Sometimes hitting a ball can be therapeutic. I needed to work out my frustration over having to give my car back. Moose watched me bat again and was my official helper when I ran out of balls. He’d also change the settings so I could hit different pitches. I felt good, and my hour was over before I knew it. I noticed Jim was standing next to Moose. The two of them talked quietly as I began to crush the ball. I was in the zone today.
When the machine stopped, because it was empty again, Jim talked to me.
“Can you watch me bat and give me some tips?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Jim had some bad habits that I’d never really paid attention to before. I talked to him about what I’d been taught. By the time I had to leave to work out with Cassidy, he looked better. I promised to help him.
“Sometimes you’re a good guy,” Moose said as I left.
“And sometimes a jerk,” I shot back.
“Yep, that too,” he said with a smile.
◊◊◊ Wednesday February 10
On the ride to the dojo, I received a call from a Chicago number I didn’t recognize.
“David, it’s Bev Mass.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’ve been talking to the Middlesex District Attorney over the last few days. She brought up something that I’m wondering about. How did you get the actual case files from the police department?”
The way she asked it made me nervous.
“Do I need to have Ms. Dixon on this call?” I asked.
I heard her take a deep breath and then slowly let it out.
“David, I’m in an awkward position here. I know you’ve done all this with the best of intentions. If it weren’t for that, I would never have helped you. I sometimes have to remember that this is a favor and not me doing my actual job; it isn’t my responsibility to follow up on. I think the best advice I could give you is to not tell me anything I don’t need to know.
“The flip side is I am what I am. I have to follow the law, even if it goes against my personal feelings. If you understand that, we can work together on this. Just don’t tell me anything I would have to take action on. For now, I’ll assume the files somehow were left in a public setting and copied,” she concluded.
“That didn’t answer my question,” I said.
She chuckled.
“No, it didn’t. Here’s the situation: I couldn’t use anything you tell me now because we’re just having a conversation. You’re not a suspect in anything, and we’re just friends talking. Granted, it is about a legal matter, but it isn’t a case I have jurisdiction over. I give you my word that if you make a mistake and tell me something you shouldn’t, I’ll stop the conversation. Let’s treat this as I’m giving you full immunity over anything you say right now.”
“I was the shooter on the grassy knoll,” I teased.
“I suppose you did some kind of time travel,” she said.
“Perhaps. So, did you really want to know how I got the files?” I asked.
“Out of curiosity,” she admitted.
“I hired someone to get me information. And before you ask, I don’t know who they are.”
“How does that work?”
“A friend contacted them. From what you’ve said, I’m better off not knowing.”
“Okay, I won’t press you on that,” she said.
“Just out of curiosity, what would I be looking at if I took the files?”
“Up to a $1,000 fine and 6 months in jail,” she said.
You had to be shitting me. They were worried about something that would result in a slap on the wrist when there was a potential serial rapist on the loose? They would never prosecute something like that. I would get a plea deal and possibly pay a fine. If I ever got in front of a jury … let’s just say it wouldn’t happen. No prosecutor would want me talking nonstop on TV about his or her warped sense of priorities.
Bev continued on as if the penalty had shocked me silent.
“After I got the Middlesex DA focused on the real issue, the serial rapes, she didn’t bring it up again. I’ve talked to her four times since Monday. She did a little investigating on her own before she believed me. I guess the Cambridge and Harvard University police departments never put together that these cases could be related, which we both agreed wasn’t likely.
“What confused the issue is that while Harvard does have fraternities in the traditional sense, they also have what are called ‘final clubs.’ They’re called ‘final clubs’ because at one time Harvard had clubs for students of each class year. As students neared completion of their studies, the ‘final club’ was the last they could join before graduation. There are 14 final clubs; of those, six are for men only, including the one that Brandon belonged to. Unlike a fraternity, where they’d have a house where people live, these clubs are similar to an upper-end gentlemen’s club. Only the cream of the crop, the most sophisticated of the graduates of the prominent New England private schools are members. In some circles, it’s more important what club you’re a member of than what grades you get.
