Even crazier shit started swirling in my mind, like mystical smoke spilling from a cauldron. Oh, Jesus, what exactly was I doing? What the hell was I thinking?
Samantha had on cotton gloves, the ones where every finger is a different color. I peeled them off, tossed them into the backseat. I grabbed her limp wrist with my free hand and used her pointer finger to press the Touch ID. The screen instantly unlocked. I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, steadying myself. Still using her finger like a stylus, I pressed the “Messages” app. Her last text had been to someone named Bbear. It didn’t matter, Bbear would work fine. I made Samantha text, “Hey snowing hard.” Then I hovered her slender finger over SEND. If I pressed it, I knew what was coming next. I’d be crossing the Rubicon, no turning back. Was I really prepared for that? My life, my wife, my job, my daughter? Kalump kalump. My daughter. I pushed Samantha’s finger to the screen, heard whoop like the soft hoot of an owl. The text had been sent.
Timing was everything now. Coroners these days were amazingly accurate, could get a reliable T.O.D down to the minute, give or take a few. Not that it would be much of an issue in this case, long as I was smart, covered my tracks. Samantha’s knit scarf was nestled loosely around her neck. Her organs had to be preserved quickly. A minute had passed. I waited one more. Samantha’s death rattle continued, in and out, in and out. It sounded painful. Her phone chirped, probably Bbear replying. It was.
Be careful, said Bbear.
Perfect. I used her finger again, punched in OK Ill be ba and then looked at the time: 4:51. I tossed her phone onto the floorboard, not hitting SEND. 4:51 would be the point of impact. Texting and driving, a parent’s worst nightmare — the very first thing we taught in that public-safety presentation, even before we made them fill out the Medical ID form. I unraveled her scarf, wrapped each end around my hands like boxer’s tape, gave it a little double snap as if testing its strength. I was all business now, focused, alert, assessing the situation, establishing order.
I covered her mouth and nostrils. I knew enough not to press too hard. I wouldn’t need to, anyway. She was close, this was just speeding up the inevitable. I applied pressure firmly, evenly. The wheezing was muffled now, things starting to slow. I held on, gave it another sixty count. Then, right there at the end, right as the wheezing subsided and I was about to let up, she opened her eyes. They were bugged, looking straight into mine. I pressed harder as I turned my head away, adrenaline pulsing. Strength rippled down my biceps, into my forearms, into every finger and tendon. Her lids dropped, not sealing completely, semi-open like a creepy yard-sale baby doll. I finally stopped, released pressure. It was over, but her eyes haunted me.
I grabbed my radio, called Laura at dispatch, feigning urgency and panic. “This is Thirty-three, Dispatch. I’ve got a Department MVA. Need a PS out here immediately.”
“Did you say Department Accident, Thirty-three?”
“Roger that. Need a patrol supervisor. Got a girl crossed into my lane out here on Baker Bridge Road. Head-on. She appears critical. She might make it, but EMS needs to hurry. Over.”
I pulled Samantha out and pressed her firmly into the snow, packing her in the same way I might ice down a sixer of Bud. To preserve those vital organs. Then I halfheartedly started CPR, just enough so it would all look straight to the coroner. I wanted my DNA everywhere. I made sure my saliva drizzled her lips, pressed my mouth tight to hers to explain any odd bruising. Which was freaky and unsettling, my lips touching her dead ones. A girl my daughter’s age.
My department didn’t wear body cams, no dash cam in my cruiser, so no issues there. I’d covered my tracks. Then a shot of absolute dread shortened my breath. Yes, I’d covered my tracks, but not the literal ones. My tire tracks back up on the road. They were filling in a little, but there was no way in hell they’d be covered by the time my boys got on scene. One of my buddies would be the PS, would run the investigation. Tire tracks would be the first thing he noticed.
But it was such a shit show, conditions deteriorating by the second, that I’d have to hope whoever showed up, he wouldn’t overthink it. Hell, I’d worked with all these guys for twenty years. They’d have no reason to doubt my statement. I was a good cop. A clean cop. But tracks didn’t lie. I’d crossed way over center, and even a rookie wouldn’t miss that. For the first time, I considered what I’d just done. Considered that poor girl. Her parents. That I could go to prison.
But then something happened. It was like God wanted to save my ass, wanted Aubrey to live. The orange swirling lights through the dusk, the clinking of snow chains, the scraping of that blade over asphalt. I ran toward the road just as the snowplow halted. He jumped out, came around to meet me. “Holy shit, you okay, Officer?”
“Get your ass back in that truck,” I yelled. “I need this road cleared double-time. I got a girl barely hanging on over there. Ambulance is gonna need the road wide open, you got me? Don’t miss a single snowflake. Plow the shit out of this thing.”
“Yes, sir,” said the guy, not more than a kid, really, his John Deere ball cap tight to his head. His boots scrambled and slid through the wet snow as he raced around the front. He jumped in, set that plow in motion, and scraped away my tracks. Scraped away the evidence. Scraped away everything.
It was Mike McGill who showed up first, one of my oldest buddies. He asked the basics, I gave the answers he needed to hear. The EMTs arrived, loaded Samantha up. I wanted to tell those EMTs to keep her packed in ice. No mistakes in the preservation phase. Obviously, I said nothing.
Mike drove me back toward the station, chattering away, and I guess I answered whatever he asked. But I didn’t hear him. Instead, as I pressed my forehead to the cold window and stared out at the night, all I saw was my own vague reflection. I tried to lock eyes and stare myself down but found it impossible. Or maybe not impossible. Maybe I was just too chickenshit. Too much of a coward to face myself, to face what I’d just done.
And then there was Samantha, her eyes popping open, over and over on repeat. I wondered if my image was stamped across her pupils: dual shots of me holding her scarf, snuffing out her life.
What would her father see when he looked into his daughter’s eyes for the final time, before the casket closed and she was set in the ground? Would he see love? Innocence? Pure kindness, knowing his unselfish daughter had donated her body so others could live? Probably all of the above, and that would make him immensely proud, I’m sure. But what if he saw me instead? The hero cop who tried to save her, who gave her mouth-to-mouth? The cop who would sit in the front row at his daughter’s funeral, who would offer his sincere condolences as he shook the man’s hand, looking him dead in the eye and saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
And if things worked out, if Samantha was a viable match? What then? We’d obviously have to accept the liver. There was no turning back now. We couldn’t tell the doctors, “No, we’ll wait for another one.” Which meant, from that moment on, if a transplant was successful, every time I saw Aubrey’s smiling face — so full of life and possibility, so full of future, so “be positive” — I’d be reminded of Samantha. Or more accurately, reminded of what I’d done to her. Which in turn meant I could never look at my sweet baby girl the same way. My love for her, which was the most real and pure thing I’d ever known, would be tarnished. Tainted.