In the opinion of this officer it would be extremely difficult with a driver with normal vision in the light available at the accident site (see lumin measurements on Form 12-2 taken at site as well as twenty-foot intervals along Indiana) to have seen the victim, dressed as he was in dark clothing, at a distance of more than twenty feet. The skid marks are consistent with sudden application of brakes approximately eighteen feet from point of impact for a car of that weight traveling at a speed of twenty-to-twenty-two miles per hour. This is under the speed restriction for this street.
The body was thrown a distance of twelve feet eight inches, measuring at the waistline, stopped partially by striking the curb. The brakes were tested on the surface of Indiana prior to removing the car to the Police Garage and found to be in normal working order. Duplicate skid marks were obtained. (See photographs.)
The lights of the Buick were found to pull slightly to the left but not excessively. Lights were on normal, not high beam. This is required on this street. Driver has no sight restriction on his license and claims to be ready to take the eye test again if required. Horn is in working order, but driver claims he had no time to use it.
In the opinion of the APB Squad, everything is consistent with the theory of accidental death caused by the carelessness of the victim in stepping from the curb in the path of the Buick without proper precautions.
Reardon flipped the last page over, looking at the list of the contents-of-pocket. Beyond what Wilkins had mentioned the night before, there had been a second handkerchief in the jacket, a pen and pencil set with a comb and nail file, and a folded twenty-dollar bill in the trouser watch pocket. Which makes more sense, Reardon thought. Twenty-eight dollars for the bar on the Fairmont roof, plus the Little Tokyo would have been a little tight. He tossed the report down to study the photographs.
The first must have been taken as he was driving away; Reardon could see the back of the Charger and a general view of the scene. Wilkins had marked, in white ink, the dimensions already noted on Form 12-2. The next two photographs were of the body taken from different angles; the handkerchief had been removed and in both the face stared up gravely, patiently, into the lens. The fourth showed the front of the car, head lamps intact, bumper slightly dented, no other visible damage. In the fifth the car had been removed and the skid marks were detailed, with Lundahl squatting at one end and Wilkins at the other; a steel tape between them indicated the length. Wilkins was looking down, one hand holding the tape, the other supporting himself on the pavement. Lundahl was staring at the camera with a smile at being drafted into a Traffic case; his free hand was holding his jacket back from a smear of oil on the pavement. The sixth photograph showed similar skid marks taken from a different angle on a different section of the street. The final shot was a close-up of the actual front end of the true skid mark, enlarged to show Lundahl’s hand holding the tape and the eighteen-foot point of the tape held to the end of the mark.
Reardon held the photographs a moment and then shuffled them together, sliding them back into the envelope together with the forms and the typed report. He tossed it aside. An accident, rough on the girl, and — of course — even rougher on young Robert Cooke of Hawaii, with a lot to live for, including a girl friend that was one in a million. Reardon sighed and shook his head, unhappy about something in the report without knowing what it was. He thought of going over it again and then decided he’d had enough of Traffic as it was.
Dondero walked into the room, delicately balancing two plastic containers of coffee. “Black with plenty of sugar,” he said and set one down in front of Reardon. He grinned in friendly fashion. “Although you don’t deserve it after last night.”
“Sorry about that,” Reardon said, making no attempt to sound sorry. Something was itching at his mind and he had no idea what it was. He picked up his coffee, sipped it, made a face, and looked at Dondero curiously. “Why don’t they put coffee in this stuff?”
“Ruins the hot water,” Dondero explained cheerfully and returned to the subject of the previous evening, sounding confident. “Don’t look so down in the dumps. Don’t worry about Jan. She’ll snap out of it.”
Reardon frowned. “That’s only part of the trouble.”
“What’s the rest?”
The stocky red-haired lieutenant picked up the manila envelope containing Wilkins report, tossing it across the desk. “That’s the rest.”
Dondero set his coffee down, dragged a chair up, and straddled it, picking up the report. He withdrew the contents, looked at it a moment and then frowned at Reardon.
“What’s this got to do with you? It’s Traffic.”
“Read it.”
Dondero shrugged and obeyed. Reardon waited patiently, sipping his coffee while the sergeant studied the pictures. When he was through he put them back on the desk and looked at Reardon questioningly.
“So?”
“So I don’t like it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Reardon shook his head. “But I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it,” Dondero pointed out. “It’s not your job. Unless you think it wasn’t really an accident, and I don’t buy that. I worked in Traffic two years, and Wilkins doesn’t make many mistakes. He’s good, and you know it, Jim.”
“I know.”
Dondero thought a moment, trying to see some logic in the other’s position, some excuse for his attitude.
“What’s this guy Crocker like? A sharpie? Smoothie? Wise guy? Type of character who rubs you the wrong way?”
Reardon shook his head. He swiveled his chair, staring somberly out of the window. It was a beautiful sunny day, exceptional considering the weather department had been threatening rain and fog for a week. He swung back, shaking his head again.
“No. Actually, he’s a sad sack. He looks more like the kind of guy who steps off curbs without looking than the guy who actually did.” He smiled without humor. “Maybe that’s why I’m not happy. Wrong victim.” His humorless smile disappeared. “You know, I don’t like automobile accidents.”
“Who likes them?”
“What I mean is that an automobile is a weapon, a legal weapon, and I’ve often wondered how many people who get killed by cars are actually murdered. It’s a difficult thing to prove. But the fact remains that a speeding car is a dangerous weapon.”
“Hell, Jimmy,” Dondero said, his tone requesting reason, “a piano’s a dangerous weapon if it slips when you’re dragging it upstairs. So is a safe if a cable busts when they’re hauling it up three stories. But this—” He tapped the envelope. “This looks as clean as they come.”
“Too clean, maybe? Is that why I don’t like it?”
“When I was in Traffic no accident was ever too clean for me,” Dondero said decisively and came to his feet. He dropped his unfinished coffee into the wastebasket and dusted his fingers as if he had soiled them on the container. “I think you’re just sore about last night in general. Has Captain Tower had you on the carpet yet?”
“I saw him last night.”
“And?”
Reardon shrugged. “I’ve been chewed out worse. He told me to forget it.”
“So forget it,” Dondero said, and walked to the door. He grinned. “And I don’t blame you for not thanking me for the coffee. It was pretty sad.” He winked and walked out.
Reardon drummed his strong fingertips on his desktop impatiently. What the devil had gotten under his skin? It didn’t have to have come from the report, because he had been far from convinced before that it had been an accident. And, after reading the report he was still far from sure. Why? He frowned at the calendar on the wall, thinking, and then made up his mind. He dragged the telephone over, dialed an extension, and waited while the instrument at the other end rang several times and was finally answered.