In our last episode: The sergeant was relaxed and friendly. If he had any suspicions about my role in the accident, they didn't show.
"Okay, Mister . . . ."
"Atkins."
"Okay, Mister Atkins. May I see your drivers' license?"
I slipped the black photostat that said the Great State of California thought I was competent to drive an automobile out of my wallet and passed it over to him.
The sergeant held it up to the light and copied the info into his notebook. Then he looked at it more closely, as if examining the thumbprint affixed to it, and said, "Parker T. Atkins? You aren't the Parker Atkins who gives the news over the radio, are you?"
"We're one and the same, Sergeant."
"How ‘bout that!" He sounded genuinely thrilled. "The wife and I listen to you every night at dinner. She'll be real excited when I tell her I met you in person."
"Well, I'm glad to know somebody is listening. Please give her my regards, Sergeant . . . ah . . . ."
"Oh. Sorry." He offered his hand. "My name's Framm. Will Framm. It's a real honor to meet you."
We shook and he reassumed his official demeanor. "Okay, Mister Atkins, tell me what you know about all this."
I told him my story and he took copious notes, filling several pages in his little notebook. When I got to the part about the truck driver, the sergeant added, "Yeah, I talked to him when he called in. Said his name was . . . ," Framm flipped back a few pages in his notebook, ". . . Benedetti. Joe Benedetti. Says he saw the Lincoln you said hit the woman. Anything else you can think of that might help us out?"
"No, Sergeant, that's the whole story."
"Alright, Mister Atkins. Ah, one more thing. Would you mind telling me how you happened to be out here at this hour?" With another hint of apology in his voice, he gestured to the notebook with his pencil and added, "Just for the record."
"I wouldn't mind at all. I'm headed home from visiting some friends down in Half Moon Bay."
Sergeant Framm looked up like he was expecting more and I gave him a little shrug. He nodded slightly and I asked, "Any idea who she is?"
"No, I've never seen her before. But from the way she's dressed and everything, I bet it won't be long before someone shows up looking for her."
Turning on my best radio celebrity charm, I said, "Listen, Will, I'd kind of like to follow up on this. Maybe do a story on who killed her and why. Mind if I call you later to find out how the investigation's going?"
"Not at all, Mister Atkins."
"Call me Park."
He smiled. "Okay, Park. I'd be happy to hear from you any time. And, by the way, keep your eyes open on the way up to The City. There's a white Oldsmobile convertible parked alongside the road, just over the hill there." He gestured up the road to the north. "That might explain how the woman got out here."
Story, design, and microphone image © Steve Eitzen
Header graphic HPO logo © HPO Productions
All rights reserved by copyright owners
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
