Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 2015

Except our star attraction wasn’t breathing.

Joni Cohen, Valhalla PD’s intern tech, was kneeling beside the girl, collecting her nonexistent vitals.

Tall, gawky, and permanently perky, Joni’s a junior at Michigan State majoring in forensic anthropology. Her class schedule keeps her in constant transit between Valhalla and the capital down in Lansing. Somehow she pulls a 3.9 GPA and still does a first-rate job as a crime-scene tech.

Ordinarily, Joni’s totally absorbed by her work. Whistles softly to herself amid the carnage of a five-car pileup. No tunes today, though. With Santa and his reindeer beaming over her shoulder, she couldn’t even fake “Jingle Bells.”

“So?” I prompted.

“First impression, it’s pretty much what it looks like,” Joni said, frowning down at the angel. “Hypothermia. There are no tracks but hers, no signs of violence. It looks like she took a shortcut across the lawn, headed for a car in the driveway. Maybe felt woozy, sat down to rest a minute? It was eighteen degrees last night and she wasn’t wearing a coat. She nodded out and... well. She froze to death.”

“Are you all right?” Zina asked.

“No,” Joni said flatly. “I know this girl. Not personally, but I’ve seen her around the Vale Junior College campus. A freshman, I think.”

“Whoa, take a break, Joni,” I said. “The state police Forensics Unit will be here in a few minutes—”

“No, I’m okay. Really,” she said, taking a ragged breath. “My uncle warned me if I did my internship in Vale County, sooner or later I’d be working on people I knew. At least this girl wasn’t mashed by a road grader. Let’s just — get on with it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Time frame?”

“Her body temp’s twenty-one degrees above ambient. I’d estimate she walked out here around eleven. Actual time of death was probably between one-thirty and three A.M. We may get tighter numbers after the autopsy. There’s no scent of alcohol. If she’d been drinking, it wasn’t much.”

“Wasn’t legal either,” Zina said. “I found her purse in the snow beside the driveway. Her driver’s license says she’s Julie Novak. Seventeen. Poletown address, north of the river. But her student ID is from Valhalla High, not the college.”

“Vale Junior College offers advanced courses for gifted kids,” Joni said.

“I’m not sure how bright this girl was, considering,” Zina said. “Do you think her dress is odd?”

“Odd?” I echoed, but she wasn’t asking me.

“Definitely off,” Joni agreed. “It’s more like a prom dress than something you’d wear to a house party. She looks like...”

“A snow angel,” I finished. “What are we now, the fashion police?”

“Nope, we’re Major Crimes,” Zina conceded. “And a lot more went wrong for this girl than her taste in clothes. It was seriously freakin’ cold last night. What was she doing out here without a coat?”

“Let’s ask,” I said.

The front porch was the size of a veranda, three stories tall, supported by Gone With the Wind columns. I hit the buzzer beside the massive front door. No response. Leaning closer, I could hear the faint sounds of tinny TV laughter, somebody yelling for somebody to get the goddamn door. No one came. I tried the knob. It wasn’t locked.

Stepping inside, I felt an instant jolt. Time travel. Frat party funk, the morning after. The aroma of stale beer, cold pizza, reefer, and sex hanging in the air.

Smelled like teen spirit.

I started down the hall toward the TV room.

“Where are you going?” Zee asked, hurrying after me.

“They’ll be in the game room.”

“Who will?”

“Everybody who’s ambulatory.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Once or twice.”

The end of the hall opened into a giant playroom. Pinball machines, foosball, and pool tables lined the walls. In the center, a long, curved leather couch faced a jumbo flat-screen TV.

None of the pool tables was in use, unless you counted a moose-sized lineman who’d wrapped himself in his Val High letterman’s jacket and conked out amid the cue sticks.

Several college-age kids were sprawled across the couch in various states of disarray, bleary-eyed and hungover. Four young guys, three girls, watching a soccer game on the big screen.

“Hey, guys,” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m Sergeant LaCrosse, Valhalla PD. Who’s in charge here?”

They looked at each other, then back at me. A few shook their heads, no one answered. They weren’t belligerent, just baffled and groggy.

“Okaay,” I said, “easier question. Are the Champlins at home? Parents, I mean?”

“I’m Sissy Champlin,” one of the girls said, nestling deeper in the arms of her bull-necked boyfriend. She had a nose ring, spiky blond hair with blue highlights. “My folks are in... Toronto, for the weekend. We had a little bash last night. We’re the survivors.”

Her boyfriend was staring at me. Sloped shoulders, head the size of a watermelon. U of M sweatshirt. “I know you,” he said slowly. “You played hockey for Val High back in the day, right? Defense?”

“Have we met?”

“Nah,” he grinned, “I’ve seen you on game film. Mark shows that scrap in the playoffs when you and your cousin wiped out Traverse City’s front line. The refs tossed everybody out. Awesome, man.”

“What’s your name?”

“Laslo. Metyavich. I’m goalie for the Vale Vikings.”

With his dark hair buzzed down to fuzz, he looked more like a Cossack warrior in pajamas from The Gap. He was wide enough to be a goalie, though. “Were you here last night, Laslo?”

“I live here, man. We all do,” he added, gesturing at his bleary comrades on the couch. “Exchange students.”

“A girl left your party last night and — got into some trouble. Julie Novak? Does anybody know her? Or who she was with?”

Again, baffled looks.

“Wait a sec,” Sissy Champlin said, frowning. “Julie? A young chick? Wearing a white formal, like a freakin’ bridesmaid?”

“You know her?”

“I know she came to the wrong party,” Sissy sniffed. “That Indian kid brought her. What’s his name, hon? The geek who tutors the basketball players?”

“Derek, you mean?” Laslo offered.

“Last name?” Zina prompted.

“Some foreign name,” Laslo said, without irony. “Patel, I think. Derek Patel.”

“Any idea where we could find Mr. Patel?”

“He crapped out early.” Laslo shrugged. “Lot of guys did. I think some wiseass spiked the punch. Derek’s probably crashed in one of the guest rooms. I’ll show you.” He started to rise, wobbled, then quickly sat back down. “Whoa,” he said, looking a little green.

“Stay put,” I said. “I know the way.” Laslo slumped back on the couch. Sissy brushed his arm away. She was on her cell phone, frantically texting.

Zina and I headed into the guest wing, an eight-room addition added back in the fifties. Working opposite sides of the hall, we rapped once, then stuck our heads in, scaring the bejesus out of various young lovers. On my third knock, I found an Indian kid conked out atop one of the twin beds, fully dressed in a dark suit and tie. Tall, slender, skin the color of café au lait, thick curly blue-black hair. He sat up slowly, blinking, dazed and confused.

“Derek Patel?”

“I... yes?” He shook his head, then knuckled his eyes. Trying to remember his name. I totally sympathized. Been there, done that.

“Do you know a girl named Julie Novak?”

“Julie? Ah... sure. She was my date last night. Is she okay?”

“Why shouldn’t she be?”

“She ditched me and went home. Said she wasn’t dressed right. I was in no shape to drive, so I gave her my keys and... oh damn! Did she wreck my car? My God, my dad’s gonna kill me—”