by Sarah Shaber
Since it was lunchtime, uniformed men and women were lounging around outside the buildings, eating sandwiches out of paper bags and drinking soft drinks. They were all wearing sunglasses. Simon wished he had his. The unrelieved noonday sun was glaring straight down and hurt his eyes even inside the car. It was a harsh scene, and Simon felt his spirits wane a little.
Gates drove up to a gate in one of the many fences and flashed his badge at a guard, who opened it and waved him through. Once inside, Gates stopped and pulled out a diagram filled with rows of typescript.
"We've got hundreds of cars here," Gates said. "Every one is marked on this map. I've got to remind myself where yours is located." Simon looked out over a paved field full of automobiles, most with the orange sticker pasted on the windshield that meant it had been abandoned. Then among the metallic blacks, grays, and blues, Simon saw the sun glint off a rosy hood about ten cars down.
"I swear," Simon said, "I see a pink automobile." Gates tucked the diagram into his inside coat pocket and eased his car forward until they were even with the hot-pink Cadillac. It was pink inside, too, and had huge speakers in the back and a plastic naked lady hanging from the rearview mirror.
"Is that a drugmobile, or what?" Gates said. "Talk about a walking advertisement for cocaine. You should have seen the courier. He was wearing a white suit and a white hat with a pink feather in it. Incredible."
"So, do you arrest everyone you see driving a pink car?"
"Unfortunately, no. That's not probable cause to arrest anyone. The Constitution protects your right to drive a pink car without being hassled by the police." Simon listened for a hint of cynicism in Gates remarks, but there wasn't any. "But," Gates said, "you can bet the Highway Patrol tails a car like this all the way up I-Ninett-Five, hoping the guy will make one teensy little mistake. He did. He tried to leave a self-serve gas station without paying. The guy is hauling half a million dollars' worth of cocaine from Florida to New York City, and he tries to steal twenty-five bucks' worth of gas. What a loser."
"So after you arrested the guy, you searched the car?" "We had to have probable cause for that, too. We can't search a vehicle for drugs when it's stopped for a non-drug-related violation. In this case, the guy was frisked during protective search and he had drug paraphernalia in his pocket. That gave us probable cause to search the entire car, and what we found counts as admissible evidence. It wouldn't be, say, if we had opened his trunk just because he was driving a pink car and looked like a bad guy right out of Miami Vice."
"Sounds complicated." "It can be. The police are very restricted when it comes to search and discovery. Julia gives us a seminar on proper procedures about once a week. There always seems to be some new twist."
"So what happens to the car?"
"It's government property now; it'll be sold. Know anyone who might be interested?" "Not offhand, but I'll ask around."
Gates had started moving down the row of cars again.
"There's your Thunderbird," he said.
The damage to his car wasn't as bad as Simon had feared. Even though he had been too woozy to put on the brakes, he hadn't been going very fast, and the stone wall was curved at the point of impact. The front fender on the driver's side was crumpled, the left headlight was smashed, and the hood was popped. The rest of the car looked okay.
"I think the engine is all right," Gates said. "I ran it for a while. Who knows about the drive train—you might get lucky."
"Of course, there's the matter of where the carbon monoxide poisoning came from," Simon said. Gates didn't say anything.
Simon walked around the car and looked inside it.
"Where's all my stuff ?" he said, noting that his CDs, sunglasses, and other personal possessions were missing. "All in a sealed box up at the impound office. You can pick it up when I take you home if you like. We'll release the car to you whenever you say. Just call the office here and tell the guys what wrecker company will pick it up."
"Thanks," Simon said. "But I still don't understand what all the fuss is about." Gates went back to his car and opened the trunk. It was filled with cop stuff—Simon saw traffic cones, a couple of big tackle-type boxes bound up in plastic tape, a broom, and a shotgun. Gates extracted a powerful flashlight from the clutter, walked back to Simon's car, and knelt down next to the Thunderbird. He shined the light under the car.
