Unidentified Woman #15 (2 page)

Footage of the accident, including aerial shots, appeared the next morning on all of the Twin Cities TV stations that pretended to deliver the news, as well as ABC, NBC, CNN, and The Weather Channel. Most Minnesotans who saw it felt an inexplicable sense of pride, what comes from living in a place where not much happens that’s of national interest. In each case, it was reported that the accident was caused when a car struck an unidentified woman that was trying to cross the freeway on foot at night.

I saw Bobby Dunston’s hand in that last bit—he was always one to keep his cards pressed firmly against the buttons of his shirt.

Dunston was a commander in the St. Paul Police Department’s Major Crimes and Investigations Division. They had roused him from his warm and happy home—which was coincidentally less than a mile from the scene—when the cops concluded that I was right, there was fuckery afoot. He saw me talking to one of his detectives and a lieutenant wearing the maroon hat and overcoat of the Minnesota State Patrol. The sight made him abruptly turn away, stand with hands on hips, and look up at the snow-filled sky.

It’s a pleasure to see you, too,
my inner voice said.

He turned around.

“Hey, boss,” the detective said. “This is McKenzie. He used to be one of us.”

“I know who he is,” Bobby said.

He glanced over my shoulder and his face brightened considerably. Nina was resting against the bumper of an MSP cruiser. The paramedics had draped a blanket over her shoulders, and she held it closed over her leather coat with a gloved hand. Despite that, she was shivering. I don’t know if it was because of the cold, the wind, the snow, or the chaos around her. Probably all four.

Bobby gave her a hug.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” Nina said. “I’m fine. How are Shelby and the girls? It must be awful getting pulled away from them on a night like this.”

He brushed the snow off her bangs and kissed her cheek. I knew what he was thinking because I had thought it myself on numerous occasions. There she was, looking and feeling miserable under miserable conditions in a miserable situation, yet she was more concerned about someone else. For the second time that evening, my inner voice reminded me how lucky I was.

“You should sit in a car, get warm,” Bobby said.

“What, and miss the show?”

Eastbound I-94 had been closed on the Minneapolis side of the Mississippi River, and angry, put-upon drivers were being detoured to the side streets around us. Westbound vehicles were moving at a crawl because drivers had slowed to get a good look at what was going on as they drove past, which in turned caused several fender benders that snarled traffic even more.

The portion of I-94 where we were standing was no longer a freeway. It was a parking lot, and a surprisingly bright one, too, given the freeway lights, vehicle headlights, the blinking red and blue light bars on top of emergency vehicles and tow trucks, and the helicopters overhead with their searchlights—all of it reflecting against the slanting snow. Paramedics moved between the cars checking occupants for injuries. The man and woman in the vehicle that crushed my Audi had both been transported to Regions Hospital. Others had followed, yet I was impressed by how few of them there were. Experience told me, though, that come morning many people who insisted they were perfectly fine now would realize that they weren’t. Chiropractors and auto repair shops were going to make a killing off of this.

Drivers gathered in small groups to exchange insurance information. Skirmishes broke out between some of them that were quickly broken up by St. Paul cops, Ramsey County deputies, and state troopers, most of whom didn’t seem to be getting along any better than the accident victims. Undamaged vehicles were being carefully guided around and through the accident scene, their drivers thrilled to escape intact with a story to tell. It wasn’t easy. Snow was piling up at an alarming rate, and the plows weren’t able to get to it. Cars with smashed bumpers and other damage—including mine—were being towed off one at a time. Yet their owners described their experiences in typically Minnesota fashion to the TV reporters who had somehow managed to get their camera equipment through the melee.

“It could be worse,” they said.

Yeah, it could be snowing,
my inner voice added.
Oh, wait …

Nearly two inches had fallen since the girl was pushed out of the pickup truck, and I found myself stamping my feet to keep them from being buried.

Bobby gave Nina’s shoulder a big-brother pat and returned to where we were standing.

Hey, that’s my girl you’re manhandling, pal,
my inner voice complained.

“Okay,” Bobby said.

