about as typical as college apartments get: not much in the way of cleanliness, furnished in early garage sale, and plastered with posters, in this case Hitch-cock’s Vertigo (a highly overrated movie in which Kim Novak is scared to death by a nun), Scorsese’s Raging Bull (what the heck was he raging about?), and, for a welcome change of pace, Jessica Simpson in a very small bikini. Probably a shot from The Dukes of Hazzard (no comment).
The kid who’d answered my knock was about six foot three and weighed almost as much as a box of Cocoa Puffs. He had a mountain of curly brown hair, frizzier than mine, and looked very much like a used Q-tip. He introduced himself as Danton, and I introduced myself as me. I had no idea whether Danton was a first or last name, but figured that was his business.
We sat at the kitchen table, and from where I sat I could see a ceiling fan in the living room. From each blade was what I thought at first might have been mosquito strips or fly paper, but which turned out to be pieces of yellow crime-scene tape. College hasn’t changed much.
“Anthony hasn’t been here since Wednesday, Mr. Freed,” he said. “I told the police. Of course, we’re in and out to classes and whatever, but I haven’t seen him, and the other guys said they haven’t, either.”
“There are two other roommates?” I asked.
“Yeah. Me, Anthony, Lyle, and Dolores.”
I must have looked surprised. “Dolores?”
Danton grinned. “She’s just a friend.”
“Any sign that he’s been here? Extra laundry piling up, cereal bowls in the sink, that sort of thing?”
He looked around the room at the debris that cluttered every square inch and the dishes piled up on every flat surface. Danton smiled, and looked me square in the eye. “Not that I’ve noticed,” he said.
“How about his classes? Would anybody notice if he didn’t show up for class for two days?”
“His profs, maybe. Some of them are big lectures, two, three hundred people, and they wouldn’t know if one kid was there or not. But he’s got a thesis advisor who also teaches his directing course. If he checked in with anybody, it’d be Dr. Bender.”
I made a note of Bender’s name, and asked if I could see Anthony’s room.
Danton gestured toward a door with paint peeling off. “Be his guest.”
Suffice it to say that Anthony’s bedroom was everything you’d think it would be if you’d ever held a sixty-second conversation with Anthony. The bookshelves were lined with tomes such as The Films of Quentin Tarantino , M. Night Shyamalan: The Man and the Myth , Martin Scorsese’s Cinema , and, unexpectedly, John Ford’s West. The walls had more movie posters, including ones for Taxi Driver and Mean Streets , but the bed, thankfully, was not done up with a John Woo comforter.
The contents of the drawers and closets had been deposited on the floor, but it was hard to say whether the work had been done by the police or was simply a product of the typical college student’s high regard for housekeeping. Clothing, mostly jeans and T-shirts, was available for the grabbing from pretty much any area of the room. I chose not to think about Anthony’s underwear, which is a policy of mine.
Alas, there was no clue, no piece of evidence, no neon sign reading “Break Glass to Exonerate Anthony” in the room. But it had been worth looking.
Danton gave me directions to Dr. Bender’s office. I thanked him for his help, and within ten minutes was carrying my bike up the stairs (fool me once, shame on you . . . ) of Murray Hall, a very old brick building on the Rutgers quad.
The good doctor’s office was on the second floor, thank goodness, and he was in when I knocked. I brought the bike in with me, which made the room a tight fit, but doable.
Bender was about ten years older than I am, with a gray ponytail that showed how anti-Establishment he was and a beard that showed what he had eaten for lunch. Looked for all the world like a piece
The kid who’d answered my knock was about six foot three and weighed almost as much as a box of Cocoa Puffs. He had a mountain of curly brown hair, frizzier than mine, and looked very much like a used Q-tip. He introduced himself as Danton, and I introduced myself as me. I had no idea whether Danton was a first or last name, but figured that was his business.
We sat at the kitchen table, and from where I sat I could see a ceiling fan in the living room. From each blade was what I thought at first might have been mosquito strips or fly paper, but which turned out to be pieces of yellow crime-scene tape. College hasn’t changed much.
“Anthony hasn’t been here since Wednesday, Mr. Freed,” he said. “I told the police. Of course, we’re in and out to classes and whatever, but I haven’t seen him, and the other guys said they haven’t, either.”
“There are two other roommates?” I asked.
“Yeah. Me, Anthony, Lyle, and Dolores.”
I must have looked surprised. “Dolores?”
Danton grinned. “She’s just a friend.”
“Any sign that he’s been here? Extra laundry piling up, cereal bowls in the sink, that sort of thing?”
He looked around the room at the debris that cluttered every square inch and the dishes piled up on every flat surface. Danton smiled, and looked me square in the eye. “Not that I’ve noticed,” he said.
“How about his classes? Would anybody notice if he didn’t show up for class for two days?”
“His profs, maybe. Some of them are big lectures, two, three hundred people, and they wouldn’t know if one kid was there or not. But he’s got a thesis advisor who also teaches his directing course. If he checked in with anybody, it’d be Dr. Bender.”
I made a note of Bender’s name, and asked if I could see Anthony’s room.
Danton gestured toward a door with paint peeling off. “Be his guest.”
Suffice it to say that Anthony’s bedroom was everything you’d think it would be if you’d ever held a sixty-second conversation with Anthony. The bookshelves were lined with tomes such as The Films of Quentin Tarantino , M. Night Shyamalan: The Man and the Myth , Martin Scorsese’s Cinema , and, unexpectedly, John Ford’s West. The walls had more movie posters, including ones for Taxi Driver and Mean Streets , but the bed, thankfully, was not done up with a John Woo comforter.
The contents of the drawers and closets had been deposited on the floor, but it was hard to say whether the work had been done by the police or was simply a product of the typical college student’s high regard for housekeeping. Clothing, mostly jeans and T-shirts, was available for the grabbing from pretty much any area of the room. I chose not to think about Anthony’s underwear, which is a policy of mine.
Alas, there was no clue, no piece of evidence, no neon sign reading “Break Glass to Exonerate Anthony” in the room. But it had been worth looking.
Danton gave me directions to Dr. Bender’s office. I thanked him for his help, and within ten minutes was carrying my bike up the stairs (fool me once, shame on you . . . ) of Murray Hall, a very old brick building on the Rutgers quad.
The good doctor’s office was on the second floor, thank goodness, and he was in when I knocked. I brought the bike in with me, which made the room a tight fit, but doable.
Bender was about ten years older than I am, with a gray ponytail that showed how anti-Establishment he was and a beard that showed what he had eaten for lunch. Looked for all the world like a piece
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