"Look at this," he said. Simon got down on his hands and knees and looked. It took a few seconds for his brain to process what he saw. A piece of hose had been inserted into the tailpipe of his car and taped in place with duct tape. The hose ran along the pipe a short way and then was jammed into the drain hole in the trunk and taped there, too. The exhaust from his car had entered the trunk and from there seeped into the interior of the car, where Simon inhaled it and then drove into a stone wall.
"Dear God," Simon said. He was unable to think clearly, and suddenly he didn't feel very well. He sat down on the ground and tried to collect his thoughts. No wonder Gates had investigated the accident so closely.
"I don't have to tell you that this is a very serious matter," Gates said. "Whoever did this could be charged with attempted murder." "Dear God," Simon said again. "Who would want to do such a thing?" "You tell me," Gates said.
"I have no idea. It can't have been personal."
"Let's get out of the sun and find someplace where we can talk," Gates said.
They drove out of the impound lot and parked at the brick building next to it. When they went inside, it was cool, quiet, and dark. It was still lunch hour. Gates commandeered a small conference room and went to get Simon's personal effects. Simon sat at the small cheap table in an old office chair that had been bought around 1952. The green plastic seat was torn and the springs sagged. The walls of the room were painted an institutional green and the linoleum floor was gray with age. There was an out-of-date state calendar on the wall with a picture of the legislative building on it. There were no curtains on the windows, just institutional blinds with slats about two inches wide. The closed blinds directed the strong sunlight down into bars of light on the floor. There wasn't a magazine or anything else in the room to distract him from thinking about the fact that he had almost died. His mind refused to progress to the thought that someone had deliberately tried to kill him.
Simon wanted to go home and not have the conversation he was about to have with Sergeant Gates. Better yet, he wanted to go back in time to a safe place—a really safe place. Say his parents' cabin in the mountains, where it would get so dark in the holler that he couldn't see his hand in front of his face in the middle of the night when the hooty owls woke him up. Then he would turn on his Boy Scout flashlight and find his way into his parents' room and get in bed with them. There he would feel absolutely safe and sleep soundly until morning. It was a time when nothing went wrong that his parents couldn't fix and when the people he loved didn't leave him.
Gates came into the room with a cardboard box under one arm and a Coke in the other. "I figured you could use something cold,” Gates said. "Isn't this your poison?" Simon gratefully drained half of the Coke that Gates handed him.
"You know," Gates said, "that stuff dissolves nails."
"There are worse addictions," Simon said.
Gates sat down and pushed the box and a release form over to Simon. Simon just looked at the paper.
"You need to sign that to show that you received all the personal contents from your car," Gates said. "Oh," Simon said. He took the pen Gates handed him and signed the form. "I wish you would check the box first," Gates said.
"I'm sorry," Simon said. "I'm just not thinking very clearly right now."
Simon looked through the box. The only things he cared about were his CDs and sunglasses, and they were there, along with a lot of other junk—maps, an ice scraper, a yellow pad with a pen clipped to it, a handful of pennies, nickels, and dimes, his college parking card, and three packets of sugar. He took out the sunglasses and hooked them in the neck of his polo shirt
.
"It's all here," Simon said.
"Good," Gates said. "Now, let me fill you in on what I've learned about your accident. Then I've got some questions for you, and I expect you have some questions for me." "Okay," Simon said.
From the time he had seen the hose threaded through his Thun- derbird's exhaust and into the trunk, Simon felt like he was watching a grade-B detective flick for the second time from the back row of a movie theater. It was hard for him to concentrate on Gates. How could he be sitting here, about to be questioned by a police detective about an incident that could have cost him his life? When was the show going to end and the lights go up?"
"Are you okay?" Gates asked.
"I guess so," Simon said. "This is hard to take in."
"You're still in shock," Gates said. "Believe me, I had a motive for springing this on you the way I did. I wanted to see the expression on your face when you saw that apparatus under your car and realized what it meant."
