Page 17 of No Capes
Three Capital City Journalists Die in Crash
By Chronicle Staff
A man and two women are dead following a weather-related crash and subsequent fire at Capital Cliffs on Tuesday evening. The Capital City Police Department says the vehicle was heading north when the car lost control on the wet roads just before 7:00 P.M. The minivan hit the cliff’s guardrail, exposing the engine, and immediately went up in flames. Passengers have been identified as Elaine and Jonathan Levine and Meredith Roberts, all editors-in-chief at theCapital Chronicle.CCPD confirmed crash investigators are looking into whether faulty equipment might have contributed to the crash, but photos show little of the car has remained intact. Tuesday’s accident is the fourth crash in recent years on Capital Cliffs. Capital City Police officers encourage drivers to check their tires and reduce their speed in rainy weather.
Two photographs accompany the article. The first shows thebroken guardrail between the wet road and steep cliffs. It was taken during the day, when police tape blocked off the scene. A chunk of the iron rail lies on the grass with a horse-sized dent in it. The second photo is of the Levines’ minivan, which is charred and scattered in pieces on the grassy side of the cliffs. It’s the same image I’ve seen a trillion and one times.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I dig my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket and dial.
“CCPD,” says the woman on the other end.
“Hi, my name is Madeline Roberts. My mom died in a car accident a few years ago, and I was hoping to see the police report.”
“Hang on,” says the officer. The line goes silent and I check that we’re still connected. I finish the last few bites of my dinner and bring my plate to the dishwasher. She returns a minute later. “I can share the report, but you gotta come down to the station. Records department closes in an hour. Can I schedule you an appointment for tomorrow?”
“Nope. I’ll be there.” I hang up and text Kristen.
~
“So, we’re here because a Super who’s terrorizing everyone stalked you and made you second guess your traumatic loss?” Kristen whispers as we follow Officer Kyle, a balding, middle-aged cop who smells like strong coffee and canned meatballs, into an interrogation room. I don’t know if Kyle is his first name, last name, or both. Kyle Kyle. Better than being named Fox.
Officer Kyle places the accident file on the wobbly wooden table. The interrogation room has cinder block walls, a long two-way mirror, and flickering lights. There’s also a computer from at least thirteen years ago on a desk in the corner, and metal chairs surround our table. Officer Kyle takes one. I take another.
“I’ll stand,” says Kristen.
“Suit yourself.” Officer Kyle checks his watch. “Don’t mean to rush you, but we close in fifteen.”
“No problem,” I say. The folder isn’t thick.
The Capital City Police Department feels dated and cramped. After Golden Ace came, their budget went to other departments in the city and the PD downsized, but this place is a good setup for catching criminals. If I were guilty, I’d confess just to get out of here.
“Looking for something in particular?” asks Officer Kyle. “I remember that accident. That’d been some storm. Deeply sorry for your loss.”
I shake my head and open the file, bracing myself for the ringing in my ears that starts when I touch this part of my life. Six months of therapy, and my only breakthrough wasto give myself some compassion when I hear the ringing.Nothing yet. Onward.
The contents blur under the dim lights. On top is a picture of my mom standing between Mr. and Mrs. Levine that’s been pulled from theCapital Chronicle’swebsite. They pose, smiling as if it all will last.
My mom steals the photo. She wears a black blazer with pulled-up sleeves and a crisp white shirt. Her peach lipstick is perfect. Her eyes are bright, and heavy auburn hair curls around her face, making her shine. She was competitive and relentless, always searching for the truth. The photograph captures her perfectly.
Underneath it lie pixelated photos of the accident scene and a thin stack of official documents. I realize I should have brought a notebook. Anything.
“Can we copy these?” I ask.
“Copier’s broken.” Officer Kyle’s peppery drawl makes him sound older than he looks. He must notice my face fall, becausehe quickly adds, “But you’re welcome to take photos. Since this isn’t a criminal case, everything’s public record.”
“Why isn’t this stuff computerized?” asks Kristen.
“No staff.” He shrugs.
If you stopped exploiting Golden Ace,I think,maybe you would get some.
I use my phone camera and work as quickly as I can. First up is the official police statement, which says that the car was a four-year-old minivan that weighed 4,430 pounds. Its rear door flew off when it hit the guardrail, an impact that also made a baseball-sized hole in the engine. The minivan tumbled down the side of the cliff after it caught on fire, then exploded and broke into three large pieces. Mr. Levine had been driving, Mrs. Levine was in the passenger seat, and my mom was in the back. Despite the explosion, the bodies were intact.
I set the report aside and stop cold at the next paper. Thick red typing marks the next paper, NOTICE OF NEW EVIDENCE—someone had uncovered a red cigarette lighter 200 meters from the car’s main body. Fingerprints had been wiped off, just like Dark Static had said. The forensics officer scrawled a note on it:Found by Golden Ace.How had Dark Static discovered this?
“There’s evidence from Golden Ace?” I ask Officer Kyle.
He nods. “Always thought that was kind of strange, but it never turned into anything.”
