There was so much to be done here. Yet they had gotten along without a project manager for two months now; they could suffer through another day.
5
Toad Tarkington lowered himself into a seat against the window on the left side of the airplane, Boeing 727. Three engines, he noted with satisfaction. Airliners made him aervous these days. He couldn’t see the guys flying or monitor the instruments and he had no ejection seat, so he couldn’t boogy on out if the clowns up front ham- fingered it, which, from what he read in the newspapers, they had been doing lately with distressing frequency. Luckily this flight to Seattle was almost empty, so after the crash there wouldn’t be any unsightly mob ripping out hair and eyeballs scrambling for the emergency exits.
He glanced across the four empty seats and the aisle at Rita Moravia sitting against the window on the right side. Now there was one cold, cold woman. She hadn’t yet smiled in his presence or given any indication she ever would. The old Tarkington charm rolled right over her as if it had gone bad in the winter of ‘85. turned sour and rotten and gave off an evil odor.
The plane began to move. Backwards. They were pushing it out. Toad glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes late. They were always late. He tried to get comfortable in his seat. Reluctantly he picked up the copy of The Washington Post he had purchased at a news counter and scanned the headlines. Same old crap — it’s absolutely uncanny how politicians can be relied upon to do or say something every single day that even Charlie Manson would think bizarre.
He sneaked a glance at Moravia. She was reading a paperback.
He squinted. My God — it’s a Jackie Collins novell How about that? The ice queen deep into sex among the rich and stupid. Maybe her hormones are okay after all.
Toad leaned back and closed his eyes. He needed to work out some kind of approach, a line. First he needed to know more about her. This was going to take some time, but she looked like she’d be worth it and Jake Grafton had implied that they were going to be spending plenty of time together. That Grafton, he didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. He knew the score.
Toad opened one eye and aimed it her way. Yep, a nice tight unit reading a romance novel. Who’d have guessed?
When the plane was safely airborne he reclined his seat and drifted off to sleep wearing a satisfied little smile.
Jake Grafton found a place to park the Chevy right on Main Street a block from the courthouse intersection, which sported the only stoplights in town. Actually there were three empty parking places all in a row and he took one on the end. Romney, West Virginia, was not a bustling place on a cold, breezy March morning.
The interior of the courthouse was massive and calm. The ceil- ings were at least fifteen high. Even the interior walls were thick, substantial, built to last. He examined the signs on the wooden doors and settled on the circuit clerk’s office. Inside he asked, “Where do I find the prosecuting attorney?”
“Across the street on the left end of the block. He has an office above the liquor store. Cookman’s his name.” The lady smiled.
“And the state police?”
”Out of the courthouse, turn right and go three blocks, then another right and down about a half mile. The barracks is a nice little brick building. You can’t miss it.”
Standing in front of the courthouse beside the statue of a World War I doughboy, Jake decided to walk to the state police barracks first. The first three blocks were along the main drag, by stores and empty display windows. The decay of the American Main Street had reached this little community too. When he turned right he left the commercial district and found himself in a quiet residential area. As he passed modest houses with trees in the lawns and pick- ups and motorcycles in the drive, he could hear dogs barking and occasionally a snatch of talk show from an open door.
The police barracks had American and West Virginia flags flying on large poles in front, beside an empty parking area festooned with signs and plastic barriers for driving tests. Inside there wasn’t a cop in sight. The girl behind the desk looked like she was barely out of high school.
“Hi, I’d like to get a copy of an accident report from a couple months ago.”
“Did it happen in the city or out in the county?”
“Outside the city.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” She smiled. “I need the names of the parties involved, or at least one of them.”
“Harold Strong.”
“Just a moment.” She selected a drawer in a large file cabinet and began looking. “All we have are copies, of course. The origi- nals go to DMV in Charleston. We’re not even required to keep copies but we do because the lawyers and insurance adjusters al- ways want to see them. Are you a lawyer?”
“Uh, no. I was a friend of Captain Strong’s.”
“Here it is.” She looked at it as she walked toward the counter. “He was in the navy, wasn’t he.”
Her comment was a statement, not a question, but he responded anyway. “Yes, he was.”
She laid the report on the counter in front of him. “That’s our office copy and our copy machine is out of order. There’s one up in the county clerk’s office, where they keep the deeds and all?” He nodded. “But you need to leave your driver’s license with me.” She smiled apologetically. “So many people forget to bring our copy back.”
He dug out his wallet and extracted his license. She didn’t even look at it. “Thanks. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Very nicely done, he thought as he walked the half mile back toward the main street. No doubt before he got out of Romney he would be talking to a state trooper. He looked at the name on the report. Trooper Keadle.
There was an unpadded bench in the corridor outside the county clerk’s office and he settled there. The report consisted of three pages. The first was a form with blanks to be filled in and a dia- gram where the investigating officer drew little cars and arrows to show what he believed happened. The next two pages were merely handwritten comments of the investigating office. Keadle had a neat hand — he obviously hadn’t ruined his penmanship with years of furious note-taking.
The report was straightforward, devoid of bureaucratese. Jake read it a second time slowly, studying the words. According to Admiral Henry the prosecuting attorney had had a hand in this report, which “would not preclude a homicide prosecution.” That could only mean that none of the critical facts were omitted. A half-smart defense lawyer would raise holy hell if the prosecutor asked the trooper to testify about facts that he had “forgotten” to put in the official report.
What was in the report? Marks on the highway where it ap- peared tires may have broken their regular grip with the pavement and spun under power. No skid marks: wet pavement prevented that. Deep trenches in the gravel, some of which went all the way to the edge, presumably from skidding tires. Marks in the earth where the Corolla went over the edge. Wooden guardrails had been chain-sawed several days before the accident, presumably by van- dals or parties unknown; see previous report of sheriff’s deputy. Fire in Corolla passenger compartment very intense, body burned beyond recognition and identified with help of FBI forensic lab.- No mention of why or when the FBI was notified. Dents and scrape marks all over the vehicle. Finally, Corolla still structurally intact but gutted by fire.
No mention of the Corolla’s fuel tank. But the trooper could certainly testify that the fuel tank, like the car’s frame, was intact. No speculation on or estimate of how fast the Corolla would have had to be going up that mountain to slide all the way across the overlook area. Did he explain that the Corolla was ascending the grade? Yes, on page one.
No speculation about the cause of this single-car accident and no speculation anywhere that another vehicle might be involved.
He took the report into the office beside him and had it copied. They charged him thirty cents. He was tempted to use the car to return the original report but decided the exercise would be good for him. As he approached the police building, a trooper was park- ing his car in a reserved spot.
