I bite the underside of my lip. I imagine Michael’s winning smile as he convinces the girls to call, getting them to think they’re doing the world a favor, reporting a sexual predator. Using the small social progress in people believing victims for a change for his own agenda, and the girls blindly going along.

“But you didn’t.” Teddy nods in approval.

Ray looks at his hands.

“I did mostly, but—I knew there were things going on. How could I not? If something happened—” He sighs. “So I still drove by, later, on the weekends—you know, when they’d have their big blow-outs—and in my own vehicle, so they wouldn’t know it was campus security. I never got out of the car. Even when it was clear there was underage drinking—girls stumbling, guys vomiting on the sidewalk—I stayed in my car.”

“And Michael?”

“He was there—always—in the center of everything. I swear, sometimes, I could hear his voice—it’s really distinct, you know?—yelling to drink, dance, fuck—later at home, in my dreams.”

I could hear him, too—his slow, purposeful drawl, amused by everyone else’s inferiority. Shouting firm, not-to-be-disobeyed instructions.

“And then one night, I saw him run out of the house with a woman on his shoulders. He was laughing—she wasn’t. And he dropped her—like she was a sack of potatoes—down the front stairs. And I,” he swallows, “I stayed in the car. I waited, and she was just lying there—” His voice cracks and he takes a second to collect himself. “I thought—this is it. He’s finally killed someone. And I did nothing to stop it. There was a small crowd around her—I don’t think the others even noticed. They were still drinking and yelling in the yard. But I could see her through the gap in the group. After a while, she rolled onto her side and vomited. And they all … cheered.” He shakes his head. “I called nine-one-one—pretended I was an annoyed neighbor, noise complaint, but then said I had seen a girl lying unconscious in front of the house. I hope that got her some medical attention, but I don’t know. When I drove away another guy was carrying her back inside.”

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to. Unconscious and semiconscious girls don’t get tucked neatly into bed in some vacant room. There are Facebook accounts and Snapchats full of naked, barely breathing girls with crude comments of what vile frat bro X did to barely breathing girl Y and asking who else wants a turn.

Ray looks like he’s aged a decade since Teddy started the interview. “Do you think you could check on the girl? See if any reports came in that night? Or that morning?”

“We can do that,” Teddy says. “Do you remember the date?”