17. Chapter 17
“That cocksucker!” Dee practically spits across her desk as I fill her in on how the police chief tried to strong-arm me.
“Yep.”
“Wow,” is all Monty adds.
I am perched over Dee’s reception desk, my elbows resting on the countertop, while she sits back in her chair. Monty leans his left shoulder against the nearby wall, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m actually kind of surprised,” he offers. “I didn’t think Scott had it in him.”
“Yeah, well, even the most cowardly of lions will bare their teeth when backed into a corner.”
I can see the gears turning behind Monty’s eyes. He may not be a reporter, but having worked in the newsroom longer than I have he still has a nose for news. He knows when shit doesn’t smell right.
And this smells absolutely rancid.
“So, you’ve been there this whole time?” he asks in disbelief.
“No, I was with Knox.” The answer is out before I can censor myself.
His eyebrows shoot up while Dee slaps the desk. Hard. “What?” she says, and it’s an accusation.
“I ran into him getting gas, and he convinced me to get a cup of coffee.” I shrug.
“Did you have sex?” Dee blurts out.
Monty pushes off the wall with a harumph and throws his hands in the air. “Alright, that’s my cue. I draw the line at girl talk.”
“Pussy,” Dee barks at him as he pats my shoulder on his way back to his desk.
“So …” she turns back to me.
“No. We did not have sex.”
“Why would you even give him the time of day?” she asks as she leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. It pisses me off. I know she’s my best friend and she’s looking out for me, but it still pisses me off.
“Seriously?” I ask, pulling back from the desk, getting defensive.
“Yes, seriously. After what he did to you, how can you even talk to him?”
“Dee,” I say, trying to be understanding. “Don’t you think I’m embarrassed about his indiscretions? Don’t you think I’m pissed, and hurt, and humiliated? Because I am. But I’m also fucking sad.”
Seeing that she hasn’t adjusted her offensive stance at all and is still looking at me like I’m an idiot, I really start to unravel.
“OK, you know what, I guess I can’t expect you to understand. I mean, you’ve never given anyone more than a few nights in your bed, right? So what could you possibly understand about love and intimacy, and humility?”
I immediately regret the words and wish I could swallow them back up.
Dee’s jaw drops open as her arms fall to her sides. “Ouch,” she says.
“Shit, Dee. I’m sorry.”
I am interrupted by a whistle coming from Monty as he comes at me, keys in hand, camera lens dangling from his neck. “Lizzie, we gotta rock’n’roll! Pileup on the innerloop.”
“Holy shitballs,” Monty says, as we stand at the edge of the scene.
“Holy shitballs is right,” I reply.
There is so much debris, it’s hard to tell how many cars are involved in this wreck. Blue and red and black and silver metal is bent and crunched and tossed along the pavement, which is stained with tire marks and shattered glass. Wheels and hubcaps and even purses and empty coffee cups are strewn about. Firefighters are using saws to cut into an upside-down sedan, sparks flying everywhere and the roar of the saw providing a background symphony to the action.
A few feet away from that, two paramedics are rushing a gurney toward an ambulance, with a bloody patient flailing her arms about. And even further away, I see an EMT doing chest compressions on a man who lays lifeless on the grass.
Beside me, I can hear the shutter of Monty’s camera. This is why he’s a good photographer. He doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t stand there in horror or shock or awe. He jumps into action. He never misses a beat.
I, on the other hand, have to consciously snap myself back to the here and now. I’m better than I used to be. There was a time I would have to fight back the urge to puke or cry. Now, I just have to remember to breathe.
And not get in the way.
Looking around, I try to block out the horrified look on the faces of drivers who are sitting on the grass who have been pulled to safety—the ones whose injuries can wait for attention. I scan the faces of the first responders and law enforcement officers until I recognize someone who can be of use to me.
I see Sgt. McKinley, but he’s assisting some firefighters with the Jaws of Life on an overturned SUV. I happen to spot the chief, but I’m avoiding him like the plague. Then I see Capt. Griffin standing off to the side, hands resting on his belt, eyes looking … tired.
I hustle over to him, then slow my pace as I get closer. “Captain,” I address as I near him.
When he sees me, he does what they all do when they see me approach—he sighs. “Look, Mrs. Mitchell, it’s been a long day. It’s going to be an even longer night. Can’t you wait until tomorrow to give me the shake-down.”
I tap my pen on my notebook and look around, offering a shoulder shrug and cringe as I say, “You know what they say about old news …”
“Good grief.” He shuffles his feet and crosses his arms over his chest. Griffin is smaller than the other guys. He’s got tousled dark hair but light eyes, which are currently squinted as the sun sets and gives the scene before us an even more eerie feeling.
“Several vehicles involved, obviously,” he begins, as he waves his hand at the mess in front of us. “Several injured, some critical. One DOA.” He points at a body covered in a blanket in the grass I hadn’t even seen yet.
Looking back to the wreckage, I press, “Cause?”
“Too early.” His response is quick.
“Any reason so many vehicles were involved? Speed? Visibility?”
“Both are possibilities. The sun glare in this direction is awful,” Griffin says, hands back on his belt. “Speed, distracted drivers, rubbernecking …”
I’m scribbling things down as we continue to look around. “Any chance you guys will have an ID on any of the drivers tonight?” I ask.
He sighs. “When’s press time?”
“Midnight.”
He tips his head this way and that and pulls one side of his mouth up. Then bites out, “No.”
“Griff!” We both turn our heads in the direction of a rough, clipped tone, and see the chief beckoning him over, and the captain takes off without another word to me.
I make my way over to some firefighters who are gulping water and climbing out of their gear so I can get quotes. I even approach some of the drivers and passengers who had been instructed to sit tight on the nearby grass and wait for medical attention. It’s interesting, when people are in shock, they either clam up and shut right down, or they don’t shut up. It must be the adrenaline.
One man relays the entire accident. “... all of a sudden, the trunk of the car in front of me was under my hood, and before I knew it, ‘BAM!’ I got hit from the back, and my SUV rolled. I saw the Virgin Mother Mary right before my eyes …”
My attention is taken away from him when I see a young woman approaching various EMTs. “Excuse me!” She’s trying to get someone’s attention as they rush between vehicles and the badly injured. “Excuse me, I know I’m not badly hurt, but I just … Can someone …” She stands there, one arm flailing, trying to flag someone down, the other placed protectively over her belly, in a gesture I recognize.
It’s a gesture I made once upon a time.
Finally, she grabs the arm of an emergency worker jogging by. “Please! I’m pregnant!”
The worker comes to a stop, places his hands on her shoulders, looks down at her hand on her stomach, then up to her eyes. “OK, it’s OK, miss. Come with me, we’ll get you checked out.” I watch them make their way over to a nearby ambulance, and he helps her sit on the bumper as he tends to her.
“You get what you need, kid?” I snap my head to see Monty standing right next to me, having seemingly come out of nowhere. I look back at the young woman and EMT, then back to Monty.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”