Darkness the Color of Snow

by Thomas Cobb

  “Dead on impact, no doubt.”

  “No doubt. Though no one knows unless the M.E. can make some sense of what’s left. The early thinking is that the H and R vehicle clipped him on the right side and threw him up into the Jeep. The impact with the Jeep did the killing. I’d guess that’s pretty much right.”

  “What about the hit-­and-­run vehicle?”

  “White. Maybe a Camry, maybe an Accord. Not new. Ronny got only a ­couple of figures off the plate—­a J and a 6, New York.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  “Nope. I think this one’s one big, fat, ugly bitch. Like I said, fans and shit.”

  “Ronny’s clear on this?”

  “Probably.”

  “Not certainly?”

  “His story is OK. Laferiere wouldn’t get out of the vehicle, and when he did, he hit Forbert with the door of the Jeep, knocking him down. There was a struggle when Forbert tried to cuff him, and then Laferiere ended up in the road where he met the Camry.”

  “You’re not convinced.”

  “I’m never convinced.”

  “Understood.”

  “It all makes sense. I would be surprised only if Laferiere wasn’t drunk and uncooperative. Ronny’s probably clear on this. Should have called for backup, especially considering the circumstances.”

  “Obviously.”

  “How many times do you have to learn that lesson?”

  “How many times it take you?”

  “The usual. Too many. You need to take a look at the passengers over here.”

  “The usual posse?”

  “Almost. We got a new one. A joker in the deck.”

  Gordy gives Pete a questioning glance.

  “Sammy Colvington.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. I would guess his father is going to be the fan.”

  GORDY TAKES ONE more look at the body. When it all comes down, the human body is a frail thing in a world of things that are strong, fast, and very unfrail. ­People can’t seem to grasp the concept until they actually see what a car does to a human body when it hits it. Gordy knows Matt Laferiere well. He was a big bull of a kid, stocky and muscular, not bad looking, either. Now he looks as fragile as a dropped and stepped-­on doll. He nods to the EMTs to lift the tarp back over the body. “Let’s go talk to Ronny,” he tells Pete. “The kids can wait.”

  Ronny is leaning up against his cruiser, talking to an EMT who peers at him like he’s about to spill some secret. Pale, Ronny stares straight ahead as if the EMT isn’t there. His uniform sleeve is ripped and hanging, and his trousers torn at the thigh. He’s smoking a cigarette.

  “How is he?” Gordy asks the EMT.

  “OK. He’s a little shocky. A ­couple of pretty good scrapes and scratches. Don’t see any signs of concussion, but he needs checking overnight.”

  Gordy looks at Ronny, questioning.

  “I messed up, Gordy. I really messed up.”

  “Never mind that right now. How are you feeling?”

  Ronny puts the cigarette to his lips. His hand is shaking. Gordy’s never seen him smoke before, and he has to suppress the urge to bum one from him.

  “I’m OK. Don’t need to go to the hospital.”

  “You need to get checked out. When did you start smoking?”

  “High school. Haven’t done it for a while.”

  “It’s a good idea to take it up again,” Pete says. “It’ll provide you with a whole bunch of entertainment in your later years.”

  “You need to get checked out,” Gordy says.

  “No. No. I’m fine. I messed up is all.”

  “You remember what happened?”

  Ronny looks at Gordy as if he asked the question in French. “I pulled them over for speeding. There was an open container and a strong smell of weed. They were all drinking. I got those three out of the car, but Matt wouldn’t come out. When he did, I tried to cuff him. He fought me. We ended up on the ground, then he was on the road. The car came over the rise and hit him. It didn’t stop. Didn’t even really slow. It just sped up and got out of here.”

  “You call for backup?”

  “No time. It just happened real fast. I wasn’t even intending to arrest him, but he started to fight me. I didn’t get the cuffs on him. Just one. I had to subdue him. There was no time.”

  “The car door. When did he hit you with the car door?”

  “The car door? Right. He hit me with the car door. Knocked me down. I tore my pants. Right before, I guess. I don’t really remember how it all happened. It was really fast. But right before.”

