Full Metal Jack

by Diane Capri

  She leaned closer and tried talking to the cyclist, peering through the tinted face mask. The full-face helmet wasn’t the kind where she could open it to see him. “Can you hear me?”

  If he heard, he gave no indication.

  “Stay still. You may have spinal cord damage. We don’t want to make things worse,” she said as if he could hear and understand her. Maybe he could.

  She scanned his body. He wasn’t bleeding through his clothes. His limbs were akimbo on the pavement.

  He’d suffered broken bones, for sure.

  But he had a pulse, and he was breathing.

  He might live.

  She wouldn’t risk removing his helmet or any of his clothing for fear of causing further damage. All they could do was wait. And pray.

  Gaspar asked, “How’s the driver of the sedan? I can’t see from the satellite. Too much ground cover over there. But it looks bad.”

  Kim stood and turned toward the silver car and peered into the gloom. Her entire body felt clammy from the heavy mist and fog.

  The trucker had tried to open the sedan driver’s door, but it was jammed tight.

  He’d found a rock and used it to break out the driver’s side window. He shoved his head through the broken glass for a long moment, as if he was searching for something.

  He didn’t find it.

  When he straightened, the trucker walked around the sedan looking at the ground adjacent to the shoulder. He used his arms to sweep the tall weeds away and peered toward the sedan’s passenger side, which had molded to the tree trunk.

  He must have found what he was looking for. He knelt. His head was camouflaged by the weeds for a bit before he stood tall again.

  Gaspar said, “From his body language, I’d guess the sedan’s driver didn’t make it.”

  “Yeah. Looks like it,” Kim replied. “I can’t see from here. And I don’t want to leave this victim here alone to go check on the other one.”

  The driver had made a fatal mistake. Thousands of wrong-way drivers died in similar accidents every year. They were almost always drunk or high or mentally challenged or distracted. Which made the situation sadder.

  The trucker shoved his hands into his pockets and took a few long strides east on the pavement toward Kim.

  As he moved closer, he seemed to grow taller and thinner. His face was gaunt. Sharp cheekbones and a thin nose were well placed above narrow lips. His ruddy brown hair was straight and thin, too.

  He was a smoker. She could smell it on him. Tobacco. She hoped. He didn’t deserve to get blamed for this. If he’d been smoking marijuana or taking any other drugs, he could be criminally charged. Which wouldn’t be justice in his case at all.

  The trucker said quietly, “She’s gone. No seat belt. Flew out of the vehicle at some point. Still clutching her cell phone. Best guess is that she was talking on the phone when it happened.”

  Kim nodded. “You’re sure she’s gone?”

  “Yeah. No mistaking death like that. Seen it before. Never pretty,” he replied and tilted his head toward the cyclist. “How about him?”

  “Still alive. Help’s on the way.” As soon as she’d uttered the words, she heard the helo in the distance.

  “Strangest damn thing,” the truck driver said, shaking his head and nodding toward the cyclist. He pulled a pack of Camels and a lighter out of his pocket and, with trembling hands, lit one, puffing steadily. “Seemed like he went right at her. On purpose.”

  “What? That’s crazy,” Kim replied, eyes wide. A shiver ran through her, which could have been caused by the dampness, but wasn’t.

  The trucker shrugged, taking another shaky draw from the cigarette. “He had plenty of time to slow down. To back off, like you did. He could’ve moved to the shoulder. Right at the end, he had room to move in front of my rig and keep right on going. I’d slowed down. He had the space.”

  Kim stared at him. “You’re saying this was what? Suicide?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” the trucker shrugged again. “You’ve never heard of suicide by truck?”

  She nodded. She knew the practice was all too common. It was kind of like suicide by cop. The victim was too scared to do the job, so he put himself in the way of a vehicle or a bullet.

  It was an effective way to die. But it was a lousy thing to do to the survivors.

  The cyclist was still alive, though. If suicide had been his plan, he’d screwed up.

  Kim shook off the thoughts. “You have a dashcam in your rig?”

  “Yeah. Sends the video straight to the company. Cops can see it soon as they ask,” he replied.

  Gaspar could hack the dashcam, too. He was probably doing so now.

  Traffic on the westbound lanes of US 72 across the grassy median had slowed to a crawl. More vehicles were lining up behind the Lexus and the flares, too. Sirens wailed behind and ahead of the traffic, moving relentlessly toward the incident.

  The helo was within sight range now, hovering overhead, scanning for a good spot to land. Visibility was barely good enough below the clouds, but dusk was fast approaching and the rain had started to drizzle again.

  A few vehicles had stacked up behind the incident, but the road in front of the truck was clear. The helo set down about two hundred feet east of the big rig.

  Two first responders jumped out of the helo with their equipment and hustled over to the cyclist. Kim gave them a quick report on what happened, then stepped back to let them do their jobs.

  While they were working on him, another pair hurried toward the sedan. It wouldn’t take them long to realize they could do nothing for the driver. Crime scene techs would take over.

  The helo’s big rotors were slowing, but still roaring overhead.

  Kim and the trucker stood aside. Law enforcement would need their eyewitness accounts and their contact information when they arrived on the scene.

