wreck. I walked around and looked at it from all angles. The only way it could have been more smashed would have been to put it into one of those giant auto compactors. There was no part of the vehicle with any smooth metal. Every window was broken. The passenger compartment, designed to hold four, was squeezed nearly flat.
I looked inside. Take away the splattered blood and broken glass, the interior looked to have been clean when the car went off the mountain. There was a jacket crammed under the crushed dashboard. Loose in the vehicle, but crushed flat, was a metal thermos, the kind that was considered indestructible. The driver’s door panel was stained dark as if with coffee. If Manuel had traveled with a briefcase or any other items, they had been ejected from the car.
Other than the crash debris, the only items that seemed out of place were a mangled cigarette pack and a crumpled piece of colored glossy paper on the rear floor, just visible under the edge of a pancaked seat. I could see them, but I couldn’t reach them.
I pointed them out to Bains.
He leaned to the side to see into the narrow space. “Funny,” he said. “Seems like this guy is fastidious. The rest of the car is clean. Stuff would fly around in this kind of crash. But that looks like the paper was crumpled up in someone’s hand and tossed on the floor. And the cigs don’t make sense.”
“Because people who drive Priuses don’t smoke,” I said.
“Right.”
I stuck my hand partway into the wreckage, assessing whether or not I could reach the paper and cigarettes.
“You’ll cut yourself if you try to reach past all that ripped metal. I checked and found that there are no warrants on Manuel. Not even a speeding ticket. He’s clean as they come. So all I want is the registration.”
Bains reached through the broken passenger window to the glove box. It was obviously jammed, but he tried wiggling it anyway.
“Looks like we’ll need a pry bar.” He walked over to one of the patrol units and came back with a pry bar. He worked it into the glove box seam, levered it up and down. Plastic broke with loud snapping sounds. Bains repositioned the bar and jerked it back and forth.
Bains lifted up his foot, got it in through the opening, and started kicking, over and over. He pulled his foot out and began working once again with the pry bar. This time he made a stabbing motion. Eventually, he pulled out the vehicle manual and registration and held it up, victorious.
“You’re sweating like a gladiator,” I said.
“Working like one,” he said. Bains walked around to where the rear hatchback had been and absently lifted up on the crushed metal, knowing that it wouldn’t budge.
“If we want to get into any of the other crushed spaces, we’ll have to borrow the Jaws-of-Life cutters from the fire department. I’ll check with Manuel’s wife and see if there’s anything she’s missing that might be under that hatch. Otherwise, I’m done with this.”
As he spoke, I walked around to where he had attacked the glove box. I reached into the cup holders and other compartments. All were clean. If there was an ashtray, I couldn’t find it among the broken metal and plastic.
There was a stiff stick about three feet long that had gotten stuck into a crack in the wreckage as it was pulled up the mountainside. I jerked the stick out and used it to reach through a torn opening in the crushed metal car body and fish out the crumpled paper. It didn’t want to come. Eventually, I got the paper ball lined up just so, and I stabbed the stick through the paper. I slowly pulled the stick out from the wreckage, careful not to bump the paper off. Next, I reached the stick back in, got it into the open end of the cigarette pack, and pulled it out. The pack was empty.
Bains watched as I opened the crumpled paper and smoothed it out on my thigh. The paper showed a picture of a skier with a very blue Lake Tahoe in the background below. The skier was
I looked inside. Take away the splattered blood and broken glass, the interior looked to have been clean when the car went off the mountain. There was a jacket crammed under the crushed dashboard. Loose in the vehicle, but crushed flat, was a metal thermos, the kind that was considered indestructible. The driver’s door panel was stained dark as if with coffee. If Manuel had traveled with a briefcase or any other items, they had been ejected from the car.
Other than the crash debris, the only items that seemed out of place were a mangled cigarette pack and a crumpled piece of colored glossy paper on the rear floor, just visible under the edge of a pancaked seat. I could see them, but I couldn’t reach them.
I pointed them out to Bains.
He leaned to the side to see into the narrow space. “Funny,” he said. “Seems like this guy is fastidious. The rest of the car is clean. Stuff would fly around in this kind of crash. But that looks like the paper was crumpled up in someone’s hand and tossed on the floor. And the cigs don’t make sense.”
“Because people who drive Priuses don’t smoke,” I said.
“Right.”
I stuck my hand partway into the wreckage, assessing whether or not I could reach the paper and cigarettes.
“You’ll cut yourself if you try to reach past all that ripped metal. I checked and found that there are no warrants on Manuel. Not even a speeding ticket. He’s clean as they come. So all I want is the registration.”
Bains reached through the broken passenger window to the glove box. It was obviously jammed, but he tried wiggling it anyway.
“Looks like we’ll need a pry bar.” He walked over to one of the patrol units and came back with a pry bar. He worked it into the glove box seam, levered it up and down. Plastic broke with loud snapping sounds. Bains repositioned the bar and jerked it back and forth.
Bains lifted up his foot, got it in through the opening, and started kicking, over and over. He pulled his foot out and began working once again with the pry bar. This time he made a stabbing motion. Eventually, he pulled out the vehicle manual and registration and held it up, victorious.
“You’re sweating like a gladiator,” I said.
“Working like one,” he said. Bains walked around to where the rear hatchback had been and absently lifted up on the crushed metal, knowing that it wouldn’t budge.
“If we want to get into any of the other crushed spaces, we’ll have to borrow the Jaws-of-Life cutters from the fire department. I’ll check with Manuel’s wife and see if there’s anything she’s missing that might be under that hatch. Otherwise, I’m done with this.”
As he spoke, I walked around to where he had attacked the glove box. I reached into the cup holders and other compartments. All were clean. If there was an ashtray, I couldn’t find it among the broken metal and plastic.
There was a stiff stick about three feet long that had gotten stuck into a crack in the wreckage as it was pulled up the mountainside. I jerked the stick out and used it to reach through a torn opening in the crushed metal car body and fish out the crumpled paper. It didn’t want to come. Eventually, I got the paper ball lined up just so, and I stabbed the stick through the paper. I slowly pulled the stick out from the wreckage, careful not to bump the paper off. Next, I reached the stick back in, got it into the open end of the cigarette pack, and pulled it out. The pack was empty.
Bains watched as I opened the crumpled paper and smoothed it out on my thigh. The paper showed a picture of a skier with a very blue Lake Tahoe in the background below. The skier was
Similar Books
