children who worked as hard as they could, only to throw their books against walls, feeling stupid and hopeless.
Rogan reached over and clicked the mouse, pausing the video.
“Hey!” she complained.
“Clock’s ticking, woman, and that video’s nearly an hour long. You’re digging that shrink a little bit, aren’t you?”
She looked at the face paused on the screen. According to his nameplate, the doctor espousing the pro-drug views was David Bolt and, she had to admit, he was in fact attractive.
She gave Rogan a fake sneer and took control of the mouse again. “Take a look at this.” The article was called “Students Seek Competitive Edge with Adderall . ” She scrolled down the screen as they skimmed together, catching bits and pieces. Perfectly healthy, undiagnosed teenagers . . . Mixture of amphetamine salts . . . Usually snorted . . . Helps you study . . . Have to get any academic advantage possible . . . Buy it from friends who have been legitimately diagnosed with ADHD . . . Effects on the brain similar to cocaine or methamphetamine . . . One in five students . . .
“Look,” Ellie said, pointing to the penultimate paragraph. “ ‘Can cause depression and social anxiety when abused.’ Let’s try to get a rush on the toxicology reports. It’s one more indication she did this to herself.”
“Let’s also try to find out where she got it,” Rogan said.
Ellie clicked back to the Facebook “wall” filled with comments. She began to click on the names of Julia’s friends who had left notes on her page.
She clicked on the profile of Marcus Graze, whom Ramona had described as Julia’s on-and-off-again fling.
Sorry, this Profile is currently unavailable. Please try again shortly.
As she began to click through Julia’s list of friends, she got the same message for several of the profiles.
“Maybe some kind of system glitch,” Rogan said.
“But I just looked at a couple of these half an hour ago,” Ellie said. She typed Jess Hatcher into the Facebook search box, and her brother’s profile appeared, third down on the list and open to full view without any problem, complete with latest ironic status update: I think I have Bieber Fever . “Seems weird.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll track these kids down in person at the school, anyway.”
“Ah, the very two people I was looking for.” Lieutenant Robin Tucker gazed down at them from the other side of the desk. “Jesus, Hatcher, how can you constantly have a spoonful of pure sugar and fat in your mouth and still fit into your pants? Never mind. Just please tell me your eyes and that computer are focused entirely on Julia Whitmire.”
Rogan gave her a casual wave. “All good, Lou.”
“Not all good. I must have taken fifteen phone calls about the way you marched out of there yesterday. I just got another call from the dad trying to make sure you weren’t just shining him on when you went back last night.”
Tucker was staring straight at Ellie as she spoke, but Rogan was the one to respond. “We’re working on it.”
“How the hell did it take you so long to see that notepad issue?”
Rogan was still speaking for them both. “It’s generational. Suicides are for people facing terminal cancer, divorce, financial ruin. People that age write their final letters on paper. We weren’t thinking.”
“So is the handwriting hers or not?”
“Hatcher took the note to one of her old profs at John Jay. The guy says the script in the suicide note appears to be consistent with Julia’s, but he can’t give an opinion with any confidence because we have so little to go by in terms of known samples of her writing—just a few notes in old birthday cards and from Mother’s and Father’s Days. Like we said, kids don’t write anymore.”
“So you’re fully on board with this, too?” This time it was clear Tucker’s question was aimed directly at Ellie.
“I’m doing the work, yes.”
“Wonderful. Your
Rogan reached over and clicked the mouse, pausing the video.
“Hey!” she complained.
“Clock’s ticking, woman, and that video’s nearly an hour long. You’re digging that shrink a little bit, aren’t you?”
She looked at the face paused on the screen. According to his nameplate, the doctor espousing the pro-drug views was David Bolt and, she had to admit, he was in fact attractive.
She gave Rogan a fake sneer and took control of the mouse again. “Take a look at this.” The article was called “Students Seek Competitive Edge with Adderall . ” She scrolled down the screen as they skimmed together, catching bits and pieces. Perfectly healthy, undiagnosed teenagers . . . Mixture of amphetamine salts . . . Usually snorted . . . Helps you study . . . Have to get any academic advantage possible . . . Buy it from friends who have been legitimately diagnosed with ADHD . . . Effects on the brain similar to cocaine or methamphetamine . . . One in five students . . .
“Look,” Ellie said, pointing to the penultimate paragraph. “ ‘Can cause depression and social anxiety when abused.’ Let’s try to get a rush on the toxicology reports. It’s one more indication she did this to herself.”
“Let’s also try to find out where she got it,” Rogan said.
Ellie clicked back to the Facebook “wall” filled with comments. She began to click on the names of Julia’s friends who had left notes on her page.
She clicked on the profile of Marcus Graze, whom Ramona had described as Julia’s on-and-off-again fling.
Sorry, this Profile is currently unavailable. Please try again shortly.
As she began to click through Julia’s list of friends, she got the same message for several of the profiles.
“Maybe some kind of system glitch,” Rogan said.
“But I just looked at a couple of these half an hour ago,” Ellie said. She typed Jess Hatcher into the Facebook search box, and her brother’s profile appeared, third down on the list and open to full view without any problem, complete with latest ironic status update: I think I have Bieber Fever . “Seems weird.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll track these kids down in person at the school, anyway.”
“Ah, the very two people I was looking for.” Lieutenant Robin Tucker gazed down at them from the other side of the desk. “Jesus, Hatcher, how can you constantly have a spoonful of pure sugar and fat in your mouth and still fit into your pants? Never mind. Just please tell me your eyes and that computer are focused entirely on Julia Whitmire.”
Rogan gave her a casual wave. “All good, Lou.”
“Not all good. I must have taken fifteen phone calls about the way you marched out of there yesterday. I just got another call from the dad trying to make sure you weren’t just shining him on when you went back last night.”
Tucker was staring straight at Ellie as she spoke, but Rogan was the one to respond. “We’re working on it.”
“How the hell did it take you so long to see that notepad issue?”
Rogan was still speaking for them both. “It’s generational. Suicides are for people facing terminal cancer, divorce, financial ruin. People that age write their final letters on paper. We weren’t thinking.”
“So is the handwriting hers or not?”
“Hatcher took the note to one of her old profs at John Jay. The guy says the script in the suicide note appears to be consistent with Julia’s, but he can’t give an opinion with any confidence because we have so little to go by in terms of known samples of her writing—just a few notes in old birthday cards and from Mother’s and Father’s Days. Like we said, kids don’t write anymore.”
“So you’re fully on board with this, too?” This time it was clear Tucker’s question was aimed directly at Ellie.
“I’m doing the work, yes.”
“Wonderful. Your
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