Jihad

CHAPTER 107

Charlie Dean met Elsa Williams, the detective from the murder investigation assigned to dig up information on Kenan, at the college dormitory building where Kenan had supposedly lived. Elsa’s loud voice boomed in the small dorm suite, and even Dean felt a little intimidated as she pressed the roommate for information.

“You didn’t think it was strange that he disappeared?” Williams demanded.

“He was kind of a strange guy. Disappearing is like, his M.O. I roomed with him a couple of semesters ago. Kind of, you know, cool to have a roommate who’s never around.”

“Strange how?” asked Dean.

“Just, you know. Strange.”

“Who were his friends?” asked Williams.

“Didn’t have any.”

Williams reared her head, as if she had to move it to process what the roommate said. “Now I find that hard to believe. No friends? None?”

“Well, I was kind of a friend.”

“Were you a good enough friend to lend him your credit card?” asked Dean.

Williams gave him a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

“No,” said the roommate.

“You think he might have used it?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

The kid gave him a shrug.

“I’d like to check it,” said Dean.

“Well, like, um, my mom gets the statements.”

“So you don’t really know if he used it,” said Williams.

“I mean—”

“It’s okay,” Dean told him. “Give me the number and I’ll do it for you.”

The young man dug the card out of his wallet and Dean read it as he wrote it down on a piece of paper, allowing the Art Room to hear.

“Just one?” Dean asked.

“All I need. We pay it off every month.”

Williams went back to asking about possible friends. Dean looked again at Kenan’s things, collected in a small pile on his bed. There were no books and only a few clothes; no papers, no pens.

“This is all he had here, huh?” Dean asked the roommate.

“He had more, books and stuff, but he took it with him.”

“And you don’t know where.”

“Nope.”

“You got a lot of stuff,” said Williams, taking a long glance around the room. “Computer, books — what’s your major?”

“It’s chemistry.”

“Tough subject.”

“You bet.”

“He ever borrow money?” asked Dean.

“A couple of bucks, maybe.”

“He pay you back?” asked Williams.

The roommate shrugged. “I guess.”

“You’re a Tiger fan?” Williams picked up a coffee mug with the baseball team’s logo.

“Nah. That’s just for loose change. Half of it’s pennies. And change for the laundry. That’s what Kenan mostly borrowed for. Quarters. Half dollars.”

Williams shook the cup. “You use slugs, huh?”

“No way.”

She picked out something and flipped it at the roommate.

The roommate looked at it. “Well, it’s like Mexican. Pesos.”

“Isn’t worth a dime, I’ll bet. But it fits right where a quarter would.”

“I didn’t use it.”

“Relax,” said Williams, putting the cup back. “We’re not going to bust you for putting slugs in the condom machine.”

“I think I’d like to call it a night,” said Williams after they finished. It was a little after five.

Dean shrugged.

“You disagree.”

“I want to talk to his professors,” said Dean.

“The religion one especially.”

“Him especially.” Since it was Saturday, the teachers weren’t on campus, but the police had obtained a list from the school, along with home addresses and phone numbers.

“Suit yourself,” said Williams.

The religion professor was just leaving his house for dinner. Williams told him they were investigating a murder; he shrugged, but still seemed reluctant to answer their questions.

The man was more than a little full of himself and somewhat contemptuous of his students. He had had Kenan Conkel in two classes: Comparative Religion, an introductory class where “he didn’t rise above the herd,” and Christianity and Western History this semester.

“How’s he doing?” Dean asked.

“Not particularly well, I don’t think. I can’t recall the specifics, which leads to my conclusion.”

“Does he attend class regularly?” asked Williams.

“I don’t bother taking attendance. I’d rather that someone not interested in learning stay away.”

“Does he ever argue with you in class?” Dean asked.

“How so?”

“He’s a Muslim. He must have disagreed with some of what you said.”

“This is a history class and my approach is neutral,” snapped the professor. But then, in a less confrontational voice, he added, “Why do you think he’s Muslim?”

“He is.”

“He never identified himself as one. I do have Muslims in my class,” the professor added.

“Can you tell me who they are?” Dean asked.

“Really, I can’t believe you’re asking me to discuss my students’ private religious beliefs like this.”

“Who did he hang out with?” Williams asked.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Kareem Muhammad,” said Rockman from the Art Room. “There were only twenty kids in the class. That’s got to be one of the Muslims.”

“What about Kareem Muhammad?” asked Dean.

The professor made a face. “An African-American Muslim with, I must say, many misconceptions.”

“Adam Binte,” said Rockman.

“What about Adam Binte?”

“I’m not going to discuss my students’ religions with you,” said the professor. “I really must be going.”

“Binte was a friend of his?” Williams asked.

“For your information, Mr. Binte is a Syrian Christian,” said the teacher.

“Mr. Dean, please ask the professor if he ever arranged for Asad bin Taysr to talk to a class,” said Rubens, suddenly popping onto the line.

When Dean did, the teacher frowned, though Dean couldn’t tell if it was because he recognized the name or not.

“Three years ago,” said Rubens. “When Mr. Conkel was a freshman.”

“Asad bin Taysr was on campus three years ago, wasn’t he?” said Dean.

“I often have guest speakers, and I encourage students to seek out other points of view”

“Even al-Qaeda’s?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer,” said the man. “It’s time for you to leave.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” said Rubens. “Most likely the professor is just an idiot, but we’ll look into it further.”

“How’d you do that?” asked Williams as they walked back to her car.

“Do what?” said Dean.

“The friends’ names. Did you come here with them?”

Dean shrugged.

“Why didn’t you tell me about them before? We could’ve checked on them in the dorms.”

“It just kind of came to me,” said Dean.

“The speaker he had here — he was from al-Qaeda?”

“Yeah.”

“What a jackass.”

“You think we can track down some of the kids in his classes? College hangout or something?”

“Sure. But first, we eat,” said Williams. “My stomach’s startin’ to rumble. And you don’t want to be in the car with me while that’s happening.”