"And what did you see?" Simon said.
"Disbelief, anger, a little fear," Gates said. "All the reactions one would expect from an innocent man." "Innocent?" Simon said. "What do you mean, innocent?" The implication forced Simon to reenter reality. He sat up a little straighter and drained his Coke. He wanted to take a headache pill, but he didn't want Gates to see him do it. "Surely you don't think I did this to myself ?" Simon asked. "You think I tried to kill myself ?" The thought pulled the knot in the back of his neck a little tighter.
"Actually, no, I don't," Gates said. "Not now."
"But you thought about it. Why?"
"You yourself told me you were taking an antidepressant," Gates said. "And the first person I talked to this morning was Alex Andrus. He implied that you might have tried to commit suicide. He said your wife had left you and that you were in the midst of a professional crisis, as well."
Simon felt the room begin to tilt slightly and he concentrated on bringing his emotions under control and the moving room to a halt. "Spit it out, son," Gates said. "You look like you're about to explode." "Alex Andrus is pond scum," Simon said finally.
"He is not a big fan of yours, either. But let me start at the beginning." "Please do."
"When I arrived at the scene of your accident, both the paramedics, and I realized that your symptoms were indicative of carbon monoxide poisoning."
"That's why everyone kept asking me if there was anything wrong with my car." "That's right. We assumed that you had an exhaust leak somewhere. I looked under the car. The tampering was obvious. So I impounded the car and our evidence guys went over it with a fine- tooth comb."
"And what did they find?" "Not much. No fingerprints on the rough surface of the hose, which, by the way, matched a hose I found in your carport with a length cut out of it. The only other places where fingerprints of the perp might logically have been found—the exhaust pipe and the undercarriage of the car near the trunk drain—had been wiped clean."
"I can't think of any reason why anyone would do such a thing." Simon was gripping the sides of his chair so hard that his fingers were growing numb. He forced himself to relax, releasing his grip and breathing deeply. It didn't help. He found himself with his arms and legs crossed tensely, as if he was protecting his body from attack.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Gates said. "Anyway, then we ran the engine for a while with the hose in place, and sure enough, plenty of carbon monoxide filtered into the passenger compartment. The air conditioner was on, wasn't it? All the right buttons were pushed."
"Yes."
"The volume control on the stereo was on seven. Kind of loud. It about blasted me out of the seat."
"Under normal conditions, I can listen to Eric Clapton and drive at the same time. I have a Ph.D."
"Be serious," Gates said quietly. "This is an official inquiry."
"Isn't there supposed to be a bright light shining in my face or something? Aren't you going to book me?"
"We can arrange that, but I'd rather not. Look, I know you're the victim here, but I need answers. If you don't feel well, we can do this another time."
Simon felt fine, except that he was very angry. His heart was pounding and his face was hot from the blood that had rushed to it. "I'm sorry," Simon said. "I'll be serious."
"Okay," Gates said. "Now, when was the last time you saw your garden hose?" Simon stared at him. He had to be kidding.
"Gosh, I don't know. I usually check the whereabouts of my garden hose several times a day, but I guess I've just been busy recently. Do you mean, on the way to the grocery store did I see my garden hose with a chunk cut out of it and wonder about it? No, I did not. Sure do wish I had. Could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble, doctor's bills and taxpayers' money and all that."
"I asked for that," Gates said. "That question came out wrong. Let's start again. Do you remember the last time you used your hose, and where it was at the time?" "Nor did I cut a chunk of said hose and thread it into my car and try to kill myself in such an incompetent way, in full view of the entire neighborhood." "I don't think you did."
"What did Alex Andrus tell you?"
"Is this what all this rage is about?"
"Yes, goddamn it."
"I don't blame you for being angry. You can take on Andrus later. Now, cooperate with me, or I'll take you downtown and get that bright light and a few minions and a stenographer and we'll stay there until we're done. Or I'll take you back to the hospital and make them examine your head."
