Torrential rain in Los Angeles makes driving up Laurel Canyon difficult. I take deep breaths to control my blood pressure. Thirty-five years as a high school coach raised it. Sometimes it’s three times the highest score ever of my basketball team. Near the hilltop, cars on the right must merge left before a barrier enforcing a turn onto Mulholland Drive.
A guy in a red sportscar comes up on the right. He tries unsuccessfully to get in front of me. Accelerating, he nearly crashes into the barrier. But the driver in front of me allows him in.
The car between us turns left at the top of the hill. Now I’m right behind the ass going down the winding road. He tailgates and honks at the car in front of him. I force myself to think pleasant thoughts. Greeting people in the store. Going to lunch with other retired folks. At least the rain stops.
Turning right at Sunset Boulevard the sportscar nearly hits a young guy crossing the street. His bag of groceries goes flying. The sportscar stops ten feet ahead due to heavy traffic. The young man throws a can and makes a dent. The driver gets out, draws a gun from his pocket and shoots the young man in the chest. The ass gets in his car, drives wildly on the wrong side, turns and disappears.
I get out of my car, run to the victim and call 911. Blood everywhere but a woman is putting pressure on the wound. Police show up and unsuccessfully try to save the man. Other witnesses and I answer police questions. I describe the sportscar and driver, a six-foot three-inch, blond skinny guy around thirty to forty.
At work, I see a woman go into the dressing room with several undergarments. She comes out looking like she’d made a trip to a plastic surgeon for enhancement. I report this to the manager. Later, I relate the story to my lunchmates. They laugh and tell similar stories. Then I tell them about the murder. Sam says I was foolish to get involved. This makes my blood boil. I do my deep breathing but leave early for home.
No crazy drivers disrupt my trip home. Linda greets me with a big hug and sees the stress in my face. I tell her about what happened and Sam’s stupid remark. She says, “George, sit on the rocker and I’ll make tea.” I ask for a gin and tonic instead. We turn on cable news and soon I’m screaming at the latest outrage. My wife switches to an episode of The Nanny. I have two G&Ts and fall asleep.
A call from the police wakes me. “Can you come to the Hollywood station now to look at photos?” asks Detective John Sumner. But I’m in no condition to drive. He suggests my wife drive.
Linda is a nervous driver. Halfway up Laurel Canyon, a car flies past us. Another tailgates us, honks, then zooms around us and cuts in front of us. I’m fuming. Linda pulls over to the curb and says, “You drive.”
“I’m not mad at you,” I say.
“I know but I can’t deal with all this.”
We switch places. I drive to the police station as the rain starts coming down again. At times it’s so hard I can barely see. We reach the station and make our way inside completely soaked because I forgot umbrellas.
Detective Sumner meets us. I’m shown pictures on a computer of two dozen thin guys, thirty to forty years. Three look close to what I remember.
“Great,” says Sumner, “Two of them are cops. The other could be our guy. He’s got a GTA record.”
“What’s GTA?” Linda asks.
“Grand theft automobile. We watch lots of cop shows,” I say while looking at Sumner. “I told the cop at the scene the plate number.”
“Yes, it was reported stolen this morning.”
“Do I need protection?”
“No. There were a dozen other witnesses. And he’s probably more concerned with hiding.”
“But…”
Sumner interrupts, “Why would he pay particular attention to you?”
I explain what happened before the shooting. “I probably pissed him off when I didn’t let him in.”
“Sometimes you need to let the jerks win. But a guy who brazenly shoots someone with so many witnesses isn’t going to be worried about one.”
Still, Linda asks him if I can get protection from the police. He repeats his assurances. Being unconvinced she asks if I should get a gun.
“Only if he wants to insure one of you gets shot. Unless George had arms training, you’re more likely to be shot than the bad guy.”
I laugh, “I shot a rifle once. All I got was a sore shoulder.”
Sumner gives me his card and says goodbye.
The rain stops just before we get home. I change clothes, have another G&T and turn on TV. Linda says, “I think we’ll skip your evening blood pressure measurement tonight. But maybe you should double up on the meds.”
Early morning, Sumner calls. “We’ve caught the guy and he’ll be arraigned soon.”
But I don’t hear anything more the rest of the day. But oddly, nothing upsets me. I have one of the best nights in ages, only getting up once despite having consumed too much wine at dinner.
The next day is one I don’t go into work but play tennis with a group of retired people. Something has happened to me. I don’t even get angry about a bad line call or that I’m losing. My friends are amazed at how calm I am when tell them about the murder. One says, “George must be on happy pills.” I cannot explain why I feel so good. Maybe it’s expecting justice.
At home Linda says, “Go take a shower. I’ll make brunch.” I can tell she has something I’m not going to like on her mind. But I don’t question her. After showering, I sit at the kitchen table. Linda puts a beautiful plateful in front of me and sits. She sighs.“
Okay, what the problem?” I ask.“
Detective Sumner called. The guy they arrested has an alibi. He was in jail in San Diego.”
