearly. "The freshman really likes getting fucked, huh Hope." Hope is the name of one of them. The camera was still on Amanda so I do not know who said it and to whom. At this point they had flipped Amanda to her back and on one of the other beds. One of the men pushed her legs wide open and was drilling hard inside of her. A second man was on his knees next to her face on the bed, holding her hair, and shoving her mouth onto himself.

I put in headphones and listen again. I only watched for context of who is saying what. I start writing a transcript of the words. My gut curls when I write "Suck that dick!" and again when they chant "Pump that pussy!"

"Get it boy!" I hear a voice say as it pans over the other four females, but none of them had spoken. The camera is being held by a woman.

"Oh shit, he creamed that pussy!" one girl shouts.

How in the hell are the women the more vicious ones? I would like to shoot all the men too, but the women deserve a special cell in hell.

The camera goes closer to see the semen dripping from her. She could not shout her discontent because of the penis in her throat. Amanda was further quieted when the next man started. He pulled her on top and put her facing away from him. She could suck the second dude off without his balls dangling over the first. He pulled out and came on her face to the delight of the women.

"Two down, three to blow!" the redhead shouts.

I pause it and step away from the screen. Taking a few breaths, I shake it off and sit back down again, and press play, then pause again immediately. I have to take an extra few minutes to even look at the screen again before I finally commit to finishing it again and completing the transcript.

"Three dicks away from a Kappa! You love all these dicks?" the redhead asks, and Amanda does not respond. "Say it! Tell me how much you love getting fucked!"

"I like it," Amanda says, as the next man gets ready to put his dick in her mouth.

"I didn't say like. I said love. Say it. Say I love getting fucked."

"I loved getting fucked," Amanda says softly.

"I don't believe you. I love getting fucked!" she shouts louder.

"I love getting fucked!" Amanda cries out as the next dick goes in.

"Hear that, she loves it. Fuck this freshman good, maybe I'll get mine next," the redhead says and briefly sucks one of the dicks for a few seconds to the cheer of the women. "This dick tastes good freshman, you ready for it?"

I slam the computer shut and yank the earbuds out.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I say and step away so fast my chair falls over.

I look at my watch and it was somehow already three in the morning. I had been watching this video for evidence for over four hours at this juncture. I have nothing but Kappa and Hope. I do not feel it is appropriate to call her mother this late even if she had landed.

There is no point in going home. I exit the office I took and walk back to the homicide division at the end of the hall. Not even Lieutenant Queen is here. I stumble over to the couch in our office and rest my head for what I think is a few minutes. When I come to it is from Captain Whitaker kicking the couch to wake me up.

"Sir," I say and snap up, him laughing a little.

"Relax, you're far from the first detective to sleep in the office," he says and sits on the chair from Detective Kaiser's desk.

"What time is it?" I ask, sitting back down and looking at my watch. It is seven in the morning, so about an hour before Lieutenant Queen comes in. Captain Whitaker hands me a cup of coffee which I take, thanking him before I take a sip. It is black, which I do not mind.

"I heard that porn site video might actually be relevant," Captain Whitaker says, and I nod to reply.

"I've been digging through it all night, looking for any detail, but so far all I have is a sorority that begins with Kappa and the name Hope. CSI lab ran the faces through recognition but nothing. They said they could forward that to the FBI or U.S. Marshalls, but we'd get those results back in weeks if ever."

"Send them anyway."

"I did," to confirm that I had.

"Do we know what college she went to, to narrow it down?"

"No and nothing in her apartment or the video. I called her mother, but it went to voice mail. I'll try again in a few hours," I say and he takes a sip.

"I'll call her," he says and taps my cup with his own and stands up to leave. "Everyone gets one freebee to piss me off. Calling my wife a cunt is yours."

"Yes sir," I say and look down. I doubt either of them told him, but enough people could have. Before he leaves, I get a phone call from a number I think I recognize but I am not sure why I do. "Detective Kramner."

"Yes Detective, this is Francine Hopkins," the victim's mother says.

"Ma'am, thank you for calling me back. This may seem random, but I assure you it isn't. What college did your daughter attend?" I ask and wait for a reply.

"University of Indianapolis, but she didn't graduate. She dropped out before completing her sophomore year," Mrs. Hopkins explains.

"Did she ever tell you something happening to her, especially in her freshman year?" I ask.

"Why are you asking?" I do not want to explain this. Captain Whitaker gestures for my phone which I give him.

"Hello ma'am, this is Captain Whitaker, we spoke on the phone yesterday. Allow me to convey my condolences once again and to assure you we are exploring all avenues to apprehend anyone involved with your daughter's death. We are exploring a lead which I do not feel comfortable sharing with you over the phone. Could you please stop by the department when you arrive? I'll even send a patrol car to escort you...I will see you soon."

Captain Whitaker hands my phone back to me and I put it in my pocket.

"Do you have a change of clothes here?" he asks.

