Darkness the Color of Snow (2 page)

 

CHAPTER 2

G
ORDY
H
AWKINS HEARS
the marimbas of his phone first in his dream, then in his waking. “Chief,” Pete says. Gordy bolts up. No one, especially not Pete, calls him Chief unless it's really bad.

“Chief, there's been an accident. You need to get up here. Route 417, quarter mile west of the Citgo.”

“Bad?”

“Fatal. Hit and run. Officer involved. Ronny Forbert.”

“Forbert? Dead?”

“No, no. He's OK. He was making an arrest when it happened. He's OK.”

“A few minutes, Pete.”

“Sorry to wake you, Gordy, but you need to be here.”

“Right. Right. A ­couple of minutes.”

Gordy turns on the edge of the bed to tell Bonita he has to go. He's momentarily startled to see her side of the bed still made. It's been more than six weeks since she's been there. Again he feels the hollowness inside him. He can't quite get used to it. He gets up, goes into the bathroom, and gets dressed.

H
E CAN SEE
the glow of the lights from a long distance. The Citgo is still nearly half a mile ahead, and the accident's a quarter mile beyond that. Every official vehicle in the town must be there. He's seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of accident scenes in his life. There is still something surreal about them at night, especially after being awakened, the lights, the bursts of flashlight on the suddenly destroyed, the responders moving in and out in their fluorescent coats. It never ceases to be strange.

He comes over the rise in the road and sees the flares with their ultra-­red glow. Someone, John, he guesses, is directing traffic around the flares. Gordy goes around him. It is John, who nods grimly and points to a spot behind another cruiser. “So what do we have?” he asks Pete Mancuso, who is keeping onlookers who have stopped at the scene from getting in the way or getting a good look at someone's death.

“Hit and run. Fatal.” Pete nods to where a ­couple of volunteer firefighters are holding up a blue tarp to shield the scene from passing traffic. “That was the point of impact.” Pete motions toward a spot in the road littered with bits of glass.

“Skid marks?”

“Not really. Mostly black ice through here. If we had skid marks, they wouldn't tell us much.”

“And Ronny?”

“Over there.” Gordy turns and sees Ronny Forbert's back as he leans on his cruiser. “Pretty shook up,” Pete says. “Otherwise, fine. Some scrapes and scratches.”

“OK. What happened?”

“Traffic stop. Speeding. Driver DUI, uncooperative. Ronny tried to arrest him. There was a struggle, driver fell into the road and got hit by a westbound, speed excessive.”

“All right. Everything is under control?”

“Roger that. The fatality is Matt Laferiere.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. Oh, shit. He was out with his homies. They're over there. The stories pretty much match up. Nothing seems too weird.”

“Except that it's Matt Laferiere.”

“Except that. We knew this day was coming. Here it is.”

“What's Ronny saying?”

“Pretty much the same as the others. He tried to make an arrest. Laferiere got uncooperative. There was a struggle, and Laferiere wound up in the middle of the road. Hit and thrown into the back of his own vehicle.”

“Ronny put him in the road?”

“No one seems to know. Not even Ronny. You want to see the body?”

“Do I need to?”

“Probably a good idea. It seems calm now, but given the nature of shit and fans, I don't think it's going to stay that way. Ronny says that Laferiere assaulted him before the attempted arrest.”

“Shit.”

“Headed for the fan, Gordy. Headed for the fan.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gordy says when they make their way around the tarp. The body is belly-­up next to a body bag on the ground by the left rear wheel of the Cherokee. His arms are at his sides, palms up. Laferiere's head is split open.

“I hate when the insides end up on the outside,” Pete says.

“This the way he was found?”

“No. He was belly-­down, head, or what was left of it, resting on the Jeep. Went headfirst onto the trailer hitch.” Pete indicates a large and dark pool of blood under the bumper of the Jeep. “EMTs moved him. We got pictures first. It seems like the more gore, the more questions that are going to get asked. Lots of questions here.”

“Dead on impact, no doubt.”

