Mulholland had that top-of-the-world feel to it. It could make you feel like the prince of a city where the laws of nature and physics didn’t apply. The foot came down heavy on the accelerator. That was the contradiction. Mulholland was built for speed but it couldn’t handle it. Speed was a killer.
As he came around the bend, Clewiston saw another firetruck and a tow truck from the Van Nuys police garage. The tow truck was positioned sideways across the road. Its cable was down the embankment and stretched taut as it pulled the car up. For the moment, Mulholland was completely closed. Clewiston could hear the tow motor straining and the cracking and scraping as the unseen car was being pulled up through the brush. The tow truck shuddered as it labored.
Clewiston saw the man with sergeant’s stripes on his uniform and moved next to him as he watched.
“Is he still in it?” he asked Fairbanks.
“No, he was transported to St. Joe’s. But he was DOA. You’re Clewiston, right? The reconstructionist.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve got to handle this thing right. Once the ID gets out, we’ll have the media all over this.”
“The captain told me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m telling you too. In this department, the captains don’t get blamed when things go sideways and off the road. It’s always the sergeants and it ain’t going to be me this time.”
“I get it.”
“You have any idea what this guy was worth? We’re talking tens of millions, and on top of that he’s supposedly in the middle of a divorce. So we go five by five by five on this thing.
“It’s Clewiston and I said I get it.”
“Good. This is what we’ve got. Single car fatality. No witnesses. It appears the victim was heading eastbound when his vehicle, a two-month-old Porsche Carrera, came around that last curve there and for whatever reason didn’t straighten out. We’ve got treads on the road you can take a look at. Anyway, he went straight off the side and then down, baby. Major head and torso injuries. Chest crushed. He pretty much drowned in his own blood before the FD could get down to him. They stretchered him out with a chopper and transported him anyway. Guess they didn’t want any blowback either.”
“They take blood at St. Joe’s?”
Fairbanks, about forty and a lifer on patrol, nodded. “I am told it was clean.”
There was a pause in the conversation at that point, suggesting that Clewiston could take whatever he wanted from the blood test. He could believe what Fairbanks was telling him or he could believe that the celebrity fix was already in.
The moonlight reflected off the dented silver skin of the Porsche as it was pulled up over the edge like a giant beautiful fish hauled into a boat. Clewiston walked over and Fairbanks followed. The first thing Clewiston saw was that it was a Carrera 4S. “Hmmmm,” he mumbled.
“What?” Fairbanks said.
“It’s one of the Porsches with four-wheel drive. Built for these sort of curves. Built for control.”
“Well, not built good enough, obviously.”
Clewiston put his equipment down on the hood of one of the patrol cars and took his Maglite over to the Porsche. He swept the beam over the front of the high-performance sports car. The car was heavily damaged in the crash and the front had taken the brunt of it. The molded body was badly distorted by repeated impacts as it had sledded down the steep embankment. He moved in close and squatted by the front cowling and the shattered passenger-side headlight assembly.
He could feel Fairbanks behind him, watching over his shoulder as he worked.
“If there were no witnesses, how did anybody know he’d gone over the side?” Clewiston asked.
“Somebody down below,” Fairbanks answered. “There are houses down there. Lucky this guy didn’t end up in somebody’s living room. I’ve seen that before.”
So had Clewiston. He stood up and walked to the edge and looked down. His light cut into the darkness of the brush. He saw the exposed pulp of the acacia trees and other foliage the car had torn through.
He returned to the car. The driver’s door was sprung and Clewiston could see the pry marks left by the jaws used to extricate the driver. He pulled it open and leaned in with his light. There was a lot of blood on the wheel, dashboard, and center console. The driver’s seat was wet with blood and urine.
The key was still in the ignition and turned to the on position. The dashboard lights were still on as well. Clewiston leaned further in and checked the mileage. The car had only 1,142 miles on the odometer.
Satisfied with his initial survey of the wreck, he went back to his equipment. He put the clipboard under his arm and picked up the measuring wheel. Fairbanks came over once again. “Anything?” he asked.
“Not yet, sergeant. I’m just starting.”
He started sweeping the light over the roadway. He picked up the skid marks and used the wheel to measure the distance of each one. There were four distinct marks, left as all four tires of the Porsche tried unsuccessfully to grip the asphalt. When he worked his way back to the starting point, he found scuff marks in a classic slalom pattern. They had been left on the asphalt when the car had turned sharply one way and then the other before going into the braking skid.
He wrote the measurements down on the clipboard. He then pointed the light into the brush on either side of the roadway where the scuff marks began. He knew the event had begun here and he was looking for indications of cause.
He noticed a small opening in the brush, a narrow pathway that continued on the other side of the road. It was a crossing. He stepped over and put the beam down on the brush and soil. After a few moments, he moved across the street and studied the path on the other side.
Satisfied with his site survey, he went back to the patrol car and opened his laptop. While it was booting up, Fairbanks came over once again.
“So, how’z it look?”
“I have to run the numbers.”
“Those skids look pretty long to me. The guy must’ve been flying.”
“You’d be surprised. Other things factor in. Brake efficiency, surface, and surface conditions-you see the mist moving in right now? Was it like this two hours ago when the guy went over the side?”
“Been like this since I got here. But the fire guys were here first. I’ll get one up here.”
Clewiston nodded. Fairbanks pulled his rover and told someone to send the first responders up to the crash site. He then looked back at Clewiston.
“On the way.”
“Thanks. Does anybody know what this guy was doing up here?”
“Driving home, we assume. His house was in Coldwater and he was going home.”
“From where?”
“That we don’t know.”
“Anybody make notification yet?”
“Not yet. We figure next of kin is the wife he’s divorcing. But we’re not sure where to find her. I sent a car to his house but there’s no answer. We’ve got somebody at Parker Center trying to run her down-probably through her lawyer. There’s also grown children from his first marriage. They’re working on that too.”
Two firefighters walked up and introduced themselves as Robards and Lopez. Clewiston questioned them on the weather and road conditions at the time they responded to the accident call. Both firefighters described the mist as heavy at the time. They were sure about this because the mist had hindered their ability to find the place where the vehicle had crashed through the brush and down the embankment.
“If we hadn’t seen the skid marks, we would have driven right by,” Lopez said.
Clewiston thanked them and turned back to his computer. He had everything he needed now. He opened the Accident Reconstruction Technologies program and went directly to the speed and distance calculator. He referred to his clipboard for the numbers he would need. He felt Fairbanks come up next to him.
“Computer, huh? That gives you all the answers?”
“Some of them.”
“Whatever happened to experience and trusting hunches and gut instincts?”
It wasn’t a question that was waiting for an answer. Clewiston added the lengths of the four skid marks he
