I Can Barely Breathe by August Verona Read Free Book Online

street,
unaware of the 1950 Pontiac Chiefton hauling toward him. His pale
blue tie blew in the breeze, subtly coming to rest on his dark blue
long-sleeved, button-up collared shirt. The strap of a brown
leather bag dug uncomfortably into his shoulder. Nothing was more
important to him at that moment than adjusting it for relief.
    The driver, Pauline Walton, was busy finding
a radio station that wasn’t filled with static; her eyes were only
partially focused on the road. The car’s slicked-back roof and
brand-new tires kept it quiet, but the sound of Gary’s head
impacting the hood as his body crumpled underneath the Chiefton was
a sound Rosine Meyers—who, at the time, was detaching her front
yard hoses from their spickets—would never forget. The driver
slammed on the brakes, just after the rear tires went over the
man’s body. She had enough sense to avoid braking while he was
still underneath the car; better to run over him than skid over
him.
    Blood from Gary’s head had pooled around him
and soaked into the dirt, as he lay dead in the road with a broken
neck. Pauline dialed 9-1-1 on her portable communicator, and, in no
time, the SSPD were on the scene.
    Tom, Carver and Kattic were contacted
shortly after the uniforms checked the contents of the dead man’s
wallet.
    Tom pulled up in his silver ’55 Buick. He
had turned in the squad car shortly after payday and was allowed to
use his personal vehicle from then on—the perk being the department
paid for oil changes, gas and other maintenance.
    “Did they say why they called us in?” Carver
asked, finishing a smoke and tossing it out the window. “We don’t
get called to random traffic accidents.”
    “They didn’t say. You gonna tell us what
happened to your eye?” Tom said, pulling the key from the
ignition.
    Carver laughed. “I was defending a lady’s
honor at the fair.”
    “That’ll do it,” Kattic said, allowing a
laugh to escape his lips.
    Tom shook his head. “No. I’m betting you got
drunk at the beer garden and ran your mouth to a bigger man. You’re
gonna admit to it one of these days. I know it.” He smiled.
    The three investigators exited the vehicle
and approached Chevez, who was jotting down some information in a
small pocket-size notepad.
    The uniformed officer turned to them and
raised his eyebrows. “Hey, guys, got a case for you. Still
swollen?” Chevez asked, examining Carver’s black eye. “You need to
put some damn ice on it.”
    “It’s fine.”
    Tom arched his neck to better see the body
behind the officer.
    “This is Dr. Gary Whittier. His military ID
card in his wallet says that he worked for the army,” the officer
announced.
    “Great, we’ll have soldiers down here in no
time,” Carver said rolling his eyes.
    “No one’s contacted them yet, and, as far as
I’m concerned, no one will until you guys take a look,” Chevez
explained, finally taking his eyes off his notepad and placing it
in his back pocket. “The doctor was crossing the street, when Ms.
Walton hit him head-on. Doesn’t look like she was speeding, but she
did admit she wasn’t paying attention.”
    “OK, so why are we here?” Kattic
asked. “We’re elite. We don’t investigate jaywalking accidents.”
His tone sounded sincere, but his comment ended up blunt and
matter-of-fact.
     
    “Well, when we opened up the guy’s wallet to
find out who he is, we came across something kind of strange.”
Chevez, with gloves on his hands, handed out three more pairs to
the investigators. They put them on, and Kattic took possession of
the wallet. “The guy’s state ID, military ID, driver’s license and
bank card were all issued in the year 1966, four years from
now.”
    Kattic pulled out the cards and examined
them closely. “Well, I could forgive a mistake being made on one of
these cards but not all four.” He passed them to Carver.
    “Have you checked the bag?” Tom asked,
pointing to it, lying alone in the road next to Gary’s