by Ben Follows
“I’m a cop,”
“Already?” said Jake, giggling. “You weren’t supposed to be this fast.” Then he began laughing, as though there was an inside joke that Obrasey didn’t understand. His laughter turned into snores, and Obrasey’s attempts to reach into the car window and rouse him were ineffective.
She had called it in and made sure a tow-truck was on the way before dragging him out of the car and into her own squad car. She brought him back to the station, treating him the way she would any other drunk kid. She got his identity from his wallet and got his mugshot taken before sending him into the empty cells at the back of the police station.
Certain facts about the case had troubled her for the rest of the night shift, even though the rest of the police force awake at that time told her to let it go. The thing that troubled her the most was the fact that the report on the car said it had been in Jake’s—and only Jake’s—possession for upward of three years. Although she knew it wouldn’t stand up in court, she would have sworn under oath that few guys of his age ever cleaned their car to that extent—and that Jake was undoubtedly not among that group. There was also the fact that once he woke up, he was nauseous, puking everywhere, yet the car was spotless inside. How could that be unless the drunkenness had hit him just moments prior to his collision?
Which of course also put his story once he woke up—which the chief had accepted without question—into suspicion. The story of driving from Boston to Crescent Point was so ridiculous that it had to be true, or so ridiculous that the liar knew it would be believed.
Then there was the feeling in her gut when she had spoken to him in the morning. Nothing in particular had stuck out to her, and on the surface his story was completely plausible, just improbable, which was far from incriminating in itself. She intuitively didn’t believe what he was saying. She had enough experience in police work to suspect people, even if she couldn’t place why. There was something about Jake that bothered her, and, after Zach, she wasn’t going to ignore her instincts ever again.
Tonight, she searched through the ditch where the car had careened, and despite another exhaustive search, she found nothing to ground her suspicions in reality. She had already looked through the car where it was impounded at the police station and—beside the absurd cleanliness and the lack of personal effects in the glove box or the center console—there was nothing that she could place her finger on as to why it was strange to her. It was like a brand new car, fresh off the lot. It was hypothetically possible that Jake had owned the car for three years and never driven it until last night, but—again—that was ridiculously improbable, and Obrasey didn’t like it.
She climbed out of the ditch. She pulled the notepad from her pocket and checked over the notes she had taken from the video footage of the chief interviewing Jake Lavelle through the bars at the station that morning.
She noted the bar in Boston where he had stated the bachelor party had been held. She checked her watch. It was just past 10:00 p.m. Boston was about two and a half hours away if she drove fast, and most of the bars would be open until at least 2:00 a.m., even on a Sunday night.
She walked back to her car, sat in the driver’s seat, and made a call.
“Hello?” answered Zach.
“It’s me.” Obrasey rubbed her eyes.
“Amanda? What’s up?”
“I’m going to drive to Boston.” She tapped her finger on the top of her steering wheel. “I want to check this guy’s story.”
“Guy who crashed last night?” asked Zach. “I thought the chief didn’t think that was a case.”
“It’s not.”
She could hear Zach grinding his teeth on the other end of the line. “Be safe,” he said finally. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“I will. Don’t wait up for me.”
Zach laughed. “Don’t think I could if I tried.”
Obrasey hated his pessimistic humor about his situation. She had told him that before, but he hadn’t stopped.
Zach broke the silence. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” said Obrasey. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning if I’m back after you go to sleep.”
She hung up and took a deep breath, clearing her mind, before pulling onto the street and accelerating up to the speed limit
She perked up when the radio mentioned a name she recognized.
The news reporter was saying, “In other news, missing Crescent Point resident Frank Frederickson is still missing, although the police have stated that there is no case to be had, and he likely simply ran off.”
The news immediately moved on to other news, the report being a brief update to anyone still interested. Obrasey didn’t understand why anyone was so interested in Frank Frederickson. He’d been an ungrateful jerk who despised the police doing anything even remotely involved with him.
If he had been kidnapped or murdered, she would search down the perpetrators, as was the job that she had sworn to do, but she would not do anything not directly involved in her job description. She would not console his family or speak at their trial without a warrant with her name on it calling her to testify.
If not for the media attention, caused by the endless campaigning of his wife Janice, who seemed hopelessly convinced that her husband would never cheat on her and leave them. Yet all the evidence seemed to point to him being exactly that kind of person.
Suddenly, after hours of thinking over the evidence of Jake Lavelle and less than half a minute thinking about something else, a few clues fit together in her head like puzzle pieces.
“Oh, shit,” she whispered, jerking her steering wheel to the right, the headlights moving across the road and illuminating the fields beyond before swinging back and lighting the shoulder of the road. She pulled to a stop and took a few deep breaths. After a moment of collecting herself and making sure the facts fit together in her head like she thought they did, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she found the number of the investigator who had done the search and cataloguing of Jake’s car before it had been taken to impound.