  Gordy nods. It’s always fast. Really fast. You learn procedures to make sure that nothing gets out of hand. Once it gets out of hand, you’re in it, and there isn’t going to be any help.

  “I want to transport him to the hospital,” the EMT says.

  “In a while. He’s going, but you hang on for a bit.”

  “He could have a concussion. He needs observation. There’s road rash on his arm and leg.”

  “He’ll go. I promise. Just keep your shirt on.”

  Down the road to the east, Patrolman John North is waving cars on. Still, a few of them stop. Mostly they’re gawkers, wanting to see the gore. You only have to see this kind of gore once to never want to see it again. “Pete. Get these ­people out of here.”

  Pete Mancuso is a hulking man, well over six feet, three hundred pounds plus. He had been a defensive tackle at LSU, not a starter, but on the team, nonetheless. Gordy is six feet, going quickly to fat and completely gray, but Pete seems to dwarf him. Pete is the sergeant, but often does the dirty work by virtue of his size.

  “Ronny. Hang on,” Gordy says. “I want to talk to the others. Don’t go to the hospital yet.”

  “I’m not going to the hospital.”

  “Yes, you are. Only not right now. I’ll be back in a minute or so.”

  PAUL STABLEIN, BOBBY Cabella, and the Colvington kid are sitting on the ground some ten yards off the road behind the Jeep. They’re all smoking and staring into the distance, not looking at the body under the tarp. Gordy walks up and kneels in front of them. “You’re all right? All of you?”

  Stablein nods and Cabella mutters a weak “Yes.”

  “All of you?” Gordy looks at Sammy Colvington. The kid just nods in return.

  “Just because you’re not bleeding doesn’t mean you’re all right. Anyone need to see an EMT or a doctor?”

  “We’re OK,” Stablein says.

  “All right. Good. Let me know if at any time you think you may not be OK. You can get up if you want. Just don’t do anything stupid. There’s been enough stupidity tonight.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Colvington asks.

  “Haven’t really decided yet. Be on your best behavior. Maybe things will work out for you. Maybe we’ll take you back to the station. Or maybe we’ll turn you over to your parents. A lot depends on how you answer my questions. Have your parents all been called?”

  “We didn’t really do anything,” Cabella insists.

  “You weren’t drinking? You weren’t smoking some weed? Before you answer, the car is full of empties, and I can smell the weed. You were drinking. Don’t lie to me. It’s the worst thing you can do. You’ve made enough mistakes for one night.”

  “A few beers,” Stablein says. “We’re not drunk. He gave me a ­couple of tests after it happened.” He nods toward Ronny Forbert. “I passed.”

  “Laferiere drink all that beer?”

  “A lot of it.”

  “I’ll accept that for now. We’re going to put you all on the Breathalyzer. All three of you. Maybe draw a little blood. It’s what we do when there’s been an accident with alcohol related. A bad accident.”

  “GORDY,” JOHN NORTH, Patrolman, says. “There’s a parent.” J
ohn put his hand on Gordy’s shoulder as if consoling him.

  “Laferiere?”

  “No. Sam Colvington. You want to talk to him?”

  “Not especially. But I will.”

  Sam Colvington is standing back behind Ronny Forbert’s cruiser, inside the tape barrier. He’s rumpled, a big parka over jeans and work boots. Just out of bed, no doubt. “What the hell happened?” he asks Gordy.

  “Hit and run. One fatality. Your boy is fine. Unhurt. That’s about all we have right now.”

  “Sammy was involved?”

  “Indirectly, Sam. Indirectly. Nothing very serious. He was at the scene. That’s pretty much the limit of it.”

  “Who got killed?”

  “Can’t really say until the parents are notified, but Sammy’s all right. Not a scratch. He’s over there. You can talk to him.”

  The three boys are still sitting, passing a cigarette back and forth, looking miserable. Sammy Colvington starts to look more miserable when he sees his father coming toward him.

  “Are you all right?”

  Sammy nods.

  “You’re sure?” Sam reaches down, takes the cigarette from Sammy’s mouth, and tosses it away.

