by R. J. Noonan
As I skirted the accident scene, I spotted my neighbor Randy Shapiro among the firefighters heading over to the sputtering wreck with long shovels in hand. After years of admiring him from afar, specifically, from my second-floor bedroom window that overlooked his driveway, I knew the way he moved, that wiry energy, that sense of balance, physically and metaphysically. “Hey, Randy.”
“Laura?” He tipped his helmet back so that I could get a better look at his face. He didn’t know that I had him memorized. “I didn’t recognize you in uniform.”
I hoped that meant I looked more authoritative than the goofy kid who used to babble from the driveway while Randy tinkered under the hood of a car. “I’m sure I’ll have some questions for you later,” I said, focusing on the drivers who watched wearily from the side of the road. “Right now I need to take some statements.”
The two witnesses stood apart from each other, but they shared the same haunted, sad look as they watched the twisted carnage now becoming more visible in the dying flames. The middle-aged man and woman listened politely as I introduced myself and told them I had a few questions for them. They both agreed to let me record them on my phone after I explained that it would take less time, not having to take notes.
“She didn’t make it, did she?” the woman asked before I could begin questioning them. Her face was pale and somber beneath her knit cap.
“I’m afraid not,” I said, noticing a tear slide down her cheek. “It was good of you to stop. Both of you.” Actually, the law dictated that they stop, but I wanted to reward their kind actions. I took their names, realizing I had heard of the woman, Arla Sullivan, a veterinarian in a local practice. “You’ve cared for my mother’s dogs, two Cavalier King Charles named Tigger and Pooh?” Believe me, it was not my idea to name a dog Pooh.
That made her smile through her tears. Just the effect I’d wanted. “Sweet dogs. How are they?”
“Always full of love,” I said. If only humans maintained the noble peace of dogs. “I’m so sorry you came across this. I would appreciate knowing what you saw.”
“I was behind the car when it went off the road,” Dr. Sullivan began. “We were coming downhill, and it was picking up speed like crazy. Can you believe that it was actually headed south? I don’t know what happened, but suddenly the car was spinning around. Sparks were flying everywhere. It flew across the intersection and hit that tree, which finally stopped it. Such a horrible boom. You’d think everyone in Sunrise Lake would’ve heard the noise. Certainly over at the golf course. The rear of the car burst into flames on impact.” She pressed a hand to the base of her throat. “It was terrible.”
“Were any other cars involved? Anyone coming in the opposite direction?”
“No. Thank God.” Dr. Sullivan’s eyes opened wide at the realization. “The road was empty, or she would have slammed into another car or . . . or a bicycle or a runner.”
“That’s true. What happened after the crash?”
“I was the first to stop.” Dr. Sullivan seemed eager to talk, and the other witness, a thirtyish man named Austin Sprick, let her speak. “I could see her in the driver’s seat, but she didn’t answer me at all. I think she was unconscious, but I tried to rouse her, just enough to unlock that door before the fire spread. It all happened so fast. I couldn’t get her door open, and the passenger side was smashed against the tree. She was leaning into the steering wheel and . . .” Her voice broke, and she paused to wipe her eyes. “I couldn’t get the door open. I tried to smash the window, but by that time it was too hot. A wall of heat and smoke and flames, and the fire grew quickly, but . . . I tried.”
“There was no getting her out,” said Sprick, a calm counterpart to Dr. Sullivan’s anguish. “When I pulled up, the car was completely on fire. Like she said, we had to back off.” Sprick was a study in gray as he glanced back at the wreck; the spotlights silvered his blond hair and made his pale skin seem ashen. “I don’t know. She might have been gone before the fire.”
“Do you think so?” Dr. Sullivan threw the question out. “That would be a blessing, because the fire . . .” She pressed her eyes closed and shook her head, as if to cast away the memory. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get that image out of my mind. The car wrapped in fire, and knowing a person was trapped inside.”