“Hello?” said a sleepy voice that cracked in the middle. Riley Edwards was young, just a few years removed from the police academy, but he was good at his job. Or at the very least competent.
“Riley, It’s Obrasey.”
“Amanda?” Hi. What time is it?”
“Like eleven, but this is important. Wait, were you asleep?”
“I had to take an extra night shift because of you bringing in that drunk asshole, so I’ve been on night duty for like three nights in a row. I’m not going out tonight, I’d be a zombie, not a chance.”
“Sorry about that.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s about that guy Jake’s car, actually.”
“Okay." He seemed hesitant. “What about it?”
“Was there anything suspicious about it?”
“No,” said Riley. “If anything, that was what made it suspicious. It was fresh, like it was driven right off the lot. Other than the crash it seemed brand new. What exactly are you getting at?”
“Alcohol.”
“What?”
“Was there any alcohol in the vehicle? Any trace of bottles, cans, or residue?”
“No,” said Riley. “Nothing in the car. No personal effects, no beer cans, nothing but the insurance papers, the owner’s manual, and some finely upholstered seats. There wasn’t even any wear and tear on the gear shifts or the edges of the windows, the kind of things that are impossible to prevent and no one really gets replaced. The engine was brand spanking new as well. Whatever other questions you want to ask, assume the answer is that there was nothing in the car, and that it was identical to a car driven off the lot save for the things caused by the accident. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you at the station.”
Riley hung up and Obrasey was left sitting in her car, feeling the thrill and the fear that came with a case where the evidence seemed contradictory.
She immediately pulled up another number and called another number.
“Hello?” said a kindly female voice.
“Hi, Carol,” said Obrasey. “Can I speak with John?”
“Of course, may I ask who’s calling?”
“Officer Amanda Obrasey. We meet at the police gala a few weeks ago.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. How are you?”
“I’m great, can you please get John?”
“You know, that was a very nice gala, when are they planning another? I quite liked the appetizers.“
“Carol, I’m sorry, but this is urgent. I need to speak with John immediately.”
“Hmm, okay then.” She could hear the phone being placed down and then a huff, followed by some deliberate stomping as Carol went to search for her husband.
He came onto the line a few minutes later. His grizzled and weak voice was comforting to Obrasey. He had been a rock in the Crescent Point for almost forty years, longer than most of the town had existed. If you ever needed to know about the history of Crescent Point police work, he was much faster and more accurate than any of the dusty files in the basement beneath the police station.
“Hello? Obrasey? What do you want?”
“I needed to ask you a question. I’m sorry if I upset Carol.”
John let out a grunt. “She’ll get over it. What do you want?”
“You examined Jake Lavelle when he came in last night, right?”
“I did.”
“What was his blood alcohol content like?”
“About point-two-six, based on my tests. Pretty severe, but nothing life-threatening, and I assume he was fine tonight as long as he rested a bit. Why are you asking this?”
Obrasey was gripping her steering wheel with her free hand, knowing she was close to blowing the entire investigation wide open. “In order for someone to have that level of drunkenness and still be conscious, how recently would they have had to be drinking?”
She could hear John grumble on the other side of the line. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, that is it possible he drank nothing prior to getting in the car an hour before his crash and then drove an hour, drinking nothing, and then crashed, in order to maintain that level of blood alcohol content?”
“No,” said John immediately, his frown evident in his voice. “That is impossible. It’s amazing he was able to drive as far as he did with that much alcohol in his system. He should be dead. He almost certainly has a guardian angel watching over him. He would have needed a steady flow of alcohol. I would presume that he would need to have drunk at least a six-pack of beer in the car during his drive, or less of something stronger. It’s more likely he had a large bottle of whiskey or brandy or something along those veins—whatever the kids are drinking these days.”
“You would testify to that?”
“Absolutely. There’s no other way. You seemed excited. What are you getting at with this?”
Obrasey tried to still her excitement. “There was no trace of alcohol in the car.”
“There was what?”
“No trace whatsoever of alcohol being in the car.”
“That’s not possible.” John paused. “How is that possible?”
“That’s what I’m going to figure out. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Give my regards to Carol.”
She ended the call and immediately called Chief Williams. She got his voicemail. He was probably still out at the bar. She left a message detailing what she'd discovered and that she was making a trip to Boston to search through the rest of his story. She hung up and pulled on to the road, increasing her speed past the limit in order to make it to Boston before the bars began to close, working to make up time she had lost making the calls.
She could feel her heartbeat rising once again. She had something. She knew she did. Now she just had to find out what exactly it was.
As she was driving, another question came into her mind. If she had been this relentlessly focused on the case of Frank Frederickson’s disappearance, would she have found a similar inconsistency? She pushed the thought out of her mind but promised herself that once she had sorted out the case of Jake Lavelle, she would look into the evidence the detectives who had taken the case and then almost immediately declared that Frank Frederickson had run off somewhere with some woman.