“No doubt. Though no one knows unless the M.E. can make some sense of what's left. The early thinking is that the H and R vehicle clipped him on the right side and threw him up into the Jeep. The impact with the Jeep did the killing. I'd guess that's pretty much right.”

“What about the hit-­and-­run vehicle?”

“White. Maybe a Camry, maybe an Accord. Not new. Ronny got only a ­couple of figures off the plate—­a
J
and a
6,
New York.”

“Not much to go on.”

“Nope. I think this one's one big, fat, ugly bitch. Like I said, fans and shit.”

“Ronny's clear on this?”

“Probably.”

“Not certainly?”

“His story is OK. Laferiere wouldn't get out of the vehicle, and when he did, he hit Forbert with the door of the Jeep, knocking him down. There was a struggle when Forbert tried to cuff him, and then Laferiere ended up in the road where he met the Camry.”

“You're not convinced.”

“I'm never convinced.”

“Understood.”

“It all makes sense. I would be surprised only if Laferiere wasn't drunk and uncooperative. Ronny's probably clear on this. Should have called for backup, especially considering the circumstances.”

“Obviously.”

“How many times do you have to learn that lesson?”

“How many times it take you?”

“The usual. Too many. You need to take a look at the passengers over here.”

“The usual posse?”

“Almost. We got a new one. A joker in the deck.”

Gordy gives Pete a questioning glance.

“Sammy Colvington.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I would guess his father is going to be the fan.”

G
ORDY TAKES ONE
more look at the body. When it all comes down, the human body is a frail thing in a world of things that are strong, fast, and very unfrail. ­People can't seem to grasp the concept until they actually see what a car does to a human body when it hits it. Gordy knows Matt Laferiere well. He was a big bull of a kid, stocky and muscular, not bad looking, either. Now he looks as fragile as a dropped and stepped-­on doll. He nods to the EMTs to lift the tarp back over the body. “Let's go talk to Ronny,” he tells Pete. “The kids can wait.”

Ronny is leaning up against his cruiser, talking to an EMT who peers at him like he's about to spill some secret. Pale, Ronny stares straight ahead as if the EMT isn't there. His uniform sleeve is ripped and hanging, and his trousers torn at the thigh. He's smoking a cigarette.

“How is he?” Gordy asks the EMT.

“OK. He's a little shocky. A ­couple of pretty good scrapes and scratches. Don't see any signs of concussion, but he needs checking overnight.”

Gordy looks at Ronny, questioning.

“I messed up, Gordy. I really messed up.”

“Never mind that right now. How are you feeling?”

Ronny puts the cigarette to his lips. His hand is shaking. Gordy's never seen him smoke before, and he has to suppress the urge to bum one from him.

“I'm OK. Don't need to go to the hospital.”

“You need to get checked out. When did you start smoking?”

“High school. Haven't done it for a while.”

“It's a good idea to take it up again,” Pete says. “It'll provide you with a whole bunch of entertainment in your later years.”

“You need to get checked out,” Gordy says.

“No. No. I'm fine. I messed up is all.”

“You remember what happened?”

Ronny looks at Gordy as if he asked the question in French. “I pulled them over for speeding. There was an open container and a strong smell of weed. They were all drinking. I got those three out of the car, but Matt wouldn't come out. When he did, I tried to cuff him. He fought me. We ended up on the ground, then he was on the road. The car came over the rise and hit him. It didn't stop. Didn't even really slow. It just sped up and got out of here.”

“You call for backup?”

“No time. It just happened real fast. I wasn't even intending to arrest him, but he started to fight me. I didn't get the cuffs on him. Just one. I had to subdue him. There was no time.”

“The car door. When did he hit you with the car door?”

“The car door? Right. He hit me with the car door. Knocked me down. I tore my pants. Right before, I guess. I don't really remember how it all happened. It was really fast. But right before.”

Gordy nods. It's always fast. Really fast. You learn procedures to make sure that nothing gets out of hand. Once it gets out of hand, you're in it, and there isn't going to be any help.

“I want to transport him to the hospital,” the EMT says.

“In a while. He's going, but you hang on for a bit.”

“He could have a concussion. He needs observation. There's road rash on his arm and leg.”

