She laughed and felt the tension washing away. “Six months ago, three college students stayed here. I know it, I have a photo they took elsewhere but uploaded through your hotel Wi-Fi. But I need to confirm it.”
“Aw, yes, our guest privacy. Wouldn’t you expect a hotel to respect your privacy?”
“It depends.”
“Depends?”
“I’m a reporter. Sometimes I want people to find me.”
“Did they drink?”
“Probably. But they were nineteen and twenty.”
“Did you have a fake ID when you were nineteen or twenty?”
“No,” she answered truthfully. Then she smiled. “But my college roommate did.”
He slid over a napkin and pen. He didn’t have to tell her to write down the names. She put them down—including Scott Sheldon. He didn’t look, but took the napkin and walked to the end of the bar, into a small office she hadn’t noticed until he stepped in and the light flickered on.
She wasn’t going to hold out hope, and instead enjoyed her drink. Already, a plan began to form. She knew Tom Keller was the weak link, but she’d also learned from Ian Stanhope, Scott’s roommate, that he and Tom shared a class together. If she could catch up with Ian, she could convince him to reach out to Tom. She’d play on the roommate’s guilt if she had to. She’d present the evidence to Tom—the photo would have to be enough. Max could spin the story, watch his reaction, play off it, until Tom broke down.
Johann returned and Max said, “Thank you for the delicious drink. It helped—I have a plan.”
He smiled. “I can tell you—though I can’t give you a copy—that the third name on your list signed for a room service charge that included a bucket of Corona. Our buckets come in four or eight; he signed for the eight bucket.”
Her heart thudded. She had them.
“How long do you keep the records?”
“One year.”
She drained her Bloody Mary and left the fifty on the bar. “Thank you, Johann. That’s just what I needed.”
*
Max drove toward the police station to give Detective Horn all the information she had and ask what she was going to do about it. If Max were the cop, she’d haul all three of those boys into the police station and question them until they admitted they killed Scott Sheldon. At this point, Max didn’t think it was an accident. Maybe they hadn’t intended for Scott to die, but their callous actions resulted in his death. Manslaughter at a minimum, and maybe even second-degree murder.
If premeditated? That would put this crime on a whole other field.
Her phone rang; it was Chuck Pence.
“You have news?” she asked.
“Officially, cause of death was hypothermia. Scott’s organs shut down. The coroner is sending tissue and blood samples for further analysis, particularly drug screenings, but right now the preliminary cause of death is accidental.”
“It wasn’t an accident!” Max pounded her fist on the wheel of her SUV.
Chuck remained silent. Max needed to control her temper. This case had gotten under her skin, and it wasn’t Chuck’s fault. “Chuck,” she said, “I have proof that Arthur, Carlos, and Tom left Scott at the campsite then drove to a hotel where they stayed the night.”
“Proof?”
“That photo I mentioned to you last night—my guy in New York pulled out the GPS of where and when it was uploaded. At a hotel, Saturday morning. The photo was tagged with the hotel’s Wi-Fi and GPS location. It’s a fingerprint. I spoke to the bartender and he pulled records from the night of October thirtieth—Carlos Ibarra ordered a bucket of eight Coronas. The night they were supposed to be at the campground.”
“The hotel just gave you that information?”
“I asked nicely.”
“You should tell Detective Horn. I’m not a cop, Max.”
“But you agree with me.”
“You can’t know that it wasn’t an accident.”
“If they left Scott Sheldon alone on that mountain with no means of getting home, except on foot, they are responsible for his death.”
“He should have been able to survive the night,” Chuck said. “We found his backpack and tent near the body. He never set it up; had he, he may have survived.”
“You don’t know that! And hypothermia causes delusions and poor judgment. And just yesterday you said if he’d fallen in the creek and gotten wet that hypothermia could happen faster. He may not have had the mental capacity to pitch the tent or consider that he was suffering. And if they were drinking, that speeds everything up, right?”
“There’s no indication that anyone forced him to drink.”
“Scott Sheldon is not to blame for his death,” Max said. “That’s like saying a woman wearing a short skirt is to blame for her rape.”
“That’s unfair,” Chuck snapped.
Maybe it was, but it was also true. “If those boys had not left the mountain, Scott would be alive. They played a cruel joke on him, and he ended up dead.”
“Good luck in convincing Amelia. You’re going to need a lot more than a photograph.” He hung up.