Simon leaned his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands for a few seconds. Then he sat up. "Okay," he said, "the last time I noticed my garden hose was when I watered my front yard a few days ago. I don't remember what day. Then I rolled it up and threw it behind a bush."
"Where the water spigot is?"
"Yes."
"I found it a few feet away in the carport. Together with a roll of duct tape. Was that yours?"
"I honestly don't know. Probably. I used some a few days ago to hold my lawn mower together so I could cut the grass. I guess I left it in the carport."
"Okay. So you drove home from Anne Bloodworth's funeral, parked in your carport, and walked to your four o'clock class." "Right."
"You walked home, arriving when?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe around six o'clock."
"You went to the grocery store when?"
"Around quarter after six."
"You weren't headed in the right direction."
"The streets were blocked by utility trucks," Simon said. "I had to go around the block." "Then you had the accident. That means your car was tampered with between quarter to four and six o'clock. The guy who did this—whoever he was—had some nerve. He cut up your hose and got under your car in full view of the street."
"He could have come in from the back, from the alley." "Yes, but he still would have had to work right in the carport," Gates said. "He took a big chance. Mind you, it would have taken only a few minutes to cut the hose, get under the car, thread the hose into the exhaust, poke it through the drain hole, and tape it in place. Still, it's a miracle no one saw him."
"It's unbelievable," Simon said. "I still can't figure out why someone would do such a thing."
"We'll talk about that in a minute."
Gates referred to his notes. "I hung out around your neighborhood yesterday evening. I saw some weird characters."
"Colorful is the word."
"Does colorful include the guy with the raincoat who mumbles to himself and the woman dressed in the ball gown and sneakers?"
"They're regulars. Harmless."
"And all those guys with yellow plastic bags labeled CENTRAL PRISON wandering around?" "They're not wandering around. They get on the bus when they get released and get off at Hillsborough Street. Then they go to Cameron Village and spend their fifty bucks or catch another bus. Contributes to the ambience of the place. The Republicans in the neighborhood give us more trouble."
"There are enough alleys, garages, storage sheds, and lea
n-tos around the houses on your block to hide the entire James gang. And I checked the police logs for major crimes over the past two years in a four-block area surrounding your street. One rape, three arson attempts, break-ins—"
"The rape was a once-in-a-million-years thing; the arsonist was a guy who went a little crazy when his girlfriend left him. He was very careful to torch only garages. The breakins . . . well, it's an urban neighborhood. It's as safe as anywhere else these days. What's your point?"
"My point is, considering the location of your home, vandalism becomes a possibility."
Simon seized on this. He hadn't much liked the idea of someone trying to kill him personally. Killing him impersonally was much more acceptable, psychologically speaking. "You think it was some kind of prank?" "It was such an incompetent way to try to kill someone, it's hard to believe there was homicidal intent. For one thing, the hose could have worked its way out of the exhaust pipe. You could have had the windows or the vents open and never known it was there. And finally, you could have just fallen asleep and hit something, which is what happened. For all those same reasons, suicide doesn't work, either—a guy with your brains could surely come up with a better idea."
"Why would someone risk being arrested just for an anonymous prank?" "Look at it this way. Some petty con's been released from prison, he's real angry— maybe he was expecting his girlfriend to meet him and she didn't show—and all he's got in the world is fifty bucks and a yellow plastic bag with a razor and a few odds and ends in it. On his way to the bus stop, he passes a nice house with a real nice car in the driveway —things he'll never have in his life. Nobody's home or on the street. He takes out his rage on you and your property. That's what malicious mischief is all about. Except we could charge this guy with something a lot more serious. But if this was not directed at your personally, it'll be impossible to find him. There's no witness, no prints, no MO, and no motive. The guy vented, got on a bus, and is long gone."
Simon felt himself relax a little.