“He'll go. I promise. Just keep your shirt on.”

Down the road to the east, Patrolman John North is waving cars on. Still, a few of them stop. Mostly they're gawkers, wanting to see the gore. You only have to see this kind of gore once to never want to see it again. “Pete. Get these ­people out of here.”

Pete Mancuso is a hulking man, well over six feet, three hundred pounds plus. He had been a defensive tackle at LSU, not a starter, but on the team, nonetheless. Gordy is six feet, going quickly to fat and completely gray, but Pete seems to dwarf him. Pete is the sergeant, but often does the dirty work by virtue of his size.

“Ronny. Hang on,” Gordy says. “I want to talk to the others. Don't go to the hospital yet.”

“I'm not going to the hospital.”

“Yes, you are. Only not right now. I'll be back in a minute or so.”

P
AUL
S
TABLEIN
, B
OBBY
Cabella, and the Colvington kid are sitting on the ground some ten yards off the road behind the Jeep. They're all smoking and staring into the distance, not looking at the body under the tarp. Gordy walks up and kneels in front of them. “You're all right? All of you?”

Stablein nods and Cabella mutters a weak “Yes.”

“All of you?” Gordy looks at Sammy Colvington. The kid just nods in return.

“Just because you're not bleeding doesn't mean you're all right. Anyone need to see an EMT or a doctor?”

“We're OK,” Stablein says.

“All right. Good. Let me know if at any time you think you may not be OK. You can get up if you want. Just don't do anything stupid. There's been enough stupidity tonight.”

“What's going to happen to us?” Colvington asks.

“Haven't really decided yet. Be on your best behavior. Maybe things will work out for you. Maybe we'll take you back to the station. Or maybe we'll turn you over to your parents. A lot depends on how you answer my questions. Have your parents all been called?”

“We didn't really do anything,” Cabella insists.

“You weren't drinking? You weren't smoking some weed? Before you answer, the car is full of empties, and I can smell the weed. You were drinking. Don't lie to me. It's the worst thing you can do. You've made enough mistakes for one night.”

“A few beers,” Stablein says. “We're not drunk. He gave me a ­couple of tests after it happened.” He nods toward Ronny Forbert. “I passed.”

“Laferiere drink all that beer?”

“A lot of it.”

“I'll accept that for now. We're going to put you all on the Breathalyzer. All three of you. Maybe draw a little blood. It's what we do when there's been an accident with alcohol related. A bad accident.”

“G
ORDY
,” J
OHN
N
ORTH
, Patrolman, says. “There's a parent.” John put his hand on Gordy's shoulder as if consoling him.

“Laferiere?”

“No. Sam Colvington. You want to talk to him?”

“Not especially. But I will.”

Sam Colvington is standing back behind Ronny Forbert's cruiser, inside the tape barrier. He's rumpled, a big parka over jeans and work boots. Just out of bed, no doubt. “What the hell happened?” he asks Gordy.

“Hit and run. One fatality. Your boy is fine. Unhurt. That's about all we have right now.”

“Sammy was involved?”

“Indirectly, Sam. Indirectly. Nothing very serious. He was at the scene. That's pretty much the limit of it.”

“Who got killed?”

“Can't really say until the parents are notified, but Sammy's all right. Not a scratch. He's over there. You can talk to him.”

The three boys are still sitting, passing a cigarette back and forth, looking miserable. Sammy Colvington starts to look more miserable when he sees his father coming toward him.

“Are you all right?”

Sammy nods.

“You're sure?” Sam reaches down, takes the cigarette from Sammy's mouth, and tosses it away.

“Matt Laferiere is dead.”

“That's not information to be shared,” Gordy says. “Sammy and I have talked, and we're just about finished. I want to give him a Breathalyzer, then he's done here. You can take him home.”

“No Breathalyzer,” Sam Colvington says.

“Have to,” Gordy says. “We need the whole picture of what happened. I doubt that the results are going beyond my desk. At this point, I don't see any reason to charge Sammy with anything. And I think he needs to go home and get some sleep. As soon as John's done with the test, you can take him.”