She arrived in Boston after midnight and found the club where Jake had stated the bachelor party had been held.
She flashed her badge at the bouncer standing at the front of the line. He was an enormous man with broad shoulders and a light complexion. When he saw the badge, he nodded as though it were any regular old form of identification. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“You recognize this guy? He was here last night?” She held up Jake’s photo.
Using the same small flashlight he used to see IDs, the bouncer looked at the photo for a few seconds then shook his head. “I don’t recognize him,” he said, handing the photo back to Obrasey, “but a lot of people go past me. You can check inside with Keith. He would know.”
"Where's Keith?"
The bouncer laughed. “Go to the bar and find the Asian guy with a British accent. It shouldn’t be too hard.”
Obrasey walked inside and up the stairs into the club.
On the far side of the club from the DJ was a black bar. Three bartenders ran back and forth behind the bar.
As she walked across the club’s floor, both men and women looked up and down at her hiking boots and army gear. She looked more like an army officer off duty than anyone who belonged at a club.
Obrasey spotted Keith and muscled her way to the bar. She held up her badge to get Keith’s attention.
“Fuck! Again?” Keith shouted over the crowd the moment he saw the badge. “Take over the bar,” he shouted to the other bartenders. He turned to Obrasey, shouting as his face was periodically illuminated by the strobe lights. “Follow me. It’ll be easier to talk.”
Keith walked out from behind the bar and led Obrasey to a door labeled “Employees Only.” There was another door beyond that with the walls painted a nice red. Keith slid a key into the lock and stepped inside. This was a basic break room, similar to the ones you would find at any other bar or store, except for the posters on the walls displaying signed pictures of DJs that had played at their club. Obrasey didn’t recognize any of them, not that she could name a single DJ.
The music was mostly muted in there; only the faintest thump could be heard. Obrasey had to snap to make sure her hearing was still working at its full capacity.
Keith didn’t sit down. He was tall, with Korean features and spiked-up black hair. He was wearing a tank top and tattoos lined his right arm.
“What do you want?” he said in a distinctly British accent, crossing his arms. “I need to get back out there.”
She pulled out the photo of Jake she had printed. “Was this guy here last night?”
Keith laughed when he saw the picture. “What kind of game is this?” he said. “Send different people to gauge my responses? I told your friends—and your other friends—the same thing that I’m going to tell you. He wasn’t here. Or maybe he was here, and I didn’t see him. His friends came looking for him. You can check the tapes, but they already did, so I don’t see the point. He was here, or he wasn’t, and I don’t know where he is, so whatever you want, get out of here. I’m not taking any bribes, I’m not taking anything. Got it?”
Obrasey frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Keith began pacing the room. “This is a waste of my time. This is the third time I’ve had people come in here asking about this guy. I don’t care. He was here. He wasn’t here. Who cares? I’m not going to lie about him being here with a bunch of his dumbass friends, because he wasn’t, and I’m not going to tell anyone that he was here.”
“Keith!”
Keith looked up at her.
“I need you to calm down,” she said. “I am the only p
olice officer currently on this case. There is no one else involved. This is a very basic case that should not have anyone else interested. Anyone else who spoke to you is not with law enforcement of any kind. I need you to tell me who came here.”
Keith nodded and fell onto the couch. He grinned.
“My step-dad was a cop,” he said. “You give off the same vibe. The others didn’t. I didn’t realize that that’s what it was until now, but it is. It’s this vibe of control and knowledge, of knowing that you have the full power of the police force behind you if anything should go wrong. Those others didn’t have it, even with their FBI badges.”
“FBI?” gasped Obrasey, interrupting him involuntarily. “What FBI?”
Keith eyed her closely. “You have no idea?”
“No,” said Obrasey. “There is no reason at all the FBI should be involved. This is a case of a drunk driver.”
Keith frowned. “So they weren’t FBI?”
“I have no idea. I’m going to need you to tell me what happened.”
“Fuck,” he said. “I don’t want to get caught up in this.”
“You won’t. Just tell me what happened.”
Keith took a deep breath and began his story. “This afternoon, around three o’clock, just as I was arriving at the club and opening up, these two guys approached me. They weren’t regulars, but they seemed nice enough and said that they’d been there the previous night at a bachelor party. They said their friend, same guy whose picture you just showed me, had gone missing, and they hadn’t been able to find him. I promised I’d keep an eye out, and they gave me a number to call if he happened to come by. At the time I thought nothing of it; that kind of thing happens all the time. A few hours later, around six I think, these guys show up in suits with those little windy earpieces. They flashed FBI badges and asked me the same thing you did. They showed me the picture and asked if I had seen him. I told them he’d been here the previous night and that his two friends had come looking for him this morning. By this point I was pretty terrified. I’ve never spoken to a government agent before, and I was sweating profusely. Cops are one thing. FBI is a whole other beast.