“Holy shit!” I exclaim, “That means the murderer is still out there.” I bang my fork on the table.
“Try to calm down,” Linda says, “There’s good news.”
“It better be great! My blood pressure is going to kill me. And the day started so well.” I can’t eat and start pacing across the room.
With a concerned look Linda says “It’s too early for a drink. How about some hot decaf tea? Do you want to hear the good news?”
“Sure.”
“They located the sportscar. Sumner called the place a chop shop. He said you should call him.”
I’m taking deep breaths to calm down. “Maybe they think they can catch him if he brings another car.”
I call Sumner who says, “The car theft unit broke in and arrested everyone. So, the chop shop is not good as a trap.”
“At least they caught some car thieves. And they must know the murderer.”
“You’re right,” Sumner responds, “We’re offering deals to anyone who tells us who he is. Unfortunately, nothing yet.”
“So, you have more questions for me?”
“We’d like you and the other witnesses to look at more pictures. We don’t want to depend only on felons identifying the guy.”
I can’t relax. I reheat brunch and do my breathing routine. Linda goes with me on a walk but complains that my pace is too rapid. I slow and we leisurely stroll through the neighborhood. Returning home, I relax for about ten minutes. My blood pressure measurement is only slightly elevated.
After dinner we drive to the Hollywood Police Station again. It rains again briefly. Arriving at the station, I see a group of people around Sumner. He says, “Please don’t talk to about what you witnessed. It’s better to have independent testimony.”
One of the people says, “But you haven’t caught the right guy yet.”
“We will with your help,” replies Sumner. “When you look at the pictures, don’t focus to hair color. Criminals often dye it.”
“Maybe he shaved it off like I did,” says one man.
“I’m this clown’s wife,” says a tattooed woman, “he’s made a pallet for the eagle I’m planning.”
I look at the pictures and pick out another possible perpetrator but say I’m not confident. Sumner tells me eliminating others is helpful. “We’re hoping several of you pick the same person. We’ll get the guy.”
“You’ll keep us informed, won’t you?” asks a woman.
Sumner responds, “Of course. Please don’t try play detective. This guy is not an average car thief.”
Despite my inability to keep my mind off the murder, we have a few nice days. My blood pressure stays just slightly elevated. It’s not raining. I’m rereading all of Jonathan Kellerman’s novels. I joke with Linda about Sumner being Milo Sturges and my helping him get into the mind of the murderer as would Alex Delaware.
Linda laughs, “You know as much about psychology of killers as I know about coaching basketball.”
“Yeah, but some of my players were killers. One fouled out of every game. It nearly killed me.”
On the fourth evening, I drive to the supermarket to get items Linda requested. In the lot I see a tall guy fiddling with the driver’s side door of a new BMW. I move around slowly trying to get a look at his face without being too obvious. I’m sure he’s the guy!
I call 911 and put on hold.The BMW takes off and I follow two cars behind. I put my mobile on speaker and keep waiting to report what I’ve seen. Still nobody speaks to me.
I follow the BMW onto Laurel Canyon. The BMW accelerates to seventy miles per hour but I don’t go over forty as my heart is pounding. I count slowly to ten, taking deep breaths. I’m not going to die from a stroke. But I continue up the road.
Five minutes later, I hear a woman’s voice from my mobile phone, “What can I help you with?”
I tell her. She asks me to hold. Meanwhile, the guy is getting away. She comes back on. I suggest, “You might send a helicopter over Laurel Canyon.”
“We’re doing everything we can to find that BMW. Stay clear.”
It sounds like a bomb has exploded up ahead. I very slowly continue up the road and see the disaster further up the hill. A house and a huge pile of mud is blocking the road. I pull over and park while telling the person on the phone what I am observing. She tells me not to go further. Surprisingly, I’m managing to stay calm.
A line of cars parks. People get out of their cars and a crowd gathers. One guy goes up closer despite part of the mess looking like it could slide further down. We all yell at him to come back.
Fifteen minutes later police and an ambulance arrive. We watch as they quickly find a car, pull out the driver and put him into the ambulance. A cop comes down the hill and tells us to leave. He will not tell us if the guy is dead or alive.
Two hours later Sumner calls me and says, “He’s barely alive but will live in prison for the rest of his life. Funny thing is, he’s not one of the people in the pictures we showed you. Anyway, you identified the right guy when you called 911. He had the murder weapon in his pocket. Congratulations on helping catch him. Stay well.”
I laugh and say, “I could have been buried in the mud. The damn hypertension saved my life.”
Bio:
Jordan Hanks is an award-winning biomedical scientist. He has published over two hundred peer-reviewed research articles, four scientific textbooks and is editor in chief of a well-established scientific journal under his real name. He also writes novels with his wife using his real name. As mysteries are his usual genre, he leaves it to the reader to figure out his true identify.