  The trucker moved the cigarette to his left hand and extended his right. “Joe Watts.”

  “Kim Otto,” she replied, accepting the gesture.

  He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Got a card? My company will want to contact you. Take a statement about what happened. That okay with you?”

  Kim nodded and handed him one of her cards.

  The sirens died off as law enforcement officers came up behind the Lexus and went to work. Two more vehicles pulled up to handle traffic flow on the westbound lanes.

  Shortly afterward, a uniformed officer from Carter’s Crossing approached.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Wednesday, May 11

  Outside Carter’s Crossing, Mississippi

  6:45 p.m.

  Kim had watched as the cyclist was airlifted toward Memphis. After that, the usual crash site activities consumed everyone present.

  Jurisdiction over the crash site was iffy, but in small, rural communities like this, various departments worked together. Turned out the closest town was Carter’s Crossing, but Mississippi State Patrol would be in charge. They probably had a Fatal Accident Crash Team to handle such situations. For now, uniformed and plainclothes personnel milled about, each one performing necessary functions.

  Road flares had been set appropriately. Traffic had been rerouted at some point east and west of the scene, and traffic flow had resumed in both directions across the grassy median, using the westbound lanes. Gawkers stared at the scene as they moved slowly past, but the vehicles were moving now.

  The eastbound lanes would remain closed while the scene was processed. Kim observed the professionals at work. Photos were taken. Everything was measured and documented. Tow trucks and search warrants were on the way. The body would be removed and transported to the appropriate coroner’s office for an autopsy, although the cause of death seemed abundantly clear.

  But this crash wasn’t her job. After she’d seen enough to know these were trained professionals at work and there was no need for her here, Kim tuned it all out.

  The weather had turned
dark and cold. The rain hadn’t let up. She’d brought no rain gear.

  She’d given her card and a statement to the appropriate officer. The trucker had done the same and returned to his cab. There was no reason for her to stay here any longer.

  Kim took another quick look around, just to be sure. Across the median, the police had redirected traffic from the eastbound lanes to one of the westbound lanes. Traffic was moving again in both directions. A few motorcycles roared past, heading toward Memphis. She saw a big guy walking backward along the shoulder of the eastbound lane, thumb out, looking for a ride.

  Even from this distance, there was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t say exactly what it was. She watched until a pickup truck pulled over, and he stepped into the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. The truck kept going, headed toward Carter’s Crossing. She couldn’t see the plate on the truck. Maybe Gaspar could find a camera with eyes on the plate if she wanted to locate the driver later.

  One last look around before she trudged back toward her SUV, which was still parked on the shoulder behind the big rig. She pulled the door open, slid behind the steering wheel, and pushed the start button. The engine caught and growled like a satisfied lion slept under the hood.

  Before she had a chance to put the transmission in gear, knuckles rapped on her window. She glanced up to see an oversized man with an oversized mustache standing outside in the rain next to the Lexus. He was dressed in street clothes, wearing a coat with the collar turned up against the windswept rain and a wide-brimmed hat, but he held a badge in his hand.

  She lowered the window.

  “You’re FBI Special Agent Kim Otto? I’m Sheriff Scott Greyson, Carter’s Crossing. The next town east of here. People call me Chief. Mind if we talk a bit?” he said.

  She could see him more clearly now. Tall and slender, he had brown hair and piercing blue eyes. About fifty, give or take five years. She guessed he’d had no trouble finding dates his entire life.

  It was no surprise that he’d come over to chat. Small-town cops are always interested in strangers headed into their domain. He’d want to know who she was and why she was going to Carter’s Crossing. He already had her name and her cover story from the officer who took her statement. But he’d want to judge the situation for himself. The easiest way to do that was simply to ask.

  She gave him a friendly smile. “Climb in. It’s too miserable to talk out there in the rain.”

  She raised the window while he walked around the front of the SUV and climbed into the passenger seat. His long legs covered the ground quickly. He removed his hat, opened the door, and tucked in.

  He smelled of cold, damp wool. His face was lined with fatigue. No matter how experienced a law enforcement officer he was, he had not lost human compassion. She liked him for that.

  Once he was settled, he handed her a business card. She offered one from her pocket in exchange.

  That dance completed, he said, “So you’re on the way to Carter’s Crossing to complete a background check on a former army major?”

  “That’s right, Chief,” she replied.

  “Who’s the subject of your inquiry?”

  “Guy’s name is Jack Reacher.”

  “When was he here?”

  “About fifteen years ago, give or take.”

  He nodded as if he was processing new information. Which he was. She hadn’t given Reacher’s name to the other officer.

  “Did you know him? Reacher?” she asked.

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I wasn’t in Carter’s Crossing back then. Arrived about twelve years ago, when I left the military.”

  “You weren’t in the army? My experience is that most officers at a certain level know each other at least by reputation.”

  “Sorry. No. Marines, actually.” he said easily, clearing his throat and moving on to a new topic. “Anyway, I understand you were a witness to this accident. We’ll have the dashcam footage from the truck and from your vehicle once we serve subpoenas. I know you’ve already given a statement, and I’ll read it later. But can you give me a quick rundown?”

