Gage wanted to see if there was any blue paint on her car.
* * *
Katja’s wrecked Mercedes had just arrived at the impound yard. It was still secured on the back of the rollback style tow truck. The tow truck was parked inside the fence, allowing Gage to see the rear of the Mercedes from outside the gate. Boris went inside the small building as Gage peered at the car through the fence. Other than what appeared to be tree scrapes and a great deal of dirt, he couldn’t tell very much. Because the car had tumbled countless times, there were numerous dead limbs stuck in various crevices around the car.
Minutes, later, Boris beckoned Gage. He walked through the office as Boris explained that, as a courtesy, the polizei were allowing them five minutes to view the car.
“But you cannot touch it,” the resident policeman warned.
“Can you at least pull it down off the truck?” Boris asked.
The officer agreed and asked Gage and Boris to stand in the building while he coordinated the stall in which to deposit the wrecked Mercedes. Minutes later, as the tow truck departed, the officer retrieved the two men and walked them to the stall.
The stall itself was nothing more than a covered space, bordered by steel beams that supported the corrugated roof and separated the stalls. Next to Katja’s car was a mangled automobile. It was so battered and torn apart that Gage couldn’t determine the make or model.
Steeling himself, he began to slowly work his way around Katja’s Mercedes.
“Did you see the accident site?” Boris asked the officer.
“No, sir.”
“Have you heard what the driver died from?”
The polizei eyed his clipboard. “The attending paramedics believed it to be a head injury combined with internal bleeding.”
Satisfied that Boris was playing out the string, Gage made a slow revolution around the Mercedes, scrutinizing. Other than gouge marks from the trees, he saw no blue paint anywhere.
After several minutes, the officer said, “Okay, that’s all the time we can allow. Let’s go.”
Boris began to walk away.
“Which direction had she been driving?” Gage asked.
With an exasperated breath, the polizei eyed the clipboard again. “East. The report states the tire tracks coming off of Landesstrasse 3041 indicate a car headed east, probably at high speed.”
Think, Gage, think…
He continued to peer at the car.
The polizei spoke again. “That’s really all the time we have.”
Gage squatted down, allowing his eyes to slowly move the length of the battered Mercedes.
“Get your client,” the frustrated cop told Boris.
“Gage, please come on.”
She was headed east, meaning, she was probably headed back to Friedberg. Where had she been? And more importantly, how did she get pushed off the left side of the road when she should have been driving on the right side?
“I’m going to have to do something about this,” the polizei warned Boris.
Boris walked to Gage and put his hand on his shoulder. “Please, Gage. We must go.”
“Not yet. And we’re not hurting anything,” Gage stated. “What’s the hurry?”
“Sir, I must ask that you depart immediately,” the polizei commanded, his voice louder. “Your being here is a courtesy and is against the rules.”
She was headed east while driving on the right side, but went off the left. That means someone would have hit her from behind to loosen her up. Then, when she swerved, they would have pushed on the right side of the car to make her go off to the left.
Gage stepped all the way around the Mercedes.
“That’s it,” the polizei said. He lifted his radio and spoke a brief phrase, then began coming toward Gage.
“Gage, we have to go now,” Boris pleaded.
At the rear of the car, Gage wiped away dirt and debris from the bumper. By this time, the polizei had reached Gage and grasped his wrist. Gage didn’t resist—he kept his eyes on the car.
The officer had his cuffs out but didn’t use them. He lightly twisted Gage’s wrist backward and asked if he would leave peacefully.
“Look at the bumper,” Gage said, tilting his head to where he’d wiped away the soil. “White paint.”
Both the polizei and Boris peered at the bumper. Because of the ghost silver car, the white paint was extremely difficult to notice. But once the dirt had been wiped away, one could see the white scrapes along with an indentation.
“Bet there’s more on the passenger side where she got pushed off,” Gage said.
Five minutes later, two polizei had lightly wiped off most of the car. Using small orange pointer flags, they marked each section of the car that had been abraded with what almost certainly appeared to be white automotive paint.
“She was forced off the road,” Gage whispered to Boris.
“You don’t know that for absolute certain,” Boris countered, also in a low voice. “It could be coincidental.”
“Her car was immaculate before. There weren’t any scrapes.”
“It’s something, Gage, but it’s not indelible proof.”
Gage wasn’t going to argue. He snapped several pictures with his phone, which weren’t objected to. Then he popped himself in the forehead, as if he’d forgotten something, and spoke loudly. “Wait, these scrapes were already there.”
Boris stared. Gage widened his eyes, as if to play along.
“They were?” Boris asked.
“I remember Katja telling me about them. She’d bumped into another car a few weeks back.”
“Did she report it?” one of the officers asked.
“Katja?” Gage asked. “No way. Why would she?”
The second polizei gestured to the rear of the car. “You’re sure that paint was already there?”
Both Gage and Boris nodded. With a shrug, the polizei gestured for them to leave.
Outside the impound lot, Boris stood with Gage beside Karl Vogel’s Audi. “You think that paint proves someone tried to kill Katja?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you’re convinced Karl
