| Picture Perfect by Jill Perry
Traffic school students slumped on benches in the parish room in the Baptist church. Not one of them wanted to be there. Some tried to look attentive; others appeared to have dozed off. Sherry Davis wrote on the
chalk board: Common sense and common courtesy are the most important rules of the road.
“Road rage,” she said, turning to address the class of traffic violators, “has recently become almost epidemic in the Bay Area.”
The room rented for today”s class was designed for Sunday school students, not adults. Prints of colorful biblical scenes from the Old Testament adorned the walls: Samson knocking down pillars, Daniel in the lion”s den. Plastic orange and blue nursery furniture had been shoved to one side of the room. Piled on a side table were coloring books for the young featuring biblical stories.
“In the last few months several road rage incidents have been reported,” she continued. “In San Jose , a truck driver became so enraged at some supposed slight that he followed a Harley-Davidson off the freeway into a parking lot and ran over it, leaving the motorcyclist paralyzed for life.”
The class murmured appropriate horror and disapproval.
“Fortunately,” Sherry continued, “they caught the driver and he”s in jail. " But, in Oakland last month, a young father was shot and killed in another road rage incident. You probably heard about it on the news.”
Again, the class responded appropriately. Even some of the sleepier students showed interest.
“That criminal is still out there,” Sherry said, pacing back and forth in front of the class. She turned to ask directly, “Pretty scary, right” Does anyone here want to share a road rage story?” A hand shot up in the front row.
Lorraine had miscalculated how fast the shade from the redwood trees” would move. The heat inside the Mercedes could pop toast. Thank goodness she'd spread the cardboard sunscreen in the window before taking her jog. The steering wheel and