Shred of Evidence

The second best thing about driving to work this early in the morning was that the DJs still played music. It wasn’t until the commute really began that the radio personalities decided they were the real entertainment, musicians mere filler.

And last but not least, the third best thing about driving to work this early was arriving four hours ahead of everybody else. Half of my work day I didn’t have a single interruption. Then, while my coworkers were deciding to eat lunch at their desk, I was locking my desk drawers and heading home.

It was a pretty good setup if I did say so myself.

I did have to watch for cops though. With almost no traffic on the highway to slow me down, sometimes the speedometer crept into unfamiliar territory. It paid to be careful.

Up ahead, a car was pulled to the side of the road.

The hazard lights weren’t blinking. The hood wasn’t up. The spare tire wasn’t lying next to jack.

Perhaps the driver was napping or off in the woods letting nature take its course.

I flashed past the car and out of the corner of my eye saw the driver kneeling at a handmade wooden cross, his hands clasped together in prayer.

I continued to watch him in my mirror as he slowly shrank from view.

What was he: her boyfriend, her husband, her father? Did he come out here often, bring fresh flowers, sweep away litter and debris? Why not simply visit the cemetery the way other people did? Why make a shrine of the accident site?

I’d never seen him at the cross before. Had I always missed him by minutes or was this morning pilgrimage a rarity?

I slowed as the next exit approached, flicked off the radio mid-song.

Perhaps she’d been cremated or her body donated to science. Perhaps there was no grave for those left behind to visit.

At the end of the exit ramp, I turned onto the overpass.

His car was still in the same place.

I could just see that he was still in the same place.

That morning I’d barely paused at all.

I turned left onto the ramp and was soon heading in the opposite direction from where I’d been going.

No one would notice if I didn’t arrive at my usual time. It wasn’t as though I was scheduled or required to be in so early, only a habit, a habit I wouldn’t allow myself to break.

Wasn’t it bad enough what I’d done without thumbing my nose at my meager excuse?

Coming in early had become a penance, a recognition of my guilt, a remembrance.

I played so many mind games with myself that I no longer knew what I really believed.

He was still kneeling at the cross.

I passed him, separated by the median.

That morning, I’d still been a little buzzed from a celebration the night before. I was relatively new to this early arrival idea and hadn’t adjusted my lifestyle accordingly. As I lifted my coffee cup from the holder, the lid had popped off and I’d reached down to retrieve it.

When my head came back up, I saw the car pulled to the side of the road and then she stepped out from in front.

I slowed at the next exit to flip around.

I did stop but she was already dead. And then I climbed back into my car and drove away. I’d never seen anyone dead before, never pictured someone so horribly dead, never been responsible.

There were no other cars on the road, the best thing about driving to work this early in the morning.

I couldn’t save her but I could save myself, no sense in destroying both of our lives. What would anyone gain from me reporting the truth? It wouldn’t bring her back, wouldn’t undo what had been done. How could I admit what happened to others without admitting it to myself?

The thoughts weren’t as distinct as that.

I was shocked, appalled, in denial both about what happened and my part in the tragedy. I’d killed a young woman.

I didn’t steal from my employer, cheat on my taxes, or lie unnecessarily. How could I be a murderer?

There’s a common belief that the death of a young person is somehow worse than the death of someone older. Yes, the fewer the years, the more the person loses but the greater the years, the more the world loses. Whatever that means.

I parked behind his car.

After sitting there a few seconds, I opened my door.

Up front, did he glance up from his prayer? Did he wonder who would stop and interfere with the solemnity of his grief? Did he expect me to ask directions, snap a picture?

Was he oblivious to anything but memories?

I left the anonymity of my car, edged past his, and stood at the front bumper silently.

The soles of his shoes were well worn.

I could easily retrace my steps, jump into my car, run away again, this time keeping the pedal pressed to the floor until I ran out of road. What exactly could I offer him by staying? Condolences? The expression on her face that I saw for a split second and now forevermore? Receipts from the do-it-yourself car wash and the autobody shop as if to prove I paid a price for my sins, however small?

He shifted, put one foot beneath him and then two, stood and turned in a single movement.

He was even older than me but I could see the similarities between them. Her father then.

He stared at me.

I coughed. “Sorry to intrude. I just—”

“What?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay to drive.” I licked ashen lips. “Several years ago, I had an accident returning from the funeral of my parents. They had both died in a house fire, not something you hear much anymore unless a hundred homes are wiped out by a raging forest fire, but that’s what happened. I tapped someone stopped at a red light, became flustered, reversed into the car behind me. But I’m rambling.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” I nodded toward the cross behind him. “I mean about your loss.”

“Her name was Wendy and she was returning from a party. She was too drunk to drive and the police suspect that she stepped out into the path of an oncoming car. No one knows why she pulled to the side of the road. Her car was in perfect working condition.”

I shook my head. “A terrible thing.”

“The oncoming driver has never been identified. The police think he stopped to check on her. There were fresh skid marks. You can understand his panic.”

“Perhaps she was already dead.”

“That’s what they assume and I hope they’re right.”

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

He nodded. “Why don’t I follow you?”

All right, so I didn’t know what I was doing or why I was doing it. Was I in fact looking for something from him? Forgiveness? Understanding? Outrage?

I wasn’t even familiar with the exits on this section of the highway and didn’t have a clue where I might find a coffee shop. Then I saw the sign littered with fast food logos and I had my clue.

He parked next to me.

I ordered two coffees and joined him at the table.

He opened his lid and added three sugars. “This is awfully decent of you.”

“I’ve never actually seen someone at one of those roadside crosses before. I felt as though I should stop.”

“Are you on your way to work?”

“Yes. I’m a bit of an early bird.”

“While everyone crows that the early bird catches the worm, very few mention that the early worm gets eaten.”

“I haven’t heard the second part before. Clever.” I sipped my coffee.

“I can’t imagine it’s easy being a hit-and-run driver. There’s not a lot of available sympathy, no support groups with other people in the same situation, at least none that I know of. The weight of the knowledge and the urge to keep it secret must be a terrible burden.”

“You don’t seem angry about what happened.” Perhaps he’d secretly wished her dead.

“What would anger do for me? Sure, I’d like to see the driver come forward, but not for her sake, for his.”

“His?”

“So he can cough up the bile of that morning and then rinse his mouth out with the sweet taste of justice. I’m sure he requires some sense of closure so he can forgive himself and move on.”

“But he killed someone.”

“It was an accident. He should have called the police but in a moment of weakness he ran. Before he knew it, too much time had passed to make the call. How would he explain the delay?”

“How indeed.”

“It would still be awkward if he came forward today but then he could begin to put the past behind him. I’m not saying the process would be painless. I’m just guessing it’s what he needs.”

I played with my coffee cup. “Perhaps he too was drunk at the time and doesn’t even remember what happened.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“No.”

“If anything, he probably wishes he could forget.”

“I expected bitter resentment.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know the girl.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m a private investigator. The family hired me to see if I could make headway where the police couldn’t. Because of the time and place of the accident, I guessed the driver was someone who traveled the road regularly. I was prepared to sit out there every morning for two weeks, waiting for someone to stop.”

“Do you think I killed her?”

“I believe you’re the one who hit her. I also believe that you’re ready to stop running in place, ready to sit, ready to share the load.”

“I should call in to work, tell them I’ll be late.”

He picked up our trash and brought it over to the barrels as I dialed the number.