The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [21]
“The seat belt was defective?”
“It was nonoperative.”
“No kidding.” Rainie’s voice gained an edge. “Why was it nonoperative?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Amity drawled evenly.
“You didn’t examine it, disassemble it? Come on, Officer, if that seat belt had been working, it might have saved the driver’s life. That ought to make it worth some attention.”
“A defective seat belt is a civil, not criminal, matter, ma’am. Being underworked cops with an unlimited budget, we would love to focus on things outside of our jurisdiction, of course, but that would entail spitting in the face of standard investigative procedures.”
Rainie blinked twice, then scowled when she finally detected the sarcasm underlining his amiable drawl. Here was the difference between formal and informal police practices, she thought not for the first time. If she’d come across an accident like Mandy’s when she’d been a small-town cop, she would’ve checked out the seat belt. But small sheriff’s departments didn’t rigidly follow things like standard investigative procedures. Hell, half of their volunteer staff probably couldn’t spell investigative, let alone procedures.
“I made a phone call,” Officer Amity said abruptly. His face remained expressionless, but his voice dropped, as if he were about to confess a sin.
“About the seat belt?” As long as they were being coconspirators, Rainie lowered her voice, too.
“I didn’t like the fact that lack of seat belt made it a fatality,” Amity said, “and it just so happened that the seat belt was broken. So I called the garage that serviced the Explorer. Seems that the broken seat belt wasn’t new; it happened a month before. The driver called about having it replaced. Even made an appointment. But she never came in.”
“When was the appointment?”
“A week before the crash.”
“Did the garage know why she canceled?”
“She called to say something had come up, she’d reschedule shortly.” He shrugged. “So now we got a driver running around for four weeks without a proper harness system. Then she crawls behind the wheel dead drunk. I don’t know about suspicious, ma’am, but in my book the accident is looking stupider all the time.”
Rainie chewed her bottom lip. “I still don’t like the nonoperative seat belt.”
“Makes Daddy nervous,” Officer Amity shrewdly guessed.
“Something like that. What about the pedestrian victim, the old man?”
“Oliver Jenkins. Lived one mile from the crash site. According to his wife, he always walked his dog along the road and she always told him it was dangerous.”
“Any chance this had something to do with him?”
“Mr. Jenkins was a retired Korean War vet. He lived on a small pension from the state and loved butter pecan ice cream. No, I don’t think he did anything to deserve being run over by a Ford Explorer. The dog, on the other hand, had a long history of eating shoes.”
Big Boy’s face remained so impassive; Rainie almost missed the sarcasm again. Were all Southern boys so charming, or was she just in for a special treat?
“No sign of braking,” she tried, still working the suspicious angle.
“Never met a drunk who did.”
“Could’ve gotten tapped by a second vehicle,” she rallied.
“No fresh scratches, dents, or paint chips on the SUV. No marks on the tire walls. No additional sets of tire tracks. Look at your photos, ma’am.”
Rainie scowled. Competent policemen could be such a pain in the ass. “What about a second person in the vehicle? A passenger?”
“I didn’t see one.”
“Did you look?”
“I looked in the passenger’s seat. There was no one there.”
“Did you dust for prints?”
Amity rolled his eyes. “What the hell would you gain by printing a car? First off, the dashboards and most side panels are too rough to yield a print. Second, the smooth surfaces that would work, such as seat belt clasps, door handles, or steering wheels, have been handled by so many Tom, Dick, and Harrys, you’d never get clean ridges. Again, I refer you to standard investigative procedures—”