"Yes sir I do." I keep an extra set of work clothes in my locker in the showers.

"Shower downstairs and change, you will be interviewing her mother in about two hours," he says, and I nod before he walks away.

---

Wednesday - 26 March, 2019

Amanda's mother Francine arrives at the station a few hours after I woke myself up with a cold shower and cup of coffee. Unfortunately, the only clothes I had with me was a short sleeve button up shirt and a pair of grey slacks that clash horribly, but that is the least I have to worry about at the moment. I sit with her in the conference room, Captain Whitaker instructing me to use the largest room possible. Something about open spaces, I guess.

Francine looks remarkably like her daughter, so much alike if I did not know any better, I would have assumed they were sisters. Pinning her age is difficult, but I know she is likely in her late forties to early fifties. Her wonderfully aged complexation is scarred by evidence of recent tears, and a dreadful sunken in posture. I can tell Francine is a woman who does not display her emotions in public. To some she would appear stoic or frigid, but too many external clues betray that analysis.

Captain Whitaker sits in on the conversation, and I think it is to observe me. Granted he did say he would talk to her as well, but I believe he is sizing me up.

"I am deeply sorry for your loss ma'am..." I begin once we sit down.

"Thank you," she interrupts, "What do you know?"

"Right now, remarkably little, but we are working a lead that I need you, if you can, to shed some additional light on," I say and turn the computer to her. No matter how bad this day gets, this will be the worst part of it. Her face is petrified, and I do not know if it is with rage or shock. After she has seen enough, I pause it and turn it away.

"Why would you show me that?" She asks.

"We have no other leads. Do you know anything about this?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"No. I didn't even know she was sexually active at that age," Francine says, and I can tell she is sincere. "This explains a lot, actually."

"If I may ask ma'am, explains what?" I ask softly. I am trying to sound like I am talking to someone made of glass.

"Amanda, largely broke contact with us her freshman year, and I didn't see her again until she dropped out. She was so distant, and so not herself. I couldn't travel to see her because this was when my husband's cancer was at its worst. She didn't even attend her father's funeral," Francine said, and I do not know what to make of this.

Amanda stopped talking to her family her freshman year, when she would have been most likely to lean on them for emotional support. It is a real possibility she felt ashamed and did not wish to talk about it, and the easiest way was to not go home. Something tells me that is not the whole scenario.

"Did she speak with you after she dropped out?" I ask.

"Yes, she lived with me for a few years then moved here. She was working, and attending school for culinary arts," Francine says. I knew it. Not the time to celebrate being right.

I have a file next to the computer in the event I needed to ask something in it, and I do have one thing to ask. I take the picture of the little boy and show it to her.

"Do you know who this is?" I ask, and she examines it closer, but shakes her head.

"No. Why?" She asks.

"The picture was on your daughter's bathroom mirror amongst a collage of other pictures. It stood out to me, because he was the only one in a solo portrait, and he wasn't in any of the other pictures," I say, and Francine is not sure what I mean or why I bothered to show her.

"I'm afraid I don't know," she says, and I can tell she is approaching the end of talking to me, so I end it here for now. We shake hands and she leaves, closing the door behind her.

I turn to Captain Whitaker who is looking at the picture as well.

"Thought I had something there," I said, and he keeps looking. "Sir?"

"Follow this picture. Find out who he is," Captain Whitaker says, and I pause for a second before nodding. He sees it too. That unexplainable inkling this boy is important somehow.

"I will," I say, and he leaves the conference room as his wife is coming down the hall. They pause and chat for a minute, before kissing his cheek, him far to professional to kiss his wife at work. I take it at one point she was that professional as well, but that façade faded not too long after she retired.

"Looking for you," Jill says, and I raise my eyebrows. "ME confirmed cause of death. He concurs with the two knife theory and change of grip theory. Slam dunk on that."

"Thanks," I say and close the file with the picture inside of it.

"Nothing we didn't already assume. However, ready for a curve ball?" she asks and I express I am in fact ready. "She had a C-Section at some point."

"What?" I ask, and she nods. "Can we tell when?"

"I asked him if six years ago was reasonable, and he said yes," she says, then hands me the full ME report. "She had a kid."

I place the ME report next to my primary file and open it again to take the picture out. I show it to Jill and explain where I found it and how.

"I need a lot of records from Indianapolis," I say and leave the room quickly to start making some phone calls. I left too soon and returned a moment later for my laptop and files. "And a yearbook."

--

I am authorized by Lieutenant Queen to enlist the full force of a couple of police officers who worked in homicide but not as detectives. University of Indianapolis sent over digital copies of all yearbooks between 2014 through 2020. I do not know the ages of the people in the video so to be safe I roll it back to the earliest they could be a freshman and a few years beyond that. The minions begin tearing through the yearbooks while I have Detective Kaiser scrolling through her medical record. Her mother gave us permission to get around HIPAA.