Driven by W. G. Griffiths Read Free Book Online Page B

to a uniform cop passing them on their way down the
     ramp.
    “Company’s already here, Detective,” the officer said, motioning toward the parking lot.
    Gavin turned. “Perfect,” he said, seeing Mel Gasman walking across the parking lot followed by a photographer. Gasman was
     an obnoxious pest who wrote for
The Daily Post,
a sensationalist rag that littered New York City and the surrounding suburbs.
    “Draw a line in the sand,” Chris yelled to the officer as he hurried after Gavin to the boat. “If he crosses it, read him
     his rights.” Gasman was already challenging the policeman.
    “Wait up, Gav,” Chris said, trying to keep pace. “Am I gonna need sneakers for our new partnership?”
    Gavin didn’t answer. He couldn’t stop to explain what he was feeling right now. The closer he got to the boat the more he
     knew the crash had been caused by the same driver.
His
driver. He could feel it… taste it. Only this time it was in his jurisdiction and he could do something about it.
    The floating dock, whose primary function was to secure small boats for those who were either retrieving or parking their
     trailers, was dwarfed by the large sailboat being tied to it. The water wasn’t deep enough for the boat’s draft, and the blue
     waterline painted on the keel was revealed as the waves lapped against it. When the boat was secured, the forensic team boarded.
     The two FMIs had to climb over the aft cable rail; the natural entry was completely occupied by the Camaro’s trunk, which
     cantilevered three feet off the side.
    A couple of AMTs followed closely by a supervising assistant coroner were about to follow the forensic crew onboard. They
     turned as they heard Gavin and Chris approaching. Gavin, who was usually more cordial, quickly boarded the craft without so
     much as a nod of acknowledgment to anyone.
    “Fellas,” Chris said to the attendants as he followed Gavin onto the boat.
    “Wow… That musta hurt,” said one of the forensic team, breaking the silence of the others, who were staring in shock at the
     mess. Gavin stopped next to them, momentarily taken aback by the gruesome sight of the man with the crushed neck and no head.
     He had apparently been pulled out from under the car by the rescue team and left on the deck. Above him and still in the car
     was a dead girl, her head and shoulders thrust through the windshield, apparently restrained from going any further by the
     seat belt that went over her right shoulder and under her left armpit.
    Chris stopped at Gavin’s side, the assistant coroner and his attendants behind him, peering over Chris’s shoulder.
    “So, what do you think was the cause of death?” Chris dead-panned to the coroners. The forensic techs laughed as though they
     hadn’t heard that line a thousand times before.
    Gavin didn’t laugh. He was busy looking from the body to the car. He needed to get to the driver’s side door. He climbed around
     the front of the Camaro, surprised it hadn’t cracked the side of the boat apart. The car door was wide open. When Gavin stepped
     around it he saw the deflated airbag drooping out of the steering wheel. Just as they’d said, there was no driver. His eyes
     quickly found the open ashtray below the radio. Nothing. Frustrated, he pulled a pen from his pocket and poked around in the
     cigarette butts and roaches. Maybe it had fallen out in the crash? He looked on the floor, pushing some empty beer cans around
     with the pen. Where was it? Maybe the killer hadn’t used one this time. Maybe it was still on him, wherever he was. Maybe
     not. Maybe the thought of catching this maniac for Grampa was making him delusional? No. He was certain. This was him. He
     could feel it in his gut.
    “Detective? Excuse me,” said one of the techs. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for? Maybe it would be better
     if we—”
    “A lobster claw,” Gavin interrupted. “A little, freakin’ lobster claw. I’m not trying to