Right, along with hunting illegally in the county woods and game preserves during the full moon. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll do whatever you say. Just don’t mess around with Jen Cassopolis.” I paused. “Unless you really do like her, enough to be honest with her. I mean totally honest. Then it’s none of my business.”

He shrugged into a dry uniform shirt. “Deal. Now get out of here while I change my pants.”

We interviewed the victim’s friends separately, hoping to catch them up in any discrepancies; which is to say that Cody interviewed them while I recorded their statements on the department’s only working laptop.

Mike Huizenga was the first interviewee, a hulking defensive tackle at nearby Van Buren College. He had a broad, doughy face and a shell-shocked look.

“Just walk me through your evening,” Cody said gently to him. “You said you were barhopping. Where did you start?”

He rubbed his nose with one fisted hand. “Um . . . well, we did some front-loading, you know? Pounded a couple of six-packs.”

“Was that at the victim’s parents’ house?” Cody checked himself. “I’m sorry. At Thad Vanderhei’s house?”

“No.” He shook his head. “The frat house.”

“Triton House?”

“Yeah.”

I knew it by reputation as the base of a hard-partying local fraternity with notoriously dangerous hazing rituals. Even in the summer, Triton House was party central. All three were members, and the kind of guys who were one of the reasons I never went to college.

According to Mike Huizenga, the three amigos got loaded on cheap beer, then drove down to Pemkowet to pick up drunken tourist chicks. They hit happy hour at the Shoals, where they downed a few more beers, then worked their way around town in a circuit, doing tequila shots at every establishment. No fights among them, no quarrels, just a night that ended in a bad idea and a tragic outcome.

The second interviewee, Kyle Middleton, told the same story, only the bars were in a different order. He was a skinny, jumpy little guy, someone used to being comic relief, now in over his head. I felt a bit sorry for him, but only a bit. Something was definitely wrong with their stories.

Cody borrowed the laptop and consulted my notes. “So you ended up at Bazooka Joe’s?”

“Yeah, I think. That’s what it’s called, right?”

“And you struck out.”

“Yeah.” Kyle shrugged. “We struck out.”

“Too bad.”

“Not,” I muttered.

Cody shot me another look, and I shut my mouth. “See, here’s the thing that confuses me, Kyle. Last call’s at two a.m. It was three twenty-four a.m. when you called nine-one-one. What were you guys doing for over an hour?”