I pulled him off the hood, but as I did, he let out a shriek, swung his head toward me, and buried his rotten teeth through my windbreaker and into the meat of my forearm. I jerked my arm away, and one of the stained teeth peeled out of his mouth and stayed lodged in my arm. He toppled off the car and sprinted with surprising speed toward the tobacco store, where a man in his early twenties had just exited.
I rapped at the window, made sure Tessa was OK, and then I ran toward the tobacco store and called for the college kid to get away!
The transient, who was either mentally ill or high-or both-was now holding a rusted tire iron. Whether he’d had it hidden nearby or just found it, I didn’t know.
“Hey!” I had to yell loudly to be heard over the clatter of the approaching trolley. The guy was fast, frantic. I ran toward him.
“Stop!”
“Preehl!” he screamed.
Rumbling from the tracks nearby, the trolley was accelerating.
I sprinted toward the transient. “Put it down.” I reached for the plastic restraints I carry in my back pocket. “Do it now!”
This was spinning off bad, bad.
The vagrant turned in a circle, delirious. Disoriented. “Rrrrh-hhhkkk.”
Finally, the customer who’d been standing outside the tobacco store backed away and slipped into the thick shadows beside it.
Good, that’s good.
But you still need to restrain this guy so he doesn’t attack someone else.
I closed the distance to the homeless man, and he threw the tire iron at me, then bolted toward the trolley tracks. His impromptu weapon clanged to the sidewalk beside me as I ran toward him.
Only a few more meters.
The rushing thunder of the trolley became more pronounced here, because just past us, the track descended into a tightly cut trench through the city. A stiff, black metal fence two meters tall lined the sides of the rift to keep people from falling in.
Or jumping.
Oh no.
The transient grabbed the railing and began to climb. I sprang forward to clutch his leg. Almost had it. Almost.
There. I had his ankle.
But then he screamed one last unintelligible word, fiercely kicked my hand away, and threw himself over the top of the railing directly into the path of the oncoming trolley.
10
Even above the sound of the trolley rattling over the tracks, I could hear the wet, grisly sound of the trolley’s impact.
No, no, no.
I ran to the railing.
The engineer was braking the trolley, but it wouldn’t matter anymore to the man who’d jumped. I wondered if the people aboard had felt anything, if they had any idea what had just happened. I noticed something wobbling to a stop beside the tracks. Then I realized what it was.
The man’s shoe.
And it looked like it might still have his foot inside it.
A sour, churning flood of nausea swept through me. Some people grow numb to it all. To the death and blood and violence. You’d think in my job I would have, but it still bothers me. It still breaks my heart and turns my stomach.
I took a deep breath to calm myself and then remembered Tessa.
I swiveled around and ran to our car, part of my mind cataloging the scene.
Entrance and exit routes-K Street and 16th. No mobile traffic.
Check.
License plate numbers-five parked cars, memorize the plates.
Check.
Potential witnesses-trolley riders? Unlikely. In the channel, they couldn’t see out… college kid, store owner? Possibly. Tessa, me.
Check.
Surveillance-no visible cameras.
Check.
Tessa was sitting in the passenger seat, rocking back and forth, both hands covering her face. My phone was still in the car beside her. I knocked on the window and called for her to unlock the door.
When she didn’t move, I flagged down a man in a maroon Ford Mustang who’d just turned onto our street. At first I didn’t think he’d stop, but when he saw me glance at his plates, he pulled to a stop beside the curb.
“What’s going on?” he asked. His eyes landed on the blood seeping out of my arm.
“Do you have a phone?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Call 911. Tell them a man jumped in front of the trolley.”
He kept gazing at my arm.
“Do it.”
He dialed.
I had to call to Tessa four or five times before she finally unlocked the door and I was able to climb in beside her. “Are you OK?”
She was shaking.
I pulled her close. Held her tight.
“Did he do it?” Her voice fragile, broken. “Did he jump?”
Good. She didn’t see. Thank goodness she didn’t see.
“Don’t worry about that-”
“Did he jump!”
“Yes.” I had to be straight with her. “He did.”
She began hitting me with small, rigid fists. “He shouldn’t have done it, Patrick. He shouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
“Why did he do it?”
We always want a reason, an explanation, but sometimes there aren’t any. “He was confused,” I said. “He made a terrible mistake.”
I hugged her, tried to calm her. “Now, are you OK?”
“I wish we hadn’t come here.”
“Me too. I’m sorry.”
“Can we go?” She was wiping a tear away. “Please. Let’s go.OK?'
A man had just died, just killed himself, and since Tessa had covered her eyes and the college kid had bolted, it looked like I was the only one who’d seen what happened. I knew the police would need my statement, so, as badly as I wanted to, I couldn’t leave the scene quite yet. On the other hand, I didn’t want Tessa anywhere near here. I definitely needed to get her back to the hotel.
Just relax and think for a minute, Pat. Think.
I looked up and saw that the windshield was spider-webbed with cracks and spotted with crimson. Beyond John Doe’s blood spatter, I could see that a crowd was already forming along the edge of the tracks, staring down. Pointing. On the other side of the tracks two men trudged past the onlookers. I couldn’t see their faces, but one
