The Associate

"He comes from a wealthy family that’s even more dysfunctional than most wealthy families. He’s a hard partier, lots of booze and drugs and girls. And he shows no signs of outgrowing it. His goal in life is to become a great actor and drink himself to death. He wants to die young, sort of like James Dean."

"Has he been in any films?"

"Not a single one. Lots of bars, though."

Wright suddenly seemed bored with the questions. He had stopped his scribbling. His hard stare began to drift. He stuffed some papers back into the file, then tapped a finger at the center of the table. "We’ve made progress, Kyle, thank you. The ball is at midfield. You want to see the video?"

Chapter 4

Wright stood for the first time, stretched, and stepped to a corner where a small cardboard box was waiting. It was white, and in a neat hand someone had printed, with a black marker, the words "IN RE: KYLE L. McAVOY et al." Kyle McAvoy and others. Wright fetched something from the box, and with the steady purpose of an executioner preparing to pull the switch, he removed a disc from its sleeve, slid it into the drive on the laptop, punched a couple of keys, then took his seat. Kyle could barely breathe.

As the computer clicked and hummed, Wright began talking. "The phone was a Nokia 6000 smartphone, manufactured in 2003, with ETI Camcorder software installed, one-gigabyte memory card that holds about three hundred minutes of compressed video, megapixel quality at fifteen FPS, voice commands, voice activated, state of the art for the time. A really nice cell phone."

"Owned by?"

Wright shot him a smart-ass grin and said, "Sorry, Kyle."

For some reason, Wright thought it would be helpful to show the phone itself. He punched a key, and a still photo of the Nokia appeared on the screen. "Ever see this?" he asked.

"No."

"Didn’t think so. Here’s the scene, Kyle, in case you’re a little fuzzy on the details. It’s April 25, 2003, last day of classes, final exams start in a week. It’s a Friday, unseasonably warm for Pittsburgh, high of eighty-five that day, almost set a record, and the kids at Duquesne decide to do what all good college kids do everywhere. They start drinking in the afternoon and have big plans to drink all night. A crowd gathers at the apartment complex where you rent a place with three others. A party materializes by the pool. It’s mostly Beta brothers and a few girls. You go for a swim, get some rays, drink some beer, listen to Phish. The girls are in bikinis. Life is good. Sometime after dark, the party moves inside, to your apartment. Pizza is ordered. The music, Widespread Panic by this time, is loud. More beer. Somebody shows up with two bottles of tequila, and of course this is consumed as fast as possible. Remember any of this?"

"Most of it."

"You’re twenty years old, just finishing your sophomore year – "

"Got that."

"The tequila gets mixed with Red Bull, and you and the gang start doing shots. I’m sure you’ve had a few shots."

Kyle nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"At some point, clothes start coming off, and the owner of the cell phone decides to secretly record this. Guess he wanted his own little video of the girls without their tops. Do you remember the apartment, Kyle?"

"Yes, I lived there for a year."

"We’ve examined the place. It’s a dump, of course, like a lot of college housing, but, according to the landlord, hasn’t changed. Our best guess is that the guy with the cell phone placed it on the narrow counter that separates the small kitchen from the den. The counter seems to be a catchall for textbooks, phone books, empty beer bottles, pretty much everything that passed through the apartment at one time or another."

"That’s correct."

"So our man pulls out his cell phone and sneaks over to the counter, and in the midst of a wild party he turns it on and hides it next to a book. The opening scene is pretty wild. We’ve studied it carefully, and there are six girls and nine boys, all dancing and in various stages of undress. Ring a bell, Kyle?"

"Some of it, yes."

"We know all the names."

"You gonna show it to me or just talk about it?"

"Don’t be so anxious to see it." With that, Wright punched another key. "It’s 11:14 p.m. when the video begins," he said, then hit another key. The screen suddenly exploded into a frenzy of loud music  –  Widespread Panic playing "Aunt Avis" from Bombs and Butterflies  –  and gyrating bodies. Somewhere in the back of his brain Kyle had hoped for a dim, grainy, fuzzy clip of a bunch of Beta idiots drinking in the dark. Instead, he gawked at a remarkably clear video shot from a tiny phone camera. The angle chosen by the unknown owner of the phone provided a view of almost the entire den at 4880 East Chase, apartment 6B.

All fifteen hell-raisers appeared to be very drunk. All six girls were indeed topless, as were most of the guys. The dance was a group grope with no two partners moving together for more than a few seconds. Everyone held a drink in one hand; half had a cigarette or a joint in the other. All twelve bouncing breasts were fair game for the guys. In fact, all exposed flesh, male or female, was available to everyone. Touching and clutching were encouraged. Bodies came together, hunching and lurching, then parted and moved to the next one. Some of the guests were loud and rowdy, while others appeared to be fading under the flood of alcohol and chemicals. Most appeared to be singing along with the band. Several locked lips in long kisses while their free hands searched for even more intimate places.

"I believe that’s you with the sunglasses," Wright said smugly.

"Thank you."

Sunglasses, yellow Pirates cap, off-white gym shorts drooping low, a lean body with pale winter skin in need of sunshine. A plastic cup in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Mouth open to sing along. A drunken fool. A twenty-year-old lunatic on the verge of another blackout.

Now, five years later, there was no nostalgia, no longing for those rowdy and carefree college days. He didn’t miss the hell-raising, the hangovers, the late-morning wake-ups in strange beds. But at the same time, there was no remorse. Kyle felt a little embarrassed that he’d been caught on tape, but it was a long time ago. His college days had been pretty typical, hadn’t they? He’d partied no more and certainly no less than virtually everyone he knew.

The music stopped for a moment, between songs, and more shots were prepared and passed around. One of the girls fell into a chair and appeared to be done for the night. Then another song began.

"This goes for about eight more minutes," Wright said, glancing at his notes. Kyle had no doubt that Wright and his gang had analyzed and memorized every second, every frame. "As you will note, Elaine Keenan is not present. She says she was next door, drinking with some friends."

"So she’s changed her story again."

Wright ignored this and said, "If you don’t mind, I’ll fast-forward a little, to the point where the police show up. Remember the cops, Kyle?"

"Yes."

The video scrambled forward for a minute or so, until Wright pressed a key. "At 11:25, the party comes to an abrupt halt. Listen."

In mid-song, and with most of the fifteen still in view, dancing and drinking and yelling, someone off camera clearly yelled, "Cops! Cops!" Kyle watched himself as he grabbed a girl and disappeared from view. The music stopped. The lights were out. The screen was almost completely dark.

Wright continued: "According to our records, the police were called to your apartment three times that spring. This was the third time. A young man by the name of Alan Strock, one of your roommates, answered the door and chatted up the officers. He swore that there was no underage drinking. Everything was fine. He’d be happy to turn off the music and keep things quiet. The cops gave him a break and left with a warning. They assumed everybody else was hiding in the bedrooms."