by Frank Zafiro
“But the math?”
“I had to program all of it into the spreadsheet. So I got to be pretty expert on the equations.”
I raised my hands in a hallelujah gesture. “Then let’s talk.”
Adam scratched out a rough diagram on a napkin, drawing a stick figure and a boxy car. Then he asked, “What factor are you trying to determine?”
I thought about Henry Brassart’s murder. “Let’s say the pedestrian was thrown fifty feet or so from the point of impact. How fast would the car need to be going?”
Adam considered. Then he asked, “Flat roadway?”
“Pretty much.”
“Is the pedestrian moving or standing still?”
“Moving.”
“Toward or away from the vehicle?”
“Away.”
“At what speed?”
“What is jogging speed?” I asked. I knew he knew exactly what the scenario was, but he was asking these questions to keep it theoretical. It seemed like a foolish dance to me, but if that’s what he needed, then I’d play along.
“About five miles an hour,” he said. “Guesstimate.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Pedestrian’s weight?”
“Say two hundred.”
“So not a factor. How about the vehicle? Car, truck?”
“A luxury car.”
“Like a Cadillac?”
“More like a Lexus.” I thought about it a second. “Or a Mercedes.”
He scratched out a few more numbers, then worked on the equation for a minute or two using the calculator function on his phone. Finally, he leaned back and sighed. “There are a lot of variables that come into play,” he said, almost apologetically.
“Such as?”
“The height of the bumper on the vehicle, for one. Where it contacts with the pedestrian. Does the car hit the person dead-center, or was it more of a glancing hit. Did the pedestrian get hung up on the car or carried for any of the distance. Did the pedestrian hit a secondary object after being hit by the car? It all factors in.”
“A lot?”
“It can, yeah. Most of these variables can be narrowed down by evidence on the roadway or the medical examiner’s findings. But since we’re talking theoretical here, that’d be just be guesswork, right?”
“Right,” I agreed. “Can you ballpark it?”
“In a theoretical scenario like this, to throw a body fifty feet after collision, the vehicle would need to be traveling between twenty-five and twenty-nine miles per hour at impact.”
“The speed limit, basically.”
Adam shrugged. “Close enough.”
I thought about Henry Brassart and the piece of yellow crime scene tape again. An idea struck me. “Wait, did you say something about one of the variables being if the pedestrian struck a secondary object?”
“Yes.”
“Does a tree count?”
Adam gave me a look. “Are you kidding me? Yes, of course it counts.”
I tapped his sketch on the napkin. “Let’s say that he hit a tree at the fifty foot mark. Does that change the speed?”
“I’m sure it does. There’s a different equation for that, though.”
“Do you know it?”
He gave me a baleful look and returned to his scratching and calculator tapping. After a minute, he piped up, “If he hit a tree square at fifty feet, that puts the vehicle speed at roughly forty-nine miles per hour.”
“That much?”
“That’s what physics says, yes. And keep in mind that’s a minimum speed.”
“Kind of rules out an accident, doesn’t it?”
“That would be for an investigator to decide. But, theoretically, if the collision occurred on a residential street with a speed limit of twenty-five miles per hour?” He nodded. “Yeah, I think for it to be an accident, you’d be looking at manslaughter just based on the recklessness of the driving.”
“Or murder.”
“If it were intentional, yes.”
“How much damage would that do to the vehicle?”
Adam shrugged. “Now you’re getting into trying to determine damage by speed or speed from damage, and that’s a whole other realm. Even Hallock said that’s a mixture of math, educated guesswork, and wizardry, even in car-to-car crashes. Difficult or impossible in auto-pedestrian collisions.”
“Want to take an educated guess?”
He thought about it, then shrugged. “Probably the same as if someone hit a deer at the same speed.”
That made sense to me. I raised my cup to him in gratitude. “Thank you for the intellectual discussion in the theoretical realm, Professor.”
He didn’t raise his cup in response. Instead, he said, “Stef, I’m worried about you. Poking around in police business is a bad idea. Especially a murder case.”
I lowered my cup without drinking. “Relax. I’m just asking questions for a friend.”
“The last couple of times you did that, it didn’t work out so well for you.”
I shrugged. “It turned out all right in the end.”
He didn’t reply. We drank our coffee in silence for a little while, then he said he had to get back to work. As he rose to leave, I stopped him.
“I’m going to be fine,” I said.
He pressed his lips together, gave me a short nod, and left without a reply.
32
After Adam left, I sat alone for a while, finishing a second cup of Americano. A little bit of guilt seeped into my conscience. Adam didn’t know about Cole and Matsuda interviewing me yet, but he would undoubtedly hear about it at some point. And it would end up being one more thing to pile onto the stack of reasons why staying friends with me was more trouble than it was worth. I wondered how much longer I could count on Adam to stick, even if it was his nature.
Speaking of nature, I wondered how good a friend I really was. Asking the guy for information put him in a lousy place. Sure, he compensated for it by making everything theoretical, but that was a thin disguise for what was really happening. What kind of friend uses his friends like that?
