Chapter Eight
Jake followed Officer McMullen to his cruiser, a black-and-white muscle car with a massive chrome grille and a sleek modern lightbar on the roof. CHETWYND POLICE, read gold reflective letters on its jet-black door. Jake had managed not to be nervous when he’d given Officer McMullen his statement about the Dumpster accident because Donna had stayed with them, interrupting with chatter. But now that Jake was alone with the cop, he felt anxious about the ride home. He could have handled it before the news about Kathleen Lindstrom, but not now. It was as if he had too many emotions to hide.
“Mr. Buckman, there is no room for you up front. Don’t take it personally. My duty bag takes up the whole damn passenger seat. See?” Officer McMullen motioned to the front seat of the cruiser, where a gray nylon messenger bag filled the passenger seat next to a laptop mounted over the console, tilted toward the driver’s seat. A large black AK-47 was mounted upright between the two front seats, its butt down and its lethal muzzle facing up.
“I see,” Jake said, trying to get his act together.
“There’s not much room in this car, that’s the problem. We got these new Dodge Chargers with a hemi. We love ’em because they’re so fast. But they’re not that comfortable and the seats are small. Sometimes I miss the old Crown Vics.” Officer McMullen opened the back door. “Here you go, sir.”
“Thank you.” Jake climbed into the backseat, which had no cushioning, but was made of molded gray plastic and separated from the front seat by a metal barrier and a thick plastic panel, with a sliding window in the middle.
“Buckle up, sir.” Officer McMullen shut the heavy door, which made a solid sound.
“Thanks.” Jake reached for the shoulder harness, buckling himself in. He felt as if he deserved to be where he was, in the backseat of a cruiser. He should be under arrest, brought to justice to pay for the death of Kathleen Lindstrom.
“How you doing back there, sir? Could you be any less comfortable?” Officer McMullen climbed in the front seat, slammed his door closed, and buckled in his shoulder harness. He reached back and slid aside the window between the front seat and backseat, making a foot-wide opening.
“It’s fine, thanks,” Jake called back, miserably.
“Let’s roll.” Officer McMullen started the ignition, reversed out of the lot, and headed for the exit. “It’s a shame about your car.”
“It sure is.” Jake pulled out his iPhone and checked the time. It was almost nine o’clock, so Pam would be up. He prayed Ryan would still be in his room asleep, so he didn’t know about Kathleen yet.
“My brother-in-law has an Audi. They’re fast, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Excuse me, I’ll just text my wife and tell her we’re on the way.” Jake composed a text to Pam. Had a minor fender bender. Cop giving me a ride home.
“Good call.” Officer McMullen cruised ahead, talking idly over his shoulder. “I’m married twenty-six years. My wife likes it when she knows what’s going on. Women, they like to know things.”
“Right.” Jake added, See you soon. He hit SEND and held the phone. He looked out the window at the passing scenery, his heart aching.
“Kind of a busy morning, this one. Everybody’s over at a scene on Pike Road, a hit-and-run. That’s where I was when the property-damage call came in, for you. My supervisor told me to go.”
Oh God. Jake kept his expression calm, so he didn’t look suspicious in the rearview mirror. He hadn’t anticipated that McMullen would’ve been at the scene, but Pike Road and the Wawa were both in Whiteland Township, which was small. It wasn’t unlikely that the cop who came to the Wawa would also have been on Pike Road.
“I’ll tell you this, it wasn’t pretty.” Officer McMullen slowed the cruiser to a stop at a red light. “The victim was a high-school kid, a jogger. Female.”
“What a shame.” Jake swallowed hard, feeling a wave of regret so powerful he almost confessed. Then it could all be over. He would be punished, he would pay. But so would Ryan.
“They were gathering evidence when I left. No suspects yet, in case you were wondering.”
Jake should have been wondering, but he was still thinking about Kathleen. He flashed on her bloodied face, for the umpteenth time.
“We got a crack team on the case. We call in a team of accident-reconstruction officers who are specially trained to investigate a hit-and-run. We share them. We don’t have the payroll to justify them, or the need, but we borrow them from Pikeland Township.”
Jake nodded, but Officer McMullen didn’t require encouragement to keep talking.
“They’re crackerjack, five full-fledged accident-reconstruction specialists. Most of our guys were active-duty law enforcement, so they have a lot of experience too. We call it the total station.”
“I see.” Jake had to get it together. As anguished as he felt about Kathleen, it worried him to think of how expert the police could be. He felt his gut wrench, caught between feeling guilty and not wanting to get caught, for Ryan’s sake.
“They go out there with equipment, like surveyor’s equipment with the scope, and they triangulate the scene. They measure everything. They look for skidmarks, any damage, any trace evidence or other physical evidence, like pieces of the headlamp or any part that came off the car.” Officer McMullen kept his eyes on the road, and they looked flinty in the glare from the bright gray sky. “They collect that evidence, log it in, and bag it, and they can run down exactly what car it was, make and model, the whole nine.”