The three of us all began speaking at once. He waved us silent and gestured at his detective. The detective told Bobby everything I had told him, adding that Ms. Truhler had corroborated my story.

“We also found the twine McKenzie claimed he cut, and there were deep abrasions on the girl’s wrists, so…”

Bobby turned to the officer from the state patrol, who pointed upward at a traffic camera fixed to a light pole.

“Already checked it out,” he said. “Footage confirms McKenzie’s story, too, only because of the blowing snow, hell, we can’t even identify the truck, much less the license plate number. What we know for sure is that the pickup left the freeway at the Cretin-Vandalia exit.”

“What about the girl?”

“Paramedics took her to Regions,” the detective said. “She was unconscious. I don’t know her exact condition. The medics said … I guess it’s not looking good. There was no ID on her. We searched the scene as best we could in the snow. No coat, no bag.”

While he spoke, I found myself tugging at the zipper of my own coat. The paramedics had returned it to me before they transported the girl. It was a dress-up coat, though, made for hopping from warm cars to restaurants and clubs, not for standing around in a Minnesota blizzard.

“Anything, McKenzie?” Bobby said. “Anything at all you can tell me?”

I pretty much repeated everything his detective and the trooper had already told him.

“In other words, you got nuthin’,” Bobby said.

“Sorry.”

“Bobby,” Nina called.

“Nina?”

“It was dark.”

“I know it’s dark.”

“No, no, I mean the color of the truck. It was dark. Black or dark blue. It was a Ram truck, too. I recognized the emblem on the tailgate.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Sorry, I didn’t get a license plate number.”

Bobby looked at her with the expression of a man who was trying not to smile.

“Thank you,” he said. “Okay. Lieutenant, would you be kind enough to send the camera footage to my office?”

“Happy to.”

“Thank you. Detective”—he rested a hand on the elbow of his fellow officer—“get down to Regions. Let me know about the girl’s condition. Let me know when they think we can talk to her.”

“Sir.”

Bobby returned to Nina’s side.

“I bet you could use a ride home,” he told her.

Nina nodded.

“How ’bout me?” I asked.

“You can come, too. Sit in the back. Try not to make any noise.”

*   *   *

Money can’t buy happiness, or so I’ve been told. On the other hand, it was because I had plenty of dough that I wasn’t particularly upset that my Audi was now a pile of rubble in the SPPD’s impound lot. Unlike most of the other drivers caught in the accident, I didn’t need to worry about replacing it. I didn’t have to wonder how I was going to get around until I did. I was concerned only with the inconvenience.

The next morning, I kissed Nina good-bye, hopped into my backup car—a battered Jeep Cherokee—and drove to the lot located just south of Holman Field, the airport along the Mississippi that served downtown St. Paul. I had to produce two forms of ID just to inspect the vehicle, never mind removing contents or ransoming its freedom. I took several photographs of it from all sides with my smartphone and sent them to my insurance agent. Afterward, I called his office. A woman I knew as Theresa answered on the fifth ring, recited the name of the insurance agency, asked if I would hold, and then put me on hold before I could reply. She came back three minutes later and apologized.

“It’s been crazy,” she said. “We get a lot of calls the first couple times it snows, people relearning how to drive in winter, you know? Today, though, the number of accidents—we only got four and a half inches, for goodness sake. You’d expect better from Minnesota drivers in January.”

“About that. This is McKenzie, and my Audi…”

“Hi, McKenzie.”

“Hi, Theresa. Like I was saying…”

“I was telling Pat the other day that we haven’t heard from you since, what is it, now? Four months? I said you were due.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“What happened this time? Machine-gun fire?”

“Considering the amount of business I’ve given you guys over the years…”

“I’m not complaining. I just want to know. My kids have been asking for new McKenzie stories.”

“This time it wasn’t my fault. I got caught in that pileup on I-94 last night.”

“Please tell me that you didn’t cause it.”

“Not exactly. Look, can I talk to Pat? I sent him some photos.”

“He’s on another line, but you know what, I bet he’ll take your call.”

Theresa put me on hold again. Thirty seconds later, Pat answered. His voice sounded tired.

“Did you know that I have over a thousand clients?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“So why do I spend most of my time talking to you?”