  “Is this your jurisdiction, Chief? I thought we were outside your limits here.” She was merely curious. Hunting Reacher being what it was, she wanted to be friendly with the local sheriff. It was likely she’d need his help soon enough.

  “It’s close, but no, not my jurisdiction. We cover the whole county—about five hundred square miles. But the county line doesn’t come this far out,” he replied.

  “I see. That’s a lot of land to cover. How big is your department?”

  “Yeah, it’s a lot of ground, but basically what we have is Carter’s Crossing and Kelham, the army base. We’ve got eight of us in the department. Me and several deputies.” He paused, and almost as an afterthought, added, “We’ve also got Big River, a casino on the reservation southwest of town. But what happens out there isn’t my jurisdiction, either.”

  Kim cocked her head, taking the information in through her law enforcement filter and putting it into perspective. “Both Kelham and the casino have their own law enforcement personnel. So how many people do you have to serve and protect in your county?”

  “We’ve been growing for the past decade or so. New businesses moved to town. Draws new workers. And then the casino brings in tourists. New hotels have opened up. All in all, we’ve got about fifteen thousand civilians now living in the county. And we get another few thousand coming and going every month,” he said.

  “You’ve got to be busy. Seems like you’re short-staffed, too.”

  “What small municipality isn’t slammed these days?” he said good-naturedly.

  “Just asking, but why are you out here for this traffic accident? I know it’s a fatality, but don’t you have enough on your plate already?” Kim asked.

  He sighed, lifted his hat, and ran a hand over his hair. “I know both of the victims. Know the truck driver, too. Joe Watts is a good guy. I don’t want to see him unjustly jammed up over this. And I’ll also need to deal with the families. It’s better if I can give them some firsthand observations to soften the blow, usually.”

  “Both drivers have been identified?” She didn’t ask the names of the victims. No reason to. And he shouldn’t tell her anyway.

  “We found her purse and ran the plate on the sedan. We’re less sure about the cyclist, but we think we know who he is.” He wiped the rain from his face with a quick palm. “So if you’re inclined to help me out…”

  “Of course. Sorry. Didn’t mean to hold you up. Trying to get familiar with how things are done around here.” She nodded and gave him a friendly smile. “In this case, I’m just a witness. Like you said, I gave a statement to one of the officers. Pretty straightforward.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, encouraging her to say more.

  “The cyclist was in a hurry. He’d tried to pass me at least once before. When the truck slowed down for the crossing ahead, the cyclist pulled out to pass.”

  “Okay.”

  “My view of the collision was blocked by the big rig. But the sedan was traveling the wrong way, against traffic. The cyclist hit the sedan head-on and the sedan went off the road.” She wrapped it up and put a bow on it for him. “Looks like nothing more than confusion and bad judgment is to blame. The cyclist was in a hurry. Watts told me the woman might have been talking on her cell phone at the time. Maybe she was distracted. The weather was bad. Not much more to it unless one of them was impaired. You’ll need the medical examiner to make that call.”

  Greyson chewed on the inside of his lower lip as if he was considering something. “Joe Watts says the cyclist could have avoided the crash. Says the guy had time to move in front of the truck and get clear before he hit the sedan. That so?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t see well enough to say from back here. But Watts told me that. He thinks his dashcam video will confirm what he saw.”

  “Yeah. He told me that, too.” Greyson nodded. “Anything
else you can add?”

  She shrugged. “Only that I’m shocked the cyclist is alive and the sedan driver is dead, honestly. While it was happening, I thought things were likely to go the other way.”

  “The cyclist isn’t out of the woods yet.” He stopped for a deep breath. “Coroner says they might both have survived if she hadn’t hit that tree. Or if she’d been wearing her seatbelt.”

  Kim nodded. They didn’t need the coroner to reach that conclusion.

  After a few moments, he said, “Well, if you think of anything else that might be useful, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”

  Southern charm fairly oozed from the guy. He was both handsome and nice. That seemed like a lethal combination in a small Southern town. He’d probably had women lined up his whole life. And left a trail of broken hearts longer than Main Street in Carter’s Crossing.

  She replied, “Of course. Glad to do what I can.”

  He nodded and reached for the door handle, hat in hand.

  Before he left again, Kim said, “Chief?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was planning to check in with you tomorrow after my meeting with the mayor,” she said. Standard courtesy. Nothing more. She didn’t have to do it. But she’d planned to, so there was no harm in saying so.

  He arched his eyebrows all the way to his hairline. Under different circumstances, he might have asked a few more questions. But it was late, and he had more urgent matters to attend to.

  After a moment, he simply nodded again. “Address is on the card. We’ll talk more tomorrow. When we’ve both had some sleep and some coffee.” With that, he stepped into the rain and set his hat firmly on his head so it wouldn’t blow off.

  She shrugged. He was right. This wasn’t the time or the place for the longer conversation they needed to have. The Boss’s file had contained summary reports on the recent murder as well as the old ones. Added to the serious injury of one of Carter’s Crossing’s citizens and the death of another in the accident, Sheriff Greyson had his hands full already.