“It’s very traumatic to witness an accident,” I offered. “Very upsetting. Are you okay to drive yourselves? I can help you call someone. We’ll arrange for a ride.”
“I’m fine, and my house isn’t far from here.” Sprick’s stoicism was not surprising. “I’m going to head home and try to clear my head. Hug my kids. Watch a meaningless sitcom.”
“Take care,” I said, watching as he went to his car.
Dr. Sullivan wanted to talk some more after Mr. Sprick left, and she relived her discovery of the crash site a few more times, repeating the same story in different versions scrambled by emotion. It was her therapy, and since there was no helping the dead woman now, I was happy to be useful as an impromptu counselor. I let her talk, listening for any pearl of detail that might prove useful. Nothing jumped out at me, but I’d have a second chance when I transcribed the statements.
The vet’s remorse was dwindling to resignation as Cranston approached and summoned me for an aside. I thanked Dr. Sullivan for her help and told her to take care of herself. She gave my arm a hefty squeeze and looked me in the eyes. “Thank you for doing what you do.”
One of the big fire trucks rumbled off as I joined Cranston, who was a little peeved that I’d taken so long with the interviews. Cranston wouldn’t recognize therapeutic communication if it bit him in the butt. A quick scan of the scene revealed that Randy was still here, poking at the wreckage with a long tool that resembled a hook on a stick.
“FD is almost done,” Cranston said in a volume intended for me alone. “They’re going to probe for hot spots and check the car’s upholstery to keep the fire from rekindling, but we can start setting up our crime scene.”
I surveyed Stafford Road. This sloping stretch had been entirely closed since we’d arrived on the scene. Any approaching vehicles had been turned away by the fire department, but on this fairly quiet road, traffic was not an issue at this time of night. “How much of the street do you want to close?” I asked.
“We’ll block one lane, from the railed part of the walking path to that hydrant. No visible skid marks. Looks like she didn’t use the brakes at all.”
“They may not have been working too well. The witness saw her spin and slide across to the opposite lane, and the pavement is completely dry.”
Cranston squinted as he scratched the back of his neck. “There’s a good chance our Jane Doe was under the influence.”
“True.” The statistics were still fresh in my mind from the academy. Alcohol was involved in 65 percent of all single-car fatalities. Still, I didn’t like to judge the dead, especially without evidence. “We’ll need to identify the victim and notify next of kin,” I said.
“Right. Soon to be your problem, Mori. Good luck salvaging plates.”
“We’ll use the VIN. The VIN plate should have survived the fire. Can we search the car yet? I mean, how long does it take to cool down?”
“Talk to the FD guys. I started the report. You’re welcome. Lt. Omak is on his way, and I got approximately two hours until end of shift.”
“I’m very happy for you, Cranston.” Happy to see him go.
“Yeah. Tomorrow at this time, I’ll be drinking on the beach. Hey, Rags,” he called to one of the firefighters. “Did you hear I’m going to Hawaii?”
Just then a van from one of the Portland TV stations pulled onto the scene, and Cranston hurried over to tell them where they could set up and how far from the wreck they would need to stay.
I set up traffic cones from the trunk of the patrol car, suspended tape, and set out some fresh flares. The acrid smoke had cleared, and the skeleton of the vehicle, now gray and mucky from fire-retardant foam, sat like a long-dead insect,
its innards rotted out of its shell. The car seemed smaller now, like a Mini or a low-slung sports car. That driver’s side door still hung open, its frame suspended in the air like an odd gateway to the night sky.
In my months of training, I’d handled a few minor crashes with vehicle damage. In those cases, you clear the road, take a report, and make sure anyone who needs it gets medical assistance. But now that we had a fatality, we would be working with the medical examiner, the Oregon Highway Patrol, and the county forensics lab to determine how and why this happened.
A week ago, the case would have belonged to Cranston. But now that my training was ending and the veteran cop was heading off on vacation, the investigation was mine.
My first real case.
