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industry logic, “KV” stood for “Kotekna Video” and the “100” series indicated that this particular unit resided in the lower end of the line. The recorder was not hooked up to the television.
    “Professional curiosity?” Pence asked, returning with two mugs of coffee and setting one down on the small table next to my chair. I got off my knees, crossed the room, and took a seat. Pence sat in his chair, lit a smoke and leaned forward.
    “A bad habit of mine, from being in the business too long. My hosts always catch me inspecting their equipment.”
    “My grandson bought that recorder for me,” he offered. “Some kind of employee purchase deal he worked out with your company.”
    “That’s a new brand for us, then. I didn’t even know we sold Kotekna.”
    “You sell it, son. It came from your warehouse. Still have the box.” He dragged on his cigarette.
    “When’s the last time you saw Jimmy, Mr. Pence?”
    The old man waved some smoke away from his face to get a better look at me. I sipped from the mug of coffee. “It was the last Monday in September. He left for work at the usual time, near eight.”
    “And you haven’t heard from him since?”
    “No. Your personnel lady called two days later, on a Wednesday.”
    “And you made no effort to contact anyone about this until you reached me, two weeks later?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You must have been worried.”
    “You’re damn right I was worried,” he said, agitated. He butted his cigarette. “Let’s go on.”
    “When he said goodbye to you that morning, was there anything unusual about the way he acted, something that may have made you suspicious in any way?”
    “I’ve thought about that a lot since he’s been gone, as you can imagine. Jimmy wasn’t one to show his affection. But on that last morning he kissed me good-bye and squeezed my hand.”
    “Like he knew he wouldn’t be seeing you for a while?”
    “That maybe. Or he was in trouble and asking for help.”
    “Was he carrying anything with him that morning? A suitcase?”
    Pence laughed sharply. “I’m old, Mr. Stefanos, not senile. He only had a small knapsack, and he carried that with him every day. Kept a radio in it with earphones.”
    “Is his suitcase gone?”
    “No.”
    “Mind if I have a look in his room?”
    “Of course not.”
    I followed him down a short hallway. We passed Pence’s room on the way. The shades were drawn and the air was stalewith cigarette smoke. Pictures of his dead wife and daughter sat on his nightstand, facing an unmade bed. I walked on.
    Jimmy’s room was brighter than the old man’s. The single bed had been made up neatly and clean underwear had been folded and placed upon it. Posters of postpunk bands like the Minutemen and Husker Du were crookedly tacked to the wall. A bulletin board hung over his dresser, on which were tacked ticket stubs from concerts. Many of the stubs were from larger halls, like Lisner and DAR. A few were from the Warner. But the majority of them were small red tickets with black stenciled lettering, reading “The Snake Pit.”
    “You see anything?” Pence asked.
    I shook my head and admitted, “I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’ll head downtown tonight and ask around. I could use a photograph of Jimmy if you have one.”
    “I thought you might,” he said and produced two folded pictures from his back pocket. “One of him’s his graduation picture from Wilson High last year. The other one I found in his drawer. Looks like him at a party or something.”
    I took them both. The graduation picture was typically waxen and told me little about the boy, though there was a small skull and crossbones pinned to his lapel which suggested a touch of insolence, not unusual for someone his age. I thought his eyes drooped rather sadly at the corners.
    The second photo said more about the boy. He stood erect, facing the camera, while his companions danced around him. He was unsmiling, had a cigarette