Chapter 3
I rub my eyes, sure that once I do, the man will be very much alive and well without a knife sticking out of his chest. I’ve got to stop listening to so many true crime podcasts.
I close my eyes and open them. I see the blood.
A thick trickle from the wound. I reach over to check his pulse, which confirms what I already know but can’t understand. This man is dead.
Bile rises in my throat. The descriptions of dead bodies on the true crime podcasts gross me out, but to see it in person is something else entirely. In just hours, the man’s body will start to stiffen, a fact I wish I didn’t know right now. I think I’m going to puke.
How did this happen? We were in a locked, moving vehicle.
He was breathing when he got into the taxi.
Did he kill himself? Stabbing yourself in the heart in a taxi seems like an awful way to go.
Was he somehow holding a knife and stabbed himself when I braked suddenly to avoid hitting that woman?
No, that seems impossible. Right? Right?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a police officer approaching, and my stomach lurches in that uncomfortable way like when the doctor asks me if I’m exercising and eating healthy.
How can I explain this? There is no explanation, at least not one that makes sense.
I look around the car. Other than the dead body in the back seat, I don’t notice anything…except, wait—the man’s backpack is gone.
As the officer moves closer, I think again about the time I was stopped by the police for a supposed minor traffic infraction that hadn’t really occurred.
My pulse hammers away, and my breath becomes quick and shallow.
They didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt then, and they certainly won’t do it now with a dead body in my back seat.
I look down at my hands, realizing they feel sticky and warm. I literally have blood on my hands. How did that get there? I shut the door and clench my fists to hide the blood, readying myself for what is to come.
“EXCUSE ME,” the officer yells as he walks toward me.
The officer looks angry, ready to arrest me…
or worse. Is the officer reaching toward his gun?
Should I put up my hands and yell, “Don’t shoot”?
Would that even matter, as it hasn’t on so many occasions for others before?
I can’t even speak as panic courses through every part of my body.
I speak English very well, but I can only think in my native tongue of Sinhalese.
The officer continues to advance toward me, and yet I cannot move.
“Sir…I mean, ma’am!” The police officer seems momentarily stunned that I’m a female cabbie. “You can’t park here. Even if you drive a yellow cab. The taxi stand is up there for new passengers. MOVE!”
I look at the officer open-mouthed, trying to form something to say in response.
With all the might I can muster, I force my feet to move and quickly get into the front seat.
I glance at the back seat, hoping the man is no longer there.
Somehow my hallucinating the whole thing is still a better scenario than reality.
My mind is racing with thoughts of what to do next as I drive off before pulling into the short-term parking lot, taking up two parking spots in my haste.
I am on my way to a full-blown panic attack as I circle my car.
I try to steady my breathing again, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
I think of my brother, and my breaths and heartbeat slow enough that I am out of cardiac arrest territory and can think a little more clearly.
I put my hand inside my pocket to grab my phone and call the police, when I feel it. Her business card. Amaya Fernando. The lawyer. The criminal defense lawyer. I quickly dial her number, saying a prayer that she answers her phone at this hour.