Not the most dynamic investigation—a crash involving one car and one person, who most likely was under the influence of alcohol or drugs. But still worthwhile. I felt an obligation to the dead woman. It was up to me to figure out the circumstances of her death, to identify her and notify the people who loved her.
She deserved that much.
* * *
The flat alley between trees had proved to be the perfect spot. High enough to keep water from collecting and far enough from the boulders to avoid the veins of rock that laced through this part of Oregon, this patch of land was ideal for digging.
Most people didn’t understand the physical demands of wielding a shovel. Digging was ranked as a high-intensity physical activity, and if you did it right, the motion involved the shoulders and biceps, the abdominal muscles, and the legs. A complete body-building workout.
Tonight was the first time there’d be no body to fill the hole.
The girl had driven off like a bat out of hell, the engine whirring as the car went a bit too far in first gear, then eased into third. Off into oblivion. Young girls who drove off with failing brakes and a container of gasoline in the back of the car couldn’t expect to live a long life. Her body would be someone else’s problem.
The shovel was hoisted from the mound of dirt, and the process was begun. It was far easier to fill a grave than to dig one. Still, the transfer of dirt was time-consuming, and the steady movement started to build up heat.
“Doesn’t look like she’ll be joining you tonight.”
There was no answer from the other graves scattered here and there through the alley. Clumps of grass masked the oldest, blending so well with the rest of the clearing that you would never know bodies rested there.
You just never know.
2
“I don’t know why I was so surprised to see you at a crash scene,” Randy told me as we poked at the smoking skeleton of the wreck. I used a stick he had given me, and he swiped away foam with his thickly gloved hands. “Your mom mentioned that you were a cop now.”
I could imagine my mother’s disapproving remark: Our Laura, she’s trying to do a man’s job. Or on a good day, she might say, Laura is going to be a police officer until she can get into law or business school.
“I’m almost finished with my training,” I said, staring at the smoking shell that was unrecognizable as a car.
“So how’s it going? You liking the cop thing?”
“So far so good.” Not the most eloquent answer, but in the glow of a former crush at an accident scene, it’s hard to be articulate. “I never see you around anymore.” As I stepped closer, my badge, a star in front of a sunrise over a lake, flashed in the lights from the truck. Sometimes I felt like an imposter, a poser. The whole cop thing took some getting used to. “I keep expecting to look outside and see you working on some rust bucket.”
“Nah. Those days are over. My folks got too much grief from the neighborhood association.”
I missed our talks, though this was the wrong place and time to go out on a limb. I needed to keep a clear head. “Can you tell what kind of car this one was?”
“This was one sweet ride.” With a gloved hand, Randy brushed soggy gray foam from the nose of the car, where a round symbol was embedded. “Still hot. See this emblem? It’s a Volkswagen badge. This car is a Karmann Ghia.”
“Like the opera Carmen?”
“Uh . . . no. Karmann was the designer and Ghia was the company bigwig. Or the other way around. They built the first ones back in the 1950s on the old Beetle floor pan. A sporty two-seater. They stopped production in the seventies, which makes them even more collectable.”
“A classic car?” I stood next to Randy, shining the beam of my Maglite over the ravaged vehicle. “An expensive one?”
“Not in the same league as Porsche and Lambo, but still, if it’s mint, you might pay fifteen or twenty grand.” There was a Zen-like intrigue in Randy’s dark eyes as he stared at the car. “Hand welded, air cooled, rear-wheel drive. Yeah. Nice. The trunk is in the front, engine in the back.”
“You’ve got a mind like an auto parts catalogue.”
“You know I’m a grease monkey.”
There’d been many Sunday afternoons and summer nights as a teen when I’d looked out of my bedroom window to find Randy working under the hood of an old car. Whenever I could, I would hurry downstairs and talk with him and hand him tools. His parents were dismayed and apologetic to have their driveway looking like an auto repair shop, but my eyes always devoured the body leaning into the auto. It sounds much racier than it was, since I could never bring myself to act on my teenage desires. The cultural curse of the Japanese daughter. Instead, I leaned against the garage wall, my legs folded on the cement as I asked him questions about cars and life. What did a carburetor do, anyway? Did he worry about climate change? Did he think there was a heaven?