  “Matt Laferiere is dead.”

  “That’s not information to be shared,” Gordy says. “Sammy and I have talked, and we’re just about finished. I want to give him a Breathalyzer, then he’s done here. You can take him home.”

  “No Breathalyzer,” Sam Colvington says.

  “Have to,” Gordy says. “We need the whole picture of what happened. I doubt that the results are going beyond my desk. At this point, I don’t see any reason to charge Sammy with anything. And I think he needs to go home and get some sleep. As soon as John’s done with the test, you can take him.”

  “I said, ‘No Breathalyzer.’ ”

  “Sam, you don’t want to do this. If you refuse the Breathalyzer, he gets charged. We draw blood. He goes to court. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to keep the results under wraps. But if you refuse, I can’t do that. I’ll have to take him in, and it will be on the public record.”

  “Are you drunk?” Colvington asks Sammy. Sammy waves his hand back and forth. Maybe, maybe not.

  “That sounds right to me,” Gordy says.

  “If this gets out, it will be your job,” Colvington says. “I can make your life miserable.”

  “Like I said, I have no intention of bringing charges. I can’t promise that won’t happen as the investigation moves forward, but right now, I don’t see it. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Colvington turns away in obvious disgust. Gordy takes that as assent.

  “Pete, get John on the Breathalyzers.”

  “John’s gone to get the Laferieres. But Steve’s here. I’ll get him on it.”

  “Good. Then search the vehicle. You guys,” he says to the three waiting on the ground. “You’re going to have to blow into the Breathalyzer. Then we’ll release you to your parents or someone else who can take you home. We’re pretty much done with you.”

  IT’S ANOTHER HALF an hour before John pulls his cruiser back into the accident scene. He gets out and opens the back doors. Gordy watches Roger Laferiere get out, followed by his wife, Gayle. Roger is a tall rangy man, dressed in jeans and canvas coat, cap pulled down tight on his head. Gordy has never seen him without a cap on. He walks with a pronounced limp, the product of an industrial accident some years earlier. Gayle is also thin, nearly gaunt. She’s wearing jeans and a Giants sweatshirt. Gordy hopes she’s got plenty on underneath it. There’s still a chance of snow tonight.

  “Roger, Gayle. Sorry to be seeing you under these circumstances.”

  “Where’s my boy?” Gayle asks.

  “On his way to the hospital.”

  “He’s hurt?”

  Gordy looks over at John, who looks down and shrugs apologetically. Gordy is nonplussed. How did John not tell them? How did they not ask? “I’m afraid it’s worse than that.”

  “Dead?” Roger asks.

  “There was an accident. A hit and run. I’m afraid Matthew didn’t survive. It was instantaneous. I don’t think he suffered at all.” Gordy grimaces at the inadequacy. But what is there to say that’s not inadequate? He’s delivered hundreds of these messages, all inadequate. “I’m very, very sorry for your loss.” The Laferieres exchange looks of incomprehension.

  “You said he was at the hospital,” Gayle says.

  “He is, but I’m afraid he didn’t make it. He’ll be examined and pronounced dead, then sent to the morgue.”

  “The morgue?” Gayle repeats as though she has not heard that Matt is dead.

  “Yes. I’m afraid so. There will be an examination, and then they will turn the body over to you. I hope that won’t be very long.”

  “Can we see him?” Gayle asks. Her voice is the calm, steady voice of someone who is not going to accept this yet.

  “I wouldn’t advise it. It was a terrible accident.”

  “They’re not going to cut him up.”

  “There’ll be an autopsy. It’s the law.”

  “No. No. You can’t do that.”

  “I’m afraid we have no choice. This was a hit and run. It’s a criminal case. He was hit by a hit-­and-­run driver. There’s going to be a trial.”

  “You have the one that hit him?”

  “Not yet. We will. There will be a trial, and the person who hit him will go to jail. That’s pretty much certain. But an autopsy is part of that. The law.”

  “When can we see him?”

  “Again. I don’t advise you to see him. He was very badly hurt. I don’t think you want to see him that way.”