“Because we went to school together and you like me?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“I e-mailed some photos.”

“Uh-huh … Hang on … I’m pulling them up … Oh, c’mon.”

“Do you think it can be fixed?”

“Your car? No, I don’t think it can be fixed. We’ll send an adjuster out to take a closer look, but geez, McKenzie, what did you do?”

I explained. Pat sighed heavily.

“This might become complicated if other drivers involved in the accident decide to blame you,” he said.

“It’s not my fault. The cops said so.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you know where to download the forms. Be sure to get the case number from the police.”

“Been there, done that.”

“Way too often, if you ask me. You know, McKenzie, I have only about a dozen drivers who pay higher insurance premiums than you do.”

“Gives me something to shoot for—the top ten.”

“You might make it with this one. Two words, McKenzie, something to think about—mass transit.”

“Always a pleasure talking to you, Pat.”

“We’ll be in touch.”

I ended the call, just in time to receive a second one. I answered the way I always do. “McKenzie.”

“Where are you?” Bobby Dunston asked.

“St. Paul impound lot, why?”

“Meet me at Regions. SICU.”

“When?”

He hung up without answering. I took that to mean “Right frickin’ now.”

*   *   *

The Surgical Intensive Care Unit was located on the third floor and was damn near impossible to reach by a visitor using Regions Hospital’s overly complicated elevator and corridor system. On the other hand—and I’m speaking from experience when I tell you this—if you come in through the emergency room, they can whisk you right up there.

I talked my way past a nurse-receptionist and found Bobby leaning against a wall and looking down as if his shoes were the most interesting things he had seen in a long time. He was standing across from a recovery room. Beyond the sliding glass walls of the room I could see the figure of a woman lying on a bed, her head wrapped in white bandages, a cast extending from the elbow of one arm down far enough to enclose a couple of fingers. Cables attached her to a monitor; wavy red, green, and blue lines and ever-changing numbers kept track of her vital signs.

“How is she?” I asked.

Bobby pulled out a notebook. For most things he used his smartphone or one of those tablets. For others it was still paper and pen. He began reading.

“Three broken ribs, two broken fingers, broken wrist, broken clavicle, broken scapula, one punctured lung, one bruised lung, blood in the chest cavity, they call that a hemothorax. Cracked spleen, fractured liver, dislocated kneecap, major road rash—abrasions over half her body; there’s gravel and bits of pavement imbedded in her skin. The big thing, though, she has a fractured skull. Some blood vessels ruptured. The bleeding put pressure on the brain. They had to drill holes to drain the blood and alleviate the pressure.”

“Epidural hematoma,” I said.

“The same thing happened to you a couple of years ago.”

“I remember.”

“Traumatic brain injury,” Bobby said. “The docs are concerned because they don’t know how extensive it is. Could be…”

“Traumatic?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.”

Bobby showed me the woman’s photo on his phone. Her face was puffy and pale, setting off the ghastly scrapes on her chin and forehead. Her blue eyes were open and staring at the camera, yet they seemed to be out of focus, as if she had no idea what she was looking at. My impression was that she had been very pretty once. I hoped she would be again.

“Recognize her?” Bobby asked.

“No. Should I?”

“I don’t know. Should you?”

“What are you thinking? That they dumped her in front of my car on purpose so I would be the one to run her over? Some kind of revenge thing?”

“Yeah, I thought about it. Have you?”

“All night long. Listen, Bobby. I don’t know her, and I’m not involved in anything right now that would piss someone off.”

“Take a good look.”

I took Bobby’s phone, stared at the image for a few moments more. She bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Bobby’s younger daughter, Katie. I didn’t tell him that, though.

“I don’t know her.” I returned the cell. “Who is she?”

“Unidentified Woman Number Fifteen.”

I that took to mean the police had been unable to put a name to her face despite running her fingerprints through the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, a database with over 100 million files including prints from people who served in the military or bought a gun in some states or worked a sensitive civilian job. A search through the National Crime Information Center’s missing persons files and the Minnesota Missing and Unidentified Persons Clearinghouse must have proved inconclusive as well.