“Did you ever set your drink down and take your eye off it?”
“Yeah, a few times, like when I was playing darts. In hindsight it seems stupid, but what guy expects his beer to be drugged? The mug was basically right in front of me, but I kept turning around to shoot. I also put it down again when I was picking songs at the jukebox.”
“What happened to your friends?”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” Hines said. “The next day they told me that they looked for me just before the place closed at midnight and didn’t see me. They decided that I must have hooked up with some girl and bolted.”
Interesting, Phoebe thought. Again, that’s what Scott Macus’s friends had assumed about him.
“So it sounds like you were someplace outside of the bar from before midnight until one or so, but you have no idea where. Go back to the guy by the jukebox. Did you mention him to me because you thought he might be significant?”
Wesley touched his upper lip with the side of his forefinger and looked away momentarily.
“Yeah, I keep thinking about him,” he said. “I mean, the way he approached me seemed a little weird, even at the time. He was older—late thirties or early forties, and better dressed than a townie.”
“Is it possible you were assaulted that night?”
“You mean, like raped?” he said. There was a flash of disgust in his eyes. “No way. I would have, you know, figured that out. The person got his jollies just from pushing me into the river and hoping I never came up. You know, a kid from Lyle drowned in the river last year around this time, and nobody had any idea how or why, but I’m thinking he was drugged, too. And maybe the same thing happened to Lily Mack.”
“I just realized that I actually saw you outside her dorm the first night she was missing.”
He narrowed his eyes at Phoebe.
“Oh, yeah, you look kind of familiar. I’d been on campus that night, meeting with the head of maintenance about our lawn-care deal. And then I heard people buzzing about something happening to this girl Lily. I knew her. I mean, I didn’t know her know her, but she was in a class of mine. And right away an alarm went off in my head—because of what happened to me.”
Phoebe glanced down at her notes, scanning them. Her mind was racing. Wesley’s story added credence to the theory Tom Stockton had raised: that there was a serial killer drugging college students in river towns and tossing them to their deaths in the muddy Winamac.
“Wesley,” she said evenly. “This is important information, and you need to go to the police with it as soon as possible.”
He shifted in his seat, not happy with the thought.
“I just don’t want to end up feeling like a jerk again,” he said.
“I don’t think that will happen this time,” Phoebe said. He shrugged. “I have one more question, if you don’t mind.” She needed to get back to what her true focus was.
“Sure,” he said. “Shoot. But then I need to move. I have to call a supplier before dinner.”
“Do you recall if there were any girls from Lyle College in the bar that night?”
It seemed to be the last question Wesley was expecting, and his gray eyes widened in surprise.
“Yeah, there were a few around, I guess. Why?”
“Have you ever heard of a secret society of girls at Lyle? One called the Sixes?”
Hines looked closely at Phoebe again, thinking something but not saying it. Finally he shook his head.
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. What are you getting at, anyway?”
“They’re apparently pretty wicked. Up to a lot of bad stuff.”
Wesley wrinkled his face, perplexed.
“You mean they’re like a cult?” he said. “Or like witches or something?”
“It’s more that they like to bully people—both male and female students,” Phoebe said. “And they play nasty tricks on them. I’ve wondered if they might be connected to the drownings in some way. One of the members is named Blair Usher. Another, I believe, is Gwen Gallogly.”
Wesley shrugged. “Never heard of either one.”
“Did anyone ever paint a check mark on your dorm room door?”
“No—that sounds like frat boy behavior and Lyle doesn’t have frats.”
“Well, I’d better let you make that phone call,” Phoebe said. “If anything else occurs to you, will you get in touch?” She drew a business card from her wallet and passed it to him. Wesley glanced at the card, then flicked it a couple of times with his thumb. Sensing he was growing restless, Phoebe dropped her pad into her purse and rose from the couch.
“Sure,” Wesley said. “And thanks for listening. You’re the first person who’s seemed to care.”
As Wesley walked her to the door she glanced around the apartment.
“You didn’t decorate this place all by yourself, did you?”
“You mean, did I use a professional?”
“Or I thought maybe your mom helped you. Or your girlfriend.”
He smiled ruefully. “My mom died quite a few years ago. And I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.” His smile turned cheerier. “But hey, when I find somebody, maybe she’ll appreciate the fact that I’m not a slob.”
“Absolutely,” said Phoebe. She shook his hand and thanked him once again.
Driving out of the town-house development a few minutes later, Phoebe weighed how she felt about Wesley’s story. She could see how the campus police might have viewed him skeptically when he’d arrived sopping wet at two in the morning, but she had to admit, he sounded credible enough now. Plus there didn’t seem to be any reason to keep flogging his story after all this time if it wasn’t true.
Did she believe he’d been the intended victim of some kind of roving serial killer? Stockton would surely think so—and she would have to share this story with him tonight—but Phoebe still found it tough to embrace the whole idea. At this point, there was no evidence that Scott Macus had been murdered, and the verdict was still out on Lily.
And as harrowing as the experience had been for Wesley, it still could have been just an accident. Phoebe remembered once reading that the most common date-rape drug was alcohol. In certain instances a woman woke up with a strange man, couldn’t remember how she’d ended up there, and assumed she’d been drugged, but the amnesia was in fact the result of her suffering an alcoholic blackout. Wesley said he hadn’t drunk much that night, but he could have had more than he remembered, or maybe his tolerance was extremely low.
And what about the Sixes, she wondered. There didn’t seem to be anything linking Wesley’s experience to the group. They might be mean as hell, they might want to show loser boys who was boss, they might have even played a role in Lily’s death somehow, but there was no apparent reason to believe they were luring male students to the river late at night. And yet she couldn’t let go of the idea they might be involved.
Phoebe had planned to stop by her house before meeting with Stockton—to turn on lights and to make sure everything was okay—but her impromptu meeting with Wesley put her behind schedule. She drove directly to the campus, found a parking spot, and bounded up to the second floor of the administration building. Stockton’s office was just down the hall from Glenda’s. His assistant had apparently left for the day—it was dark in the anteroom, the assistant’s desk deserted. But the door to Stockton’s inner office was cracked enough to reveal a strip of light. Phoebe tapped on the door. From inside she heard Stockton’s muffled voice call for her to enter.
Unlike most of the others on campus, this office had a clubby, old-boy-network feel—wall-to-wall bookshelves, an Oriental rug, and black-shaded lamps casting soft puddles of light around the room. Phoebe suspected that Stockton must have coughed up a bit of his own dough to help create the ambience, since the school hardly had a decorating budget.