The lights of a
dozen or more highway patrol and ambulances and fire trucks kaleidoscope
through the misted pre-dawn window as Kaufman is flagged aside and directed to
park the cruiser over 500 yards from the scene. He obliges with an odd salute.
Soon he works his way toward the commotion, but is kept at arms length by a
cacophony of overwhelmed deputies and confused officers from a stalled Toyota
Prius just off the freeway roll out. A generic vehicle: some indeterminate
shade of grey that daylight couldn’t even reveal. Under the Texas night stars
and the colored emergency lights, the car lacks any innate color completely.
Sucked dry of it all. Kaufman’s best guess, someone’s mother had died.
As he slips past a
news crew that has already made camp, Kaufman can’t help but wonder why so many
responders for a Toyota? Must have called every department in, and they’re all
plenty grumpy, so there’s lots of chatter. Questions and nonsense and
everybody’s in the dark. It’s not until he manages to reach the tail of the
Prius, when he gets his first look inside, that he spots the figure hunched
over the wheel. A big guy, wisps of white hair raised high, static electricity
from the looks of it. Maybe the guy was frightened to death? Either way,
Kaufman was wrong. This wasn’t someone’s mother. It was someone’s father.
“Can I help here,
or am I just takin’ up space?” he asks nobody in particular. There’s no answer in
the confusion.
More fire trucks
and ambulances linger along the sidelines while the uniforms vehemently circle
the vehicle. Just why nobody has begun on the door starts to eat Kaufman. He
reaches for the handle, wrist grabbed tight by a Rookie clearly just out of the
academy who finally feels like he has some clout, “orders come down direct.”
Kaufman peeks
inside, “anybody check if he’s still breathin’?”
The Rookie doesn’t
even look.
Kaufman raises up,
knowing the chances of getting any information from this guy – iffy at best.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m feelin’ like this here’s a birthday party and we
all are just standin’ around the cake. Candles burnin’, drippin’ down wax and
all.”
The headlights
from several more patrol cars rake across the Rookie’s face, stealing his eyes
for a moment and Kaufman takes the opportunity to shimmy toward a mobile
command station that’s nearly prepped. Cables run across the highway, tapped
into a power line nearly a quarter mile from the accident site. A quick circle
and Kaufman finds a safe spot to linger. A nice vantage point for the car, and
easy listening to the group of commanders and lieutenants. At least Kaufman
thinks he recognizes their ranks since they’re the ones who let loose that the
driver of the Prius was indeed a father. And a husband. What was a surprise to
Kaufman though: the driver of the colorless Prius, with hair standing up like a
wild child, was the richest man in Texas.
