He was a smoker. She could smell it on him. Tobacco. She hoped. He didn’t deserve to get blamed for this. If he’d been smoking marijuana or taking any other drugs, he could be criminally charged. Which wouldn’t be justice in his case at all.
The trucker said quietly, “She’s gone. No seat belt. Flew out of the vehicle at some point. Still clutching her cell phone. Best guess is that she was talking on the phone when it happened.”
Kim nodded. “You’re sure she’s gone?”
“Yeah. No mistaking death like that. Seen it before. Never pretty,” he replied and tilted his head toward the cyclist. “How about him?”
“Still alive. Help’s on the way.” As soon as she’d uttered the words, she heard the helo in the distance.
“Strangest damn thing,” the truck driver said, shaking his head and nodding toward the cyclist. He pulled a pack of Camels and a lighter out of his pocket and, with trembling hands, lit one, puffing steadily. “Seemed like he went right at her. On purpose.”
“What? That’s crazy,” Kim replied, eyes wide. A shiver ran through her, which could have been caused by the dampness, but wasn’t.
The trucker shrugged, taking another shaky draw from the cigarette. “He had plenty of time to slow down. To back off, like you did. He could’ve moved to the shoulder. Right at the end, he had room to move in front of my rig and keep right on going. I’d slowed down. He had the space.”
Kim stared at him. “You’re saying this was what? Suicide?”
“Stranger things have happened,” the trucker shrugged again. “You’ve never heard of suicide by truck?”
She nodded. She knew the practice was all too common. It was kind of like suicide by cop. The victim was too scared to do the job, so he put himself in the way of a vehicle or a bullet.
It was an effective way to die. But it was a lousy thing to do to the survivors.
The cyclist was still alive, though. If suicide had been his plan, he’d screwed up.
Kim shook off the thoughts. “You have a dashcam in your rig?”
“Yeah. Sends the video straight to the company. Cops can see it soon as they ask,” he replied.
Gaspar could hack the dashcam, too. He was probably doing so now.
Traffic on the westbound lanes of US 72 across the grassy median had slowed to a crawl. More vehicles were lining up behind the Lexus and the flares, too. Sirens wailed behind and ahead of the traffic, moving relentlessly toward the incident.
The helo was within sight range now, hovering overhead, scanning for a good spot to land. Visibility was barely good enough below the clouds, but dusk was fast approaching and the rain had started to drizzle again.
A few vehicles had stacked up behind the incident, but the road in front of the truck was clear. The helo set down about two hundred feet east of the big rig.
Two first responders jumped out of the helo with their equipment and hustled over to the cyclist. Kim gave them a quick report on what happened, then stepped back to let them do their jobs.
While they were working on him, another pair hurried toward the sedan. It wouldn’t take them long to realize they could do nothing for the driver. Crime scene techs would take over.
The helo’s big rotors were slowing, but still roaring overhead.
Kim and the trucker stood aside. Law enforcement would need their eyewitness accounts and their contact information when they arrived on the scene.
The trucker moved the cigarette to his left hand and extended his right. “Joe Watts.”
“Kim Otto,” she replied, accepting the gesture.
He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Got a card? My company will want to contact you. Take a statement about what happened. That okay with you?”
Kim nodded and handed him one of her cards.
The sirens died off as law enforcement officers came up behind the Lexus and went to work. Two more vehicles pulled up to handle traffic flow on the westbound lanes.
Shortly afterward, a uniformed officer from Carter’s Crossing approached.
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday, May 11
Outside Carter’s Crossing, Mississippi
6:45 p.m.
Kim had watched as the cyclist was airlifted toward Memphis. After that, the usual crash site activities consumed everyone present.
Jurisdiction over the crash site was iffy, but in small, rural communities like this, various departments worked together. Turned out the closest town was Carter’s Crossing, but Mississippi State Patrol would be in charge. They probably had a Fatal Accident Crash Team to handle such situations. For now, uniformed and plainclothes personnel milled about, each one performing necessary functions.
Road flares had been set appropriately. Traffic had been rerouted at some point east and west of the scene, and traffic flow had resumed in both directions across the grassy median, using the westbound lanes. Gawkers stared at the scene as they moved slowly past, but the vehicles were moving now.
The eastbound lanes would remain closed while the scene was processed. Kim observed the professionals at work. Photos were taken. Everything was measured and documented. Tow trucks and search warrants were on the way. The body would be removed and transported to the appropriate coroner’s office for an autopsy, although the cause of death seemed abundantly clear.
But this crash wasn’t her job. After she’d seen enough to know these were trained professionals at work and there was no need for her here, Kim tuned it all out.
The weather had turned dark and cold. The rain hadn’t let up. She’d brought no rain gear.
She’d given her card and a statement to the appropriate officer. The trucker had done the same and returned to his cab. There was no reason for her to stay here any longer.
Kim took another quick look around, just to be sure. Across the median, the police had redirected traffic from the eastbound lanes to one of the westbound lanes. Traffic was moving again in both directions. A few motorcycles roared past, heading toward Memphis. She saw a big guy walking backward along the shoulder of the eastbound lane, thumb out, looking for a ride.
Even from this distance, there was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t say exactly what it was. She watched until a pickup truck pulled over, and he stepped into the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. The truck kept going, headed toward Carter’s Crossing. She couldn’t see the plate on the truck. Maybe Gaspar could find a camera with eyes on the plate if she wanted to locate the driver later.
One last look around before she trudged back toward her SUV, which was still parked on the shoulder behind the big rig. She pulled the door open, slid behind the steering wheel, and pushed the start button. The engine caught and growled like a satisfied lion slept under the hood.
Before she had a chance to put the transmission in gear, knuckles rapped on her window. She glanced up to see an oversized man with an oversized mustache standing outside in the rain next to the Lexus. He was dressed in street clothes, wearing a coat with the collar turned up against the windswept rain and a wide-brimmed hat, but he held a badge in his hand.
She lowered the window.
“You’re FBI Special Agent Kim Otto? I’m Sheriff Scott Greyson, Carter’s Crossing. The next town east of here. People call me Chief. Mind if we talk a bit?” he said.