to go on,” Jude said. “Not that they witnessed it either.”
“I understand. Just tell me what you believe to have happened.”
“It was late. Around ten or so. Kirsten was working part-time at a Starbucks to put herself through college. Her shift was over, and she was trying to get to the BART station to catch her train. It was raining. She was waiting at a crosswalk at Market and Sutter when a drunk driver missed the corner and plowed into her. Well, the cops assumed it was a drunk driver from the skid marks. It had to be a drunk, right? What kind of sober person drives over someone and doesn’t stop?”
“Did Kirsten die instantly?”
Jude blew her nose and shook her head. “They estimated she lay there dying for an hour before anyone noticed.”
She tried to hold back the tears but couldn’t. Her body jerked under the force of the sobs. Fabian rounded the table and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He muttered words of comfort that she barely heard, but his tone was soothing and the tears ebbed. He handed her a fresh Kleenex and returned to his seat.
“Thank you. I realize how hard it was for you to say all that.”
Fabian opened the folder on the desk. He picked up the first sheet off the pile and slid it across the table. Jude glanced over the details. The layout was similar to a police rap sheet. It featured both face-on and profile shots of a bedraggled-looking man in his fifties with thick features and thinning hair. A brief résumé of crimes followed.
“Is this him?”
“That’s Herman Meadows, arrested four times for DUI. He’s served time twice. He’s in AA, but I wouldn’t classify him as a recovering drunk, not according to his sponsor, anyway. His license is currently revoked, but that hasn’t stopped him from driving.”
Fabian peeled off six eight-by-ten shots and slid them across the table. The pictures showed Meadows going into a bar, drinking, then getting behind the wheel of a decrepit Oldsmobile Cutlass. Jude’s anger raged. This man was a danger to himself and everyone around him. He’d gone to prison because he was a menace to society, and here he was repeating history.How did a person like that live with himself? He probably didn’t. Maybe that was part of the reason he drank. Disgusted, Jude shoved the pictures back at Fabian.
“When were these taken?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Did he do it? Did he kill my sister?”
“Is that important?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Hennessy, you know that’s not the service I offer. I’m not the police.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“—But, you hoped it would lead to the person responsible.”
“Yes.”
“If it sets your mind at rest at all, I can tell you that Herman Meadows was a suspect in a fatal hit-and-run in ’98, and the night Kirsten was killed, he was witnessed drinking in a part of the city which would have brought him down Market Street to get him home.” Fabian looked at Jude with unflinching calm.
Jude wondered if he was humoring her, twisting the facts to pacify her.
“Is he the one?” she insisted. “I know that’s not what you do, but what does your gut tell you?”
Fabian fidgeted then exhaled. “I don’t believe so. But that’s not the point.”
“You provide closure in cases where there can be no closure,” Jude said, paraphrasing his company literature.
“That’s correct. What I do is track down someone who
could
be responsible. What you do with that knowledge is up to you.” Fabian paused for a moment before saying, “Do you wish to carry on? I understand if you don’t.”
“Yes, I’d like to carry on.”
“Good.” Fabian left the table and returned with a leather pouch. He unzipped it and placed the pistol before her.
***
Meadows wasn’t hard to find. He maintained a simple existence. He slept in his grimy apartment on Geary, emerged around eleven, ate breakfast at the crappy diner, and spent the rest of the day traipsing from bar to bar until it was time to go home and
“I understand. Just tell me what you believe to have happened.”
“It was late. Around ten or so. Kirsten was working part-time at a Starbucks to put herself through college. Her shift was over, and she was trying to get to the BART station to catch her train. It was raining. She was waiting at a crosswalk at Market and Sutter when a drunk driver missed the corner and plowed into her. Well, the cops assumed it was a drunk driver from the skid marks. It had to be a drunk, right? What kind of sober person drives over someone and doesn’t stop?”
“Did Kirsten die instantly?”
Jude blew her nose and shook her head. “They estimated she lay there dying for an hour before anyone noticed.”
She tried to hold back the tears but couldn’t. Her body jerked under the force of the sobs. Fabian rounded the table and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He muttered words of comfort that she barely heard, but his tone was soothing and the tears ebbed. He handed her a fresh Kleenex and returned to his seat.
“Thank you. I realize how hard it was for you to say all that.”
Fabian opened the folder on the desk. He picked up the first sheet off the pile and slid it across the table. Jude glanced over the details. The layout was similar to a police rap sheet. It featured both face-on and profile shots of a bedraggled-looking man in his fifties with thick features and thinning hair. A brief résumé of crimes followed.
“Is this him?”
“That’s Herman Meadows, arrested four times for DUI. He’s served time twice. He’s in AA, but I wouldn’t classify him as a recovering drunk, not according to his sponsor, anyway. His license is currently revoked, but that hasn’t stopped him from driving.”
Fabian peeled off six eight-by-ten shots and slid them across the table. The pictures showed Meadows going into a bar, drinking, then getting behind the wheel of a decrepit Oldsmobile Cutlass. Jude’s anger raged. This man was a danger to himself and everyone around him. He’d gone to prison because he was a menace to society, and here he was repeating history.How did a person like that live with himself? He probably didn’t. Maybe that was part of the reason he drank. Disgusted, Jude shoved the pictures back at Fabian.
“When were these taken?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Did he do it? Did he kill my sister?”
“Is that important?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Hennessy, you know that’s not the service I offer. I’m not the police.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“—But, you hoped it would lead to the person responsible.”
“Yes.”
“If it sets your mind at rest at all, I can tell you that Herman Meadows was a suspect in a fatal hit-and-run in ’98, and the night Kirsten was killed, he was witnessed drinking in a part of the city which would have brought him down Market Street to get him home.” Fabian looked at Jude with unflinching calm.
Jude wondered if he was humoring her, twisting the facts to pacify her.
“Is he the one?” she insisted. “I know that’s not what you do, but what does your gut tell you?”
Fabian fidgeted then exhaled. “I don’t believe so. But that’s not the point.”
“You provide closure in cases where there can be no closure,” Jude said, paraphrasing his company literature.
“That’s correct. What I do is track down someone who
could
be responsible. What you do with that knowledge is up to you.” Fabian paused for a moment before saying, “Do you wish to carry on? I understand if you don’t.”
“Yes, I’d like to carry on.”
“Good.” Fabian left the table and returned with a leather pouch. He unzipped it and placed the pistol before her.
***
Meadows wasn’t hard to find. He maintained a simple existence. He slept in his grimy apartment on Geary, emerged around eleven, ate breakfast at the crappy diner, and spent the rest of the day traipsing from bar to bar until it was time to go home and
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