Reardon glanced in his direction. “I thought you and Dondero had a bet, which one could hold off smoking the longest?”
“He won.” Lundahl grinned. “Hands down. Me, I got no will power.” He brushed ash from the cigarette against the edge of the closed window. “About this accident, he lose his brakes?”
“I have no idea.” Reardon dropped the subject, falling into silence, stepping on the gas, speeding down Sixth, turning into Townsend with squealing tires. Like Stan Lundahl he was pleased it was not hit-and-run; that would have properly fallen into their department and the chances were he would have been tied up all night, checking garages, looking for possible witnesses — the whole business. A straight accident wasn’t too bad; he could simply turn it over to the first patrol car that showed up and be on his way. And worry about what to say to Captain Tower in the morning.
He glanced at the dim oval light of his car clock glowing eerily on the darkened dash; just about now, he calculated, the sukiyaki would be on the hibachi, the kneeling waitress carefully turning the meat and mixing the vegetables with quick and deft chopsticks, the smell would be wonderful, and Jan would be pouring sake into toy cups for the two of them.
He forced the thought away. It not only was irritating, it made him realize how long it had been since he had eaten. He should have stayed in the meeting, accepted the boredom of it, and merely kept his big mouth shut. One would have figured, he thought bitterly, that his Navy days might have taught him something about volunteering any time, anywhere, for anything; but apparently it hadn’t.
He came to the end of Townsend, crossed into Kansas, heading for Mariposa, stepping on the gas, wondering why every street in San Francisco he ever wanted to take when he was in a hurry always seemed to be one-way in the wrong direction...
Tuesday — 9:30 P.M.
The small Charger pulled into Indiana Street from Mariposa, heading south, slowing up for Eighteenth. The block they were on, as well as the one ahead, were normally dark at this hour, lined with shuttered and blank-faced warehouses with an occasional truck drawn into a driveway for the night, but at the moment the block ahead demonstrated the flashing beacon from the ambulance backed up near the center of the block. The headlights of a large car angled into the curb part way down the block added to the illumination. As he slowed for crossing Eighteenth he could see the lights from the Central Basin docks where ships were being unloaded under the blinding glare of spotlights mounted high on the ships’ superstructures and on the huge dock cranes hovering above. In the background the bay looked cold and black, with Alameda faintly lit in the distance. Well, Reardon thought, we won’t have to keep any crowd back or warn any passing motorist to move along and not rubberneck.
He automatically swerved the Charger to avoid an oil slick that glimmered wetly from the pavement and drew up across the street from the ambulance, leaving his motor running and allowing his headlights to add to the general illumination of the scene. He got out and walked across the street with Lundahl at his side. An ancient heavy black Buick was slued into the curb a few feet from a telephone pole; in the circle of its lights, aided by the additional light from the interior of the ambulance, a bundle that was the body could be seen. It lay on its back, twisted, its feet angled unnaturally. Someone had placed a handkerchief over the head. Two white-uniformed ambulance attendants had been leaning negligently against the side of the ambulance, smoking and speaking quietly, waiting. At sight of Reardon the two straightened up, moving forward. Reardon recognized the elder.
“Hello, Danny.”
“Hello, Lieutenant.” Danny was in his fifties, grown gray working the emergency ambulance service from Mission Emergency. He looked down at the bundle with a bit of regret for the wastefulness of it all; he had seen death in all its forms and had never really become accustomed to it. “He’s dead. My guess is he was killed instantly. Anyway, when I called in like you said they told me to hold everything until you got here.”
“That’s right. An APB car should be here any minute; one is finishing up someplace near here about now.” Reardon stared down at the body. “Who covered his head?”
“I did,” Danny said. “But I didn’t touch him.” He added with a touch of apology. “I didn’t know but what some car with kids in it might be driving by.”
“Today I’m sure they’ve all seen worse,” Reardon said. “Anyway, I was just asking. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I got the message to wait for you, so I figured it had something to do with Homicide. Although it looks pretty straight to me.” He looked at the stocky lieutenant. “Anything fishy about it?”
“Not that I know of,” Reardon said and knelt beside the body, offering no further explanation. He had a feeling the story of his going out on a Traffic case was going to be the big poop around the Hall of Justice the following day.
Lundahl and Danny stood watching silently. The face that was exposed by removal of the handkerchief was staring up at them blankly. It had been a relatively young man, well-dressed; a thick mustache covered a good part of a bad scar on his upper lip, but one edge of the twisted skin trailed from the corner of the mustache to fade into the smooth cheek. Despite the scar the face was good-looking and seemed remarkably composed considering the method of his dying. The neck had the twisted unnatural look of being broken; the clothing was hunched about, tightened as if twisted on the body by some huge, powerful hand. A line of blood was etched from the corner of the mouth, following the line of the scar; it was already hardening into a black ridge on the skin.
Reardon looked up. “Where’s the driver?”
“In the car.”
Reardon glanced over; through the windshield he could make out a pale face in the darkened interior. “Stan. Get him out and over here.”
“Right.” Lundahl flipped his cigarette away and walked over, opening the door. There was a moment’s hesitation and then Crocker climbed down. He was tall and thin, handsome in a way, but not at the moment. His jaw was clenched at the unfairness of it all; he obviously didn’t like the idea of being called to the side of the body. He stopped, staring to one side, keeping his eyes fixed on the bumper of the car, speaking to the lieutenant without looking at him or the body. His hands kept opening and closing in a nervous gesture.
“It was an accident,” he said, his voice dull with constant repetition. “I keep telling everybody but nobody wants to listen. It was an accident. He stepped off the curb without looking—” He seemed to realize the hopelessness of trying to get through to these blank faces surrounding him. “It wasn’t my fault. I shouldn’t have called it in; that was my mistake. I should have kept on going.”
“Why?” Reardon stared up at him curiously. “You want five-to-ten for hit-and-run? You think vehicular homicide isn’t serious enough?” He shook his head in disgust and changed the subject. “Do you know him? Did you ever see him before?”
“Ever see—? No; I don’t know him. How should I know him? I was over at some restaurant on Army Street getting a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and I was cutting over on my way home—”
“If you don’t look at him,” Reardon interrupted quietly, “you’ll never know if you saw him before.”
“I... I saw enough of him to know...”
“Why don’t you try once more? It’s either here or at the morgue, and you might see a lot more down there.”
Crocker closed his eyes and then opened them, forcing himself to stare down at the peaceful face, marred only by the ridge of dried blood on its chin. He swallowed and then turned away. “No. I never saw him before.”
“All right. Relax.” Reardon laid the handkerchief back over the calm face and came to his feet. “We’ll have to take you in, you and the car both. Let me see your identification. Your driver’s license.”