Unfortunately, I never had the nerve to ask if he’d be my date for prom.
A decade later, we were both twenty-four and I still didn’t have the nerve to ask him out.
“Whoever was driving this had some bucks,” Randy said.
It wasn’t unusual to see a classic car on the streets of Sunrise Lake. On a Sunday afternoon in September, you couldn’t avoid seeing spiffy, antique cars on picturesque roads like Lakeridge and Mountain View Lane. While Sunrise Lake considered itself to be a middle-class suburb of Portland, it was actually a haven for the upper-middle class. Workers like schoolteachers, mail carriers, and cops lived in the town, but people in that tax bracket needed some sort of bonus income like an inheritance, a second job, or a lottery win to make ends meet. And the McMansions that boasted stunning views of the lake or mountains were usually occupied by doctors, lawyers, and corporate chiefs.
The good life didn’t come cheap, and if you were counting pennies, you would find a better deal in the neighboring towns of Palisades and West Green. People my age who remained in Sunrise Lake often lived with their parents. We lingered in our parents’ financial shadows. I was guilty, too, but not for lack of money. My parents refused to let me move from my bedroom until I was married off to a successful Japanese man. Considering current prospects, I was going to die in that room overlooking Randy’s driveway.
I shivered at that thought and glanced back at Randy, who was moving around the gnarled doorframe. He was Jewish, not successful by my parents’ standards, and not aware that I was still half in love with him, still a little giddy to be this close to him. Why do we want the things we can’t have?
“But one of the downsides of classic cars is the lack of safety features,” Randy said as he came closer. “This one didn’t have airbags. No antilock brakes. A completely different braking system. But it has—or it had a manual transmission.”
I loved the passion in Randy’s voice when he talked cars. “I need to get the VIN and track down the car’s owner.” I moved the beam of my light over the passenger side, which had been crushed upon impact with the tree and was now a gnarled mess of shattered glass and contorted metal covered by foam. I moved my light to the driver’s side. “The plate should still be intact.”
Randy reached in through the empty frame where the windshield once sat and brushed the fingers of his thick glove over
the corner of the dash. There was a scraping sound as thick foam and shattered glass were swept aside. He pointed to the corner. “Bring your light in here. Not too close, though. It’s still hot. Do you feel that?”
Oh, yes. Undeniable heat.
I moved next to him, so close the sleeves of our jackets were touching, and directed the beam to the corner of the dashboard behind the steering wheel. After he brushed away a few more chunks of glass, the numbers were readable.
“There you go,” he said. “You want to write it down?”
“I’ll take a picture.” I had to shove the flashlight in my pocket while I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a photo. Even in the stark lighting, the digits of the VIN came through perfectly clear.
“Got it.” I took a second shot for backup. “Can you hang out a minute while I run this on the computer?”
Randy stepped back, holding out his wet, gloved hands. “Sure.”
I walked briskly to the patrol car, fueled by intrigue and importance. This would be our first clue. Well, my first clue. Randy wasn’t on the case. Actually, he didn’t need to wait by the car wreck, either. It was just that I wanted him to hang out; I wanted to share the progress of the investigation with him.
I slid into the patrol car and closed the door, glad for the warm, quiet privacy while Cranston was off somewhere chilling with his firefighter buddies. Tapping at the computer, I set up a VIN search and then put in the numbers from the Karmann Ghia. The results were almost instantaneous, coming back with the owner’s name and address: Kent Jameson.
I blinked. The Kent Jameson? The famous mystery writer?
I copied the Stafford Hill Road address into my notebook. It was a spectacular house five miles up the road at the hilltop, with views of Mount Hood and the Willamette River as well as wooded acres that backed up into Stafford Forest. I knew the place. Everyone knew that property.