Teddy smirks. We’ve worked together long enough that he knows what I’m thinking—all these frat boys with their short chino shorts and fishing shirts, Beatles-swooped hair, and Croakies sunglasses look alike. And although we haven’t confirmed, I put money on him living at one of those gutted plantation houses on Milledge with beer cans smothering the front yard.

“Have we got an ID of the victim?”

“A witness identified him as Jay Kemp,” I say, even though the name is printed clearly on the whiteboard. “And this matches the student ID we found in his wallet.”

“Driver’s license?”

I look at Teddy, and he picks up the thread. “The driver’s license didn’t match his student ID. We think it’s fake, or more likely stolen or passed on from an older fraternity brother. It says he’s twenty-four.” A good age to get into the bars downtown and buy a keg from a package store without question.

Truman frowns, makes a note. “Check up on it. Siblings?” he asks grudgingly.

“No,” I say. “No brother, sister, certainly no twin. No cousins either. His mother’s an only child and his father has one sister, married but child-free.”

Oliver lets out a disappointed sigh.

“Criminal history?”

“No. But one citation for disorderly conduct, two years ago, public intoxication. Nothing since.”

Truman rubs his chin and stares at the board.

“Kappa Phi Omicron, huh?”

I nod.