Cuts Through Bone by Alaric Hunt Page A

usually more serious. Hines paused once they were back inside the air conditioning.
    â€œOlsen’s a good man,” he said. “I guess I got to explain that. Most of what we got here is kids. They don’t know who they are or what they want. Olsen does. He’s not a girl-chaser type, or a partyer. He was real focused on his studies.”
    â€œYeah?” Guthrie asked. “Where do you get that?”
    Hines shrugged. “We got a support group that runs out of the One hundred and Eighty-third Regiment of the Guard. That’s where I talked to him the first time. I kinda realized he was a student, but he didn’t know I worked here. He saw that later. But the group isn’t for the school. It’s vet stuff. The young wolves I work with, they’re quick to pile on, even when they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
    â€œYou figure him for that solid?”
    â€œI ain’t the only one. Ask around. I’ll be seriously floored if he did kill that girl.”
    â€œWhat about her? You knew her?”
    Hines shook his head. “Never noticed. Sorry.”
    The campus cop led them upstairs and opened Olsen’s dorm room for them. After a glance around inside, he shrugged. The room was almost entirely bare. He explained that the NYPD had come and gone. The school administration hadn’t decided what to do with the room, now that Olsen had been arrested, but they would probably pack his meager belongings and store them until they were claimed. He shrugged again and told Guthrie to lock the door once he’d nosed around.
    Guthrie and Vasquez needed only a few minutes to search the small room. Olsen had a single because he was older. A few books, notebooks with classwork, some clothes, and a few toiletries were the only signs of habitation. Olsen traveled light, or he actually lived somewhere else. Vasquez dropped his notebooks back onto the desktop just before a big young man rushed to the door.
    â€œYes!” he said. “I missed you guys last time.” He stopped suddenly and stared. He wore dark sunglasses, jeans, and a T-shirt. A shock of unruly black hair made him seem as tall as the door frame. His gaze fixed on Vasquez. “You’re here about Holy, right?”
    â€œYou mean Greg Olsen?” Vasquez asked.
    The young man grinned. “Yeah. You guys got that all wrong. No way he killed Cammie.”
    â€œHe was with you that night?” Guthrie asked.
    â€œNo, man. I’m just saying he wasn’t like that. I mean, other nights we clubbed—he was like my wingman.”
    Vasquez challenged him with a look. “Okay, so why’d you need a wingman?”
    He smiled. “That wasn’t the plan—it was just how it worked out, you know? Holy didn’t run with the Greeks—frats—so he was like a godsend. Man, they hated him. They wanted him, and so they hated him. I was just lucky he liked me, you know?”
    â€œHow’s that?” Guthrie prompted.
    â€œThe girls chased him.” He looked at the little detective like he might be retarded. “That’s why I started calling him Holy, because he didn’t mess with them. And it rhymed with Oly, like Olsen.”
    â€œSo the girls dropped off on you?” Vasquez asked. “You were good with second?”
    He laughed. “This is college, Dick Tracy. It’s all fun except for class. Anyway, he didn’t kill Cammie, for real.”
    â€œThat’s what we’re here for,” Guthrie said. “Didn’t catch your name, by the way. We work for Greg Olsen’s lawyer.”
    â€œWhoa!” the young man said. He took off his sunglasses and looked at both of them again. “You’re not cops?”
    â€œNo. We’re working for his lawyer, James Rondell,” Guthrie said. “That change your mind about talking to us?”
    â€œNo way! Maybe that’s better, you know?” He frowned.