When my Americano was gone, I felt just shitty enough to decide I needed to walk it off. I started off down First Avenue, heading toward the downtown core. I set an easy pace, just slow enough to avoid having to limp. Even so, my knee twinged with every step, seeming to still be suffering from when I went barreling past the blue Taurus and up the street to my car.
I slowed down a little more, but kept walking.
If Adam’s calculations were even close, there was little doubt Henry Brassart had been murdered. I never really gave a lot of consideration to the possibility of an accidental death anyway, but it was good to know what Harrity would be up against if he took the case. I’m sure the official investigation narrowed the speed down more precisely, since the investigators were privy to all the smaller details Adam mentioned. But I didn’t think the end result would be too far astray from what Adam came up with.
I thought about what it took to purposefully drive a car into a person. Was it easier than pointing a gun and squeezing the trigger? You wouldn’t have to look the person in the face, at least not in Brassart’s case. But I tried to imagine what a sickening sound the collision would make, and found I didn’t like what my imagination told me.
At an alley entrance, I saw a flash of movement. Too late, I raised my hands in defense. Someone grabbed me by the jacket and hurled me toward the alley. I stumbled forward, trying to stay on my feet, but my knee gave way and I hit the pavement. A moment later, a pair of hands hauled me up to my feet, again by my jacket.
“Wait,” I started to say, but he didn’t.
Instead, he flung me against the brick wall. My left shoulder struck first, bearing most of the brunt, followed by the side of my face. Pain zinged through my shoulder, old injuries crying out to new ones. I wondered crazily how fast I’d been going on impact, and if there were mathematical calculations for that.
I pushed away and to the si
de in time to see a large pair of hands reaching for me again. He got a good grip on the front of my jacket and slammed me against the wall again. My shoulders sang out in a sharp pain and the back of my head whiplashed into the brick a moment later. My eyes unfocused. A moment or two later, they refocused, and I got my first look at my attacker. The acne-scarred face and short military haircut looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place him.
He held me off-balance, up on my tippy-toes.
“You’re a smart little fuck, aren’t you?” he growled.
I didn’t reply. What do you say to that?
“Let me tell you what you’re going to do, pal. Are you listening?”
I bobbed my head, trying to collect my senses. He didn’t seem to have a weapon. Both of his hands were tied up holding my jacket. He was big, though, as wide as a truck.
“Good,” he continued. “It’s really simple. You’re going to go home. That’s all. Go home and stop meddling around in shit you don’t understand. Get it?”
I nodded again.
“See? Smart.” He leaned in closer, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Make sure you do it, pal. Otherwise—”
I made my move, driving my knee sharply upward into his groin. I watched his eyes bug out in surprise and pain as I landed the blow. His grasp on my jacket loosened. Without pause, I raised my hands high and dropped both elbows into the crook of his arms. His hands fell away from me.
“You…” he grunted.
My left arm dropped to my side, mostly useless. The collision with the brick wall and the technique I just threw were too much for that bad shoulder. So I struck him hard in the solar plexus with the palm heel of my right hand. It was like hitting a refrigerator. My palm bounced back and pain flared in my wrist, but he let out another grunt.
I curled my hand into a fist and threw an uppercut, catching him on the point of the chin. His jaw slammed shut, and he staggered back. Blood spilled out of his mouth and his eyes lost their focus.
Your turn, I thought. How’s it feel?
I thought about pushing my advantage, and I thought about running. Twenty feet away was the relative safety of First Avenue and witnesses. No cop would continue this fight in front of witnesses.
That thought stopped me cold. What kind of cop pulls someone into an alley to warn him off a case with a beating? Maybe in New York, or New Orleans, but here in River City?
His eyes came back into focus, and just like that, my advantage was gone. I tried to raise my left arm in defense, grimacing as pain shot through my shoulder again.
He launched his fist at my head. I tucked my chin and raised my arm even higher, making it tremble with the effort. The punch crashed into my forearm, and I staggered backward into the wall again.
“Fucker!” he growled, flecks of blood flying out at me. His words were thick and the ‘r’ had no definition to it. He pulled his arm back for another blow.
I waited until he threw the punch, then slipped to my right. His first blasted into the wall where my head had been. He howled in pain, pulling his hand back and shaking it.
Without a pause, I stepped away from him, then launched a low kick aimed at the back of his thigh. But my knee buckled, and the kick slapped weakly against him as I toppled to the ground. I pushed myself up, leaning heavily on my good leg. As I made it to my feet, his left hand shot out and grabbed me by the throat.
His grip was fierce, his arm like an iron rod. I struck at his forearm with my right hand but it bounced off without effect. His eyes gleamed with the malevolence of a predator as he pushed me backward and pressed me to the brick wall for a third time.
“I should kill you,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, his words slightly muddled.
White spots began dancing in my vision. I knew I didn’t have long before I passed out. I flailed at him with my arms, but my blows were weak and ineffective.