  “When can we see him?”

  Gordy nods sadly. “Tomorrow, maybe. But think about it.”

  Roger glares at Gordy, then turns and walks to the Jeep. There is still blood, hair, and tissue on the Jeep. Gordy isn’t sure what other matter has been left behind.

  “Chief,” Steve Holt says. “Can I see you for a minute?”

  Gordy excuses himself and walks over to Steve.

  “Thought you might want to see the Breathalyzer results.” He hands Gordy a sheet of paper—­Cabella .11, Colvington .14, Stablein .093. “What do you want to do with these guys?”

  “Let Colvington go home with his father. Keep the others. If no one shows up to take them home, take them back to the station. Don’t charge them yet.”

  And then Roger Laferiere is in front of Gordy, again. “He says that Ronny Forbert was in on this.”

  “Who says?”

  Laferiere points to John North, who has been shepherding the Laferieres around the scene.

  “Officer Forbert was making the arrest when the accident occurred.”

  “They was friends.”

  “Yes, I believe that’s true.”

  “Nothing worse than friends that go bad on each other.”

  Gordy starts to say something, then stops. That’s pretty much the truth. Affection often stirs violence into the stew of disagreement. Gordy nods. “John, take the Laferieres home, please.”

  “We’ll stay.”

  “No. There’s no reason. We’re just going to collect some evidence and get this cleaned up. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do here. John, take the Laferieres home.”

  “I’ll drive the Jeep,” Roger says.

  “No. Can’t let you do that. It’s evidence. When we’re done with it, I’ll have it delivered to you. You go on with John.” He watches them go to John’s cruiser, Gayle in the lead, striding hard, fast, angry, and straight ahead. Roger follows, limping slowly behind, shoulders down. Farther to the east he can see the amber lights of the wrecker coming for the Jeep.

  “Chief,” Pete says. He’s carrying a bundle wrapped in cloth. “You need to see this.” He unwraps t
he bundle. There are two handguns—­a Colt 1911, .45 automatic, and a .357 Magnum. There’s ammo, too. “Under the seat, driver’s side.”

  “God,” Gordy says. “When you think it can’t get any worse, you find out it could have been. Bag those.”

  “YOU’RE SURE YOU’RE all right?” Sam Colvington asks him.

  “Yeah, I’m OK,” Sammy says.

  “That Forbert lay hands on you?”

  “No. He told me what to do and I did it.”

  Sam, sometimes “Big Sam,” considers this as he drives them back into Lydell city limits. Then he shoots out his right hand fast enough that his son has no chance to duck or block the blow that catches him on the cheek and nose, making him see sparks in the darkness. “You dumb shit,” his father says.

  Sammy puts his hand up to gingerly touch his face, the burn of the blow just starting to spread across it. He turns his head toward the car window so that his face will be protected if his father sends another shot his way. He can just make out the outlines of bare trees flashing past the car window.

  “You’re riding around in the middle of the night with that bunch of punks, drinking beer and smoking grass. You’re lucky you’re not dead. You’re lucky I don’t kill you.”

  Punks. For a second Sammy sees an image of Matt, Paul, and Bobby, in leather and torn denim. Bright Mohawks and lots of piercings. “Matt’s dead.”

  “Yeah. Good riddance. That guy is a piece of shit. Always was. What the hell are you doing riding around with a bunch of guys who are older than you?”

  Being cool, Sammy thinks. Being not your son. Being anyone but Sam Colvington Jr. “Just hanging out,” he says.

  “Hanging out. Shit. I ought to stop this car and beat the crap out of you. Then you can hang out. See how you like it. You know what you’ve done to me tonight? You’ve damned near ruined me. You’ve lowered me in the eyes of the community. I’m a community leader. I’m on the town council. When Martin runs for state office, I’ll be the next president. At least, I was going to be. But all anyone thinks now is that I can’t even control my own kid.”

  “Sorry,” Sammy says. Then he thinks, You can’t control your own kid. You’ll never be able to control your kid, because I’m not a kid anymore.