had measured and then divided by four, coming up with an average length of sixty-four feet. He entered the number into the calculator template.
“You said the vehicle is only two months old?” he asked Fairbanks.
“According to the registration. It’s a lease he picked up in January. I guess he filed for divorce and went out and got the sports car to help him get back in the game.”
Clewiston ignored the comment and typed
“What’s that?” Fairbanks asked.
“Braking efficiency. One-oh is the highest efficiency. Things could change if somebody wants to take the brakes off the car and test them. But for now I am going with high efficiency because the vehicle is new and there’s only twelve hundred miles on it.”
“Sounds right to me.”
Lastly, Clewiston typed
“This is coefficient of friction,” he said. “It basically means surface conditions. Mulholland Drive is asphalt base, which is generally a high coefficient. And this stretch here was repaved about nine months ago-again, that leads to a high coefficient. But I’m knocking it down a point because of the moisture. That mist comes in and puts down a layer of moisture that mixes with the road oil and makes the asphalt slippery. The oil is heavier in new asphalt.”
“I get it.”
“Good. It’s called trusting your gut instinct, sergeant.”
Fairbanks nodded. He had been properly rebuked.
Clewiston clicked the enter button and the calculator came up with a projected speed based on the relationship between skid length, brake efficiency, and the surface conditions. It said the Porsche had been traveling at 41.569 miles per hour when it went into the skid.
“You’re kidding me,” Fairbanks said while looking at the screen. “The guy was barely speeding. How can that be?”
“Follow me, sergeant,” Clewiston said.
Clewiston left the computer and the rest of his equipment, except for the flashlight. He led Fairbanks back to the point in the road where he had found the slalom scuffs and the originating point of the skid marks.
“Okay,” he said. “The event started here. We have a single car accident. No alcohol known to be involved. No real speed involved. A car built for this sort of road is involved. What went wrong?”
“Exactly.”
Clewiston put the light down on the scuff marks.
“Okay, you’ve got alternating scuff marks here before he goes into the skid.”
“Okay.”
“You have the tire cords indicating he jerked the wheel right initially and then jerked it left trying to straighten it out. We call it a SAM-a slalom avoidance maneuver.”
“A SAM. Okay.”
“He turned to avoid an impact of some kind, then overcorrected. He then panicked and did what most people do. He hit the brakes.”
“Got it.”
“The wheels locked up and he went into a skid. There was nothing he could do at that point. He had no control because the instinct is to press harder on the brakes, to push that pedal through the floor.”
“And the brakes were what were taking away control.”
“Exactly. He went over the side. The question is why. Why did he jerk the wheel in the first place? What preceded the event?”
“Another car?”
Clewiston nodded. “Could be. But no one stopped. No one called it in.”
“Maybe…” Fairbanks spread his hands. He was drawing a blank.
“Take a look here,” Clewiston said.
He walked Fairbanks over to the side of the road. He put the light on the pathway into the brush, drawing the sergeant’s eyes back across Mulholland to the pathway on the opposite side. Fairbanks looked at him and then back at the path.
“What are you thinking?” Fairbanks asked.
“This is a coyote path,” Clewiston said. “They come up through Fryman Canyon and cross Mulholland here. It takes them to the dog park. They probably wait in heavy brush for the dogs that stray out of the park.”
“So your thinking is that our guy came around the curve and there was a coyote crossing the road.”
Clewiston nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. He jerks the wheel to avoid the animal, then overcompensates, loses control. You have a slalom followed by a braking skid. He goes over the side.”
“An accident, plain and simple.” Fairbanks shook his head disappointedly. “Why couldn’t it have been a DUI, something clear cut like that?” he asked. “Nobody’s going to believe us on this one.”
“That’s not our problem. All the facts point to it being a driving mishap. An accident.”
Fairbanks looked at the skid marks and nodded. “Then that’s it, I guess.”
“You’ll get a second opinion from the insurance company anyway,” Clewiston said. “They’ll probably pull the brakes off the car and test them. An accident means double indemnity. But if they can shift the calculations and prove he was speeding or being reckless, it softens the impact. The payout becomes negotiable. But my guess is they’ll see it the same way we do.”
“I’ll make sure forensics photographs everything. We’ll document everything six ways from Sunday and the insurance people can take their best shot. When will I get a report from you?”
“I’ll go down to Valley Traffic right now and write something up.”
“Good. Get it to me. What else?”
Clewiston looked around to see if he was forgetting anything. He shook his head. “That’s it. I need to take a few more measurements and some photos, then I’ll head down to write it up. Then I’ll get out of your way.”
Clewiston left him and headed back up the road to get his camera. He had a small smile on his face that nobody noticed.
Clewiston headed west on Mulholland from the crash site. He planned to take Coldwater Canyon down into the Valley and over to the Traffic Division office. He waited until the flashing blue and red lights were small in his rearview mirror before flipping open his phone. He hoped he could get a signal on the cheap throwaway. Mulholland Drive wasn’t always cooperative with cellular service.
He had a signal. He pulled to the side while he attached the digital recorder, then turned it on and made the call. She answered after one ring, as he was pulling back onto the road and up to speed.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“The apartment.”
“They’re looking for you. You’re sure his attorney knows where you are?”
“He knows. Why? What’s going on?”
“They want to tell you he’s dead.”
He heard her voice catch. He took the phone away from his ear so he could hold the wheel with two hands on one of the deep curves. He then brought it back.
“You there?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m here. I just can’t believe it, that’s all. I’m speechless. I didn’t think it would really happen.”
“You wanted it to happen, so it happened,” he said. “I told you I would take care of it.”
“What happened?”
“He went off the road on Mulholland. It’s an accident and you’re a rich lady now.”
She said nothing.
“What else do you want to know?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe I shouldn’t know anything. It will be better when they come here.”