He ignored my efforts, and turned and spat. A thick wad of red flew from his mouth.
I tried to kick him but could barely raise my leg.
He turned back to me. “You mind your own fucking business,” he growled, his bitten tongue making him sound like a deaf person. “Or next time I will kill you...”
He kept squeezing, staring at me all the while.
I wished for a gun.
I thought of Clell.
My grandmother.
Anna.
His savage grin faded into darkness.
33
When I came to, I was still in the alley, sitting with my knees drawn up. I glanced around the immediate area, but my attacker was gone. Slowly, I turned to my right, using my good leg to force myself to my feet. As my senses came back into full focus, I felt a warmth at my crotch. My first thought was blood, but when I glanced down, I saw that I’d wet myself.
Jesus, I thought. He choked the piss out of me.
It was like a bad joke.
I made my way back to my car, ignoring everyone I passed, not making eye contact. Once I made it to the car, I headed for home. As I drove, I thought about the face of the man who’d attacked me. I knew now where I’d seen it before.
He bumped into me just outside of Henry Brassart’s office building. And looking back now, I was sure that was no coincidence. He’d been following me.
But why?
My first guess would have been that he was a cop, but no cop would pull a stunt like he did. It was too dangerous, too likely to backfire. So he was working for someone else.
Who?
I tossed that idea around for a little while. Did he work for the cops? Marie Brassart? Thad Richards? Or someone else entirely?
Every option seemed foolish.
The cops wouldn’t authorize someone to attack me. It could be too easily traced back to them, for one thing. Plus, if they wanted me off the case, arresting me for obstruction was a more effective way to accomplish it. And besides, they may not be certain yet that I wasn’t involved somehow.
As for Marie, why would she want me followed? And how could she have arranged for it that quickly? I supposed she could have made a phone call from jail after we met, but again – to what end?
Thad Richards had no reason that I could see, either. And I had just finished speaking to him minutes before the guy ran into me outside the building. I guess Richards could have called the guy to come to the office before he met with me, and called him again immediately after I left his office, but I came back to the same question: why? How did he benefit?
So who else could it be? Who didn’t I know that was somehow involved in this situation? Who was lurking the shadows?
My drive home was a short one, but it could have been all four and half hours to Seattle, and I don’t think I’d have come up with an answer.
At my apartment, I stripped off my soiled clothes and started the shower. Right before I stepped in, my phone rang.
It was Anna.
“Hello,” I answered.
“I thought about what you said.” Her voice didn’t sound quite as flat as it had before. “And if you’re interested, I’d like to have coffee again.”
“Sure,” I said, without hesitation.
“I have to work tonight, but what about before?”
“That sounds great.”
We set a time and she hung up. I glanced at the digital readout of my phone. I had about three hours before I was supposed to meet her. I felt like I could spend an hour of that under the hot water of the shower.
Before I got in, though, I washed down some ibuprofen and inspected my shoulder in the mirror. The back was no longer red, but I could see where it would bruise. Even more prominent was the bruising around my throat. My head ached and there was a small lump on the back of my skull where it had collided with the brick wall.
My mind flashed to the image of the acne-scarred face of my attacker. I remembered the thickness of his speech after I punched him and made him bite his tongue. I found myself wishing he bit off a chunk. About the size of a steak.
Ass
hole.
I soaked under the shower until the hot water ebbed, then I dried off carefully. The ibuprofen began to kick in but I could tell it was only going to touch the pain, not eradicate it. I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad, but in the end, it didn’t really matter because I’d be dealing with it either way.
I sat at the kitchen table and re-read my notes, scratching out a few more, but nothing revelatory. Time passed slowly, and I thought about watching TV. I went so far as to get up and walk to the set, but then changed my mind. Instead, I flopped onto the couch, where I surprised myself by falling into a light doze.
Before I knew it, the time had come to meet Anna. I splashed some cold water on my face and headed out.
34
She chose an independent coffee house I’d never been to before. It was located on the South Hill, just below Eighteenth, which put it just outside the business district and on the fringe of the middle class residential area. A few more blocks south, the houses got bigger and went up a tax bracket. The little hole in the wall coffee shop would never have been allowed to open in that neighborhood.
But that was the eclectic nature of River City. Instead of wide swaths of homogenous neighborhoods, this city existed largely in neighborhood pockets. Even in Hillyard, arguably the roughest section of the city, the character of the neighborhood changed from block to block. One block might be all home owners with an active neighborhood group while two blocks away you had the scourge of low end rentals housing a parade of meth users. When I was on the job, I saw the real downside of this patch-working of neighborhoods: it put ready-made victims within walking distance of the criminals.
Here on the South Hill, instead of a meth house, there was a coffee house within walking distance. Five miles away from Hillyard, but a world apart.
This time, I arrived before Anna. I took a seat in the corner. Some habits never die.
She walked through the door five minutes later, dressed casually in jeans and a loose blouse over a T-shirt. If I didn’t know to look for it, the small bulge on her hip would have been undetectable.