Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

“Not quite yet,” she said, checking her watch. “I want to get a look inside the Delta House itself.”

“Whoa up, Sara, that’s a whole different deal. The yard party’s open, but the House is limited to members only.”

“I only see one guy working the door.”

“That one’s enough, lady. He’s Drew Braxton, the all-star linebacker for the Wildcats.”

“Then start earning your money, Malloy. Knock him out or something.”

“Yeah, right,” I said, thinking a mile a minute. I knew Braxton from around. Big beer barrel of a guy, mean as a snake, rough as a box of rocks. A born football player with pro prospects. No chance I could mix it up with him and survive, but...

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath, “there may be a way to get past him but you’re not going to like it.”

“Tell me.”

So I did. And I was right. She didn’t like it. But we tried it anyway.

Unbuttoning her garish blouse, Sara clung to my arm as we staggered up to the door.

“Hey, Brax,” I said, slurring my words. “Remember me? Malloy from Shannon’s? I got me an emergency situation here.”

“Porta-Potties are around the side, dude,” he said, unimpressed.

“I don’t need a john, buddy,” I said, holding out a folded twenty between my fingertips. “We need a room. Help a brother out?”

He glanced at Sara, who snuggled closer, giggling, flashing him her widest steel and rubber band smile.

“You don’t need a room, sport, you need your frickin’ head examined,” Braxton said, palming the twenty, but checking Sara’s student ID. “Ground-floor guest rooms ain’t locked, but you’d best knock first. Some of ’em are already busy.”

“Thanks, man,” I said, “I appreciate it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe now. But you’re gonna hate me in the morning. And yourself, too.”

“Jerk!” Sara muttered as we staggered through the foyer. A wide-screen TV was on in the guest lounge, replaying a Michigan State game. Two couples were sprawled out on a sofa watching it, the boys more interested in the game than in their plain-Jane dates. They paid no attention to us at all.

Until Sara took their picture.

“Hey, what the hell was that?” one of the guys said, straightening up, bleary-eyed, but not quite as wrecked as the others. “Was that a camera?”

“Nah, cigarette lighter,” I said, hustling Sara down the corridor. Yanking open the first door I came to, I pushed her inside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said, whirling on me, furious.

“Saving our butts! If you want photos for your story, you have to be more careful! You can’t just snap away at these clowns.”

“They’re so drunk I’m amazed they noticed.”

“You’ll be even more amazed if they spot that camera and decide to feed it to us.” Inching open the door, I scanned the hall. Empty. “Okay, all clear. I don’t think anyone followed us. Now what?”

“We give the rooms a quick check,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I need—”

“That’s twice you’ve looked at the time,” I said, cutting her off. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Except for you losing your nerve!” she said, pushing past me out the door. “Are you coming or not?”

“To do what?” I asked, following her down the hall. “We can’t just crash in on people!”

“Of course we can. It’s a pig party, right? We need a room so we can have our way with each other. Oops! Sorry!” she said, opening a door, then closing it again. But not before she’d snapped a quick photo.

“This is crazy,” I said, following, checking our back trail. “You’re going to get us stomped!”

She ignored me, continuing down the hall, opening doors.

“Oops! So sorry!” Then on to the next. Until the fourth or fifth door. When she didn’t say a word. She popped the door open, then went dead white, the color draining from her face. Then she eased the door closed quietly. And leaned against the wall.

“What’s wrong?”

“That girl,” she said, swallowing. “She’s...” She shook her head, clearing it. Then took a cell phone out of her purse and tapped a speed-dial tab. “I’ve found her. We’re in the Delta house, first floor.”

“Sara, what the hell’s going on?”

“The girl in that room is being assaulted.”

“What?”

“Assaulted, Malloy! Raped! You’ve got to stop it!”

“Are you sure? You just glanced—”

“Do something!” she shrieked. And she wasn’t the only one screaming. Sirens were howling towards Delta House like a pack of wolves as police cars roared in. Cops piling out, trying to make themselves heard over the music.

I tried the door, but it was locked now! Rearing back, I kicked it open and charged in. Then dove for the floor as the frat boy inside swung a golf club at my head, barely missing me. Pure reflex. I grappled with him, grabbing him around the knees, wrestling him down. Managed to clock him with a stiff right cross as he fell. He hit the floor like a sack of cement. Out cold.

“Stop it! You’re killing him!” a chunky, red-haired girl screeched. Naked to the waist, she threw herself across the unconscious kid on the floor to protect him, sobbing.

“Miss, it’s all right,” I said, kneeling beside her. “We’re here to help you—”

“Get away from me! Leave us alone!” she screamed, snatching up the golf club, whipping it back. Raising my hands, I backed away. She wasn’t kidding. Through the tears and smeared mascara, I could read pure murder in her eyes.

“Emily, come on!” Sara said, grabbing up the girl’s purse, holding out her blouse. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

But the girl was beyond reason. “You get out!” she screamed. “Help! Somebody help me!”

Somebody did. Two cops in riot gear burst through the door, nightsticks at the ready.

“Get down!” they roared together. “Down on the floor!”

“Hey, wait a minute!” I said. “We’re only trying to—”

Wrong answer. One cop jammed me in the midsection, doubling me over. His partner clipped me as I fell...

Somebody shook my shoulder.

“Get off me!” I growled. A stranger was leaning over me. Brushing his arm away, I sat up. Huge mistake. Huge. Felt like crap on a cracker. Glancing around, I took stock. I was sitting on a metal rack, no blankets, in some kind of a steel and concrete cage. What the hell?

“C’mon buddy, I need to have a look at ya.”

I started to protest, then an acid stew of bile and beer came rocketing up. Tried to cover my mouth. Too late! Rolling off the rack onto my hands and knees, I started retching up everything but my name.

“Damn!” The guy who’d shaken me awake backed against the bars, standing on tiptoe to save his shoes. Black guy, pudgy, moon-faced. In some kind of uniform.

Not a cop, though. EMT.

Finished, I wobbled slowly to my feet. The floor was uneven. The concrete sloping down to a metal drain in the center of the cell. I stood there a minute, head down, pulling myself together. At least I knew where I was now.

Drunk tank. Westover cop shop, probably. I stifled a groan as images started shouldering their way into my memory. The pig party. Delta House. The screaming girl with the golf club. And then the cops...

Whoa! I remembered getting hit, going down.

Swallowed hard, trying to remember if I’d fought back. Battery on a police officer was serious trouble.

“You done hurling?” the EMT asked.

“Sure hope so. Who the hell are you?”

“Joe Lockwood, from Sisters of Mercy Hospital. Cops called me down to look you over. Worried you might have a concussion. I need to check your pupils.”

“What time is it?”

“About seven.”