“Adam.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure it was him.”
“Pretty sure.”
“Can you describe him?”
“I mean, he looked like the guy in the picture.”
“Height, weight?”
“Not small, but nothing like Dame.”
“How big is Dame?”
“Huge. Jacked, too. He’s Black, this guy was white.”
“Hair color,” I said. “Eye color, clothing, anything like that?”
“I don’t know, man, I just remember his face.”
“Where’s this conversation taking place?”
“Downtown.”
“Sorry, which downtown?”
“Oakland.”
“In a bar, a club?”
“Outside. On the street. We were walking around, trying to decide where to go.”
“Do you remember what block it was? Can you picture anything nearby, a store or a street sign?”
“...I...”
“You know what, it’s fine,” I said. “If it comes to you later, great. Let’s keep going.”
“Um... Dame and my cousin, they start talking. I turn to this other dude like, ‘Where you from, how you know Dame?’ Regular shit you ask a person. ’Cause it was awkward, right? Not saying anything. He’s just like, ‘This, that, the other.’ I could tell he didn’t want to talk to me.”
“Did he seem intoxicated? Was his slurring his speech?”
“Maybe? To be honest, me, I was a little excited myself.”
“Got you. What else do you remember?”
“Well, we’re standing there, not really saying anything, and then the guy goes to me, ‘It’s your birthday?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘How old are you?’ ‘Twenty-one.’ He...” A faint chuff. “He pulls out his wallet and gives me twenty bucks, plus a one-dollar bill.”
“What did you think of that?”
“I mean, you want to give me money, I ain’t mad about that.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Nah. We just waited till Dame and my cousin finished talking. Then Dame goes, ‘Yo, hit me up,’ the two of them took off.”
“Any idea where they went?”
“Uh-uh. We just went and did our thing.”
“I’m wondering if we can get any closer on the date,” I said. “Maybe you and your cousin messaged that night. When you were getting ready to go out, for example.”
“I don’t...”
“Can you look?”
“Yeah, just — let me...”
A long silence.
“June 20,” Rafael said.
My heart kicked again, harder. “That’s a Saturday night.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Do you remember what time you saw them?”
“Ffff... Pretty late. Me and my cousin didn’t get back till like four in the morning.”
I said, “What else can you tell me about Dame?”
“What do you mean.”
“What kind of person is he?”
“He’s just a regular guy.”
“Do you know if he was into guys or girls?”
“Dame?” He laughed. “He was a football player.”
“Does that mean girls?”
“Well. Yeah. Those guys get tons of it.”
“Just to clarify, when you said they played at Tech, that’s Oakland Tech.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember if Dame ever got into trouble?”
“Trouble?”
“Was he arrested?” I asked. “Did he use drugs?”
“I don’t... Look, he’s not really my friend, he’s V — he’s my cousin’s friend.”
“Do you think your cousin might be willing to talk to me?”
“...I don’t know about that.”
“But maybe?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you have a phone number for Dame, or an address?”
“Not... like I said, I don’t really know him.”
“What’s his last name?”
No answer.
I said, “What about the other people on the flyer? Do you recognize them?”
“No, just the guy.”
“And you only saw Adam that one night.”
Silence.
“What, uh,” Rafael said. “What happened to him?”
“He died.”
“Yeah, but... I mean, how.”
“He drowned.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So did the others,” I said. “At least one of them was beaten.”
“...shit.”
“Yeah. It was ugly.”
Silence.
“You’re sure you never saw Adam again,” I said.
“I swear, man.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
“We went over to see Dame,” he said. “Me and my cousin.”
“When?”
“The next day.”
“Sunday.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. What happened?”
“We woke up late. We got something to eat, and then my cousin’s like, ‘Yo, let’s go see Dame.’ We’re knocking, he comes out all mad ’cause he was still asleep. I see him, and...”
Silence.
He said, “It looked like he got into a fight.”
“What made you think that?”
“He had a big cut on his cheek, and there was scratches all over his arms and his face.”
“Did he say how he got the injuries?”
“No.”
“Did he talk about the night before or mention Adam?”
“No. We just chilled for a little and then we went home.”
“Okay. Do you remember the address he was at?”
“Nah, I... My cousin was driving.”
“Everything you’re saying is really important,” I said. “Can you please tell me Dame’s last name?”
Silence.
“I get that you don’t want people to find out,” I said. “Here’s how I think about it. If he didn’t do anything, it ends here. If he did, we don’t want it to happen again.”
Silence. Arguelles had provided enough detail — committed enough slips of the tongue — that I could probably piece together the answer.
“Roby,” he said. “Dame Roby.”
I started to thank him but he was gone.
Chapter 21
A high school athletics database had Damian Lamar Roby playing tight end for the Oakland Tech Bulldogs alongside Rafael Arguelles’s cousin, Victor. Stats told a familiar story: Roby had peaked junior year, notching six hundred receiving yards and nine touchdowns. On some level I could relate.
Two arrests for petty larceny. He’d never served time or committed a violent crime.
Now he was twenty-eight, with little more than a 2011 Nissan Altima to his name. He kept his online footprint small; I couldn’t find a current photo, let alone a connection to Adam Valois or the other victims.
I phoned Regina from the road.
“Like I said, nothing gets solved at a desk.”
“Technically I was at my desk when Arguelles called,” I said. “And nothing’s close to solved. But yes, ma’am, I acknowledge that hitting the town was smart.”
“That is some lame-ass gratitude,” she said. “Yet I accept it with my characteristic graciousness. You like his story?”
“He has a specific memory of Adam giving him money. Although it was a year ago, and he admits he wasn’t sober. For me the biggest thing is that the dates match up. If true, he’s the first person to place Adam in Oakland on Saturday night.”
“Do you have an address for Roby?”
“On my way as we speak.”
“If you wait till tomorrow I can go with you,” she said.
“I don’t want Arguelles to have second thoughts and tip him off.”
“Keep me looped,” she said. “And be careful.”
Damian Roby lived in a run-down multiplex on a tight, run-down block in the Arroyo Viejo neighborhood, squarely beneath the Oakland airport flight corridor. Mattresses, disarticulated furniture, and other assorted junk clogged the sidewalk. Pitbulls paced behind low iron fences, their barking drowned out by the howl of an inbound 737. Every vehicle, including Roby’s silver Altima, was parked with wheels propped on the curb to prevent sideswipes. I followed suit, climbing exterior stairs to an open corridor and knocking at 2A.