Jake’s phone signaled an incoming text, and he looked down. It was Pam, saying, Oh no, are you okay?
“It’s all up-to-the-minute technology, those guys are something else. They come back and upload all the data into the computer and they can completely rebuild the accident. They can tell you exactly how it happened.”
Jake texted back, I’m fine, don’t worry. Go to the gym if you want to. Don’t wait for me.
“This poor kid was knocked out of her shoes, her sneakers. Most pedestrians who get hit, they get knocked out of their shoes. I bagged her sneaker myself.”
Jake couldn’t hide the revulsion he felt inside and he didn’t try. He was the lowest form of life on the planet.
“A few months ago, I worked a scene, this is kind of gory, but we got body parts, like the skull. We put that in these cans, looks just like a regular paint can, gallon size. That’s for evidence that can decompose. We get all the evidence we can and we comb the area for debris. You never know what’ll pay off.”
Jake’s phone signaled a text. Pam replied, Not going to the gym. Ryan’s sick.
“And that’s only the beginning. We knock on doors, we ask the neighbors what did you see.”
Jake guessed Ryan must have found out that their victim was his classmate. He texted quickly, what’s the matter?
“Plus normally we can usually get good tapes from the cameras on the street, like the red-light cameras and such. They’re usually a real help.”
Jake felt panic tightening his chest. He hadn’t thought that street cameras or red-light cameras could have spotted them the night of the accident, and evidently, Ryan was awake and talking to Pam.
“Unfortunately, we got no red-light cameras on Pike Road. There’s nothing on that street. You know where else we get good evidence, usually?” Officer McMullen glanced in the rearview, waiting for an answer.
“No, where?” Jake asked, lightly. The text alert sounded on his phone, and Pam responded, God only knows. Ttyl.
“The Wawa, like where you were. They have the best cameras around. The resolution is awesome. Any hit-and-run, we check the local Wawas for their cameras. We get lucky about half the time.”
Jake realized he could’ve made a colossal blunder, going to the Wawa.
“You want my opinion, the driver was probably drunk. That’s why people hit and run. To avoid detection because they’re drunk.”
Jake nodded, texting to Pam, hang in, home soon.
“Drunks usually stop for a hoagie or something to eat. They’ve been drinking and they get hungry. Wawa has cameras in the parking lot out front, too, so we can see the cars pull up. We even get a good view of their license plates. It’s unreal how often we luck out.” Officer McMullen snorted. “Anyway, I’ll go back to the scene after I drop you off. The rest of my platoon is still there, and I bet the body will be, too.”
“Really?” Jake blurted out, appalled.
“Yep. I’ve had bodies lie for a while in this county.” Officer McMullen’s upper lip curled with distaste. “You have no idea. I’ve had bodies lie bleeding through the blanket and I had to change the blanket.”
Jake flashed on Kathleen, bloodied in his arms last night.
“Problem is the coroner is in East Chester and he’s not always in his office, because he doesn’t have to be, and he’s the only one who’s allowed to pick up the body. He makes the declaration, then he takes the body to the hospital for the post. Postmortem, that is.” Officer McMullen steered the cruiser onto the road leading to the Chetwynd development. “People think the coroner does the post, but he doesn’t. He’s an elected official, and so’s the deputy coroner. They’re not even doctors. They could even be dentists. That’s why he’s not in the office half the time. Between you and me, it’s political.” Officer McMullen shook his head. “I guarantee the body’s still there.”
Jake’s stomach did a backflip, and another wave of guilt engulfed him. He knew he couldn’t hide it, so he turned his face to the window, where the police officer couldn’t see.
“So anyway, the post gets done at Paoli Hospital by a forensic pathologist, and unlike the coroner, he’s the real deal. He gets the trace evidence off the body, like hair, fiber, any prints, evidence like that. Between what he finds and what we find, we’ll get him.”
Jake spotted his house at the end of the street, not a moment too soon.
“It could be a woman, too. Remember last year, that socialite who hit that kid on a skateboard?” Officer McMullen eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Did you read about that case?”
“Yes, I did.” Jake edged forward, hoping that Ryan was nowhere near a window to see a police car pulling up.
“We caught her in the end, and we’ll catch this one, too. It might take us a week, a couple of months, or even a year, but we’ll get him. It’s only a matter of time.” Officer McMullen glanced over his shoulder. “What number did you say it was again?”
“My house? Two thirty-six, with the black shutters.” Jake scanned the façade of his house, relieved nobody was at the windows. “Officer, thanks so much for the lift.”
“No problem, sir.” Officer McMullen steered the cruiser to the curb, slowed to a stop, and got out to open the back door. “Good luck with your car.”
“Thanks,” Jake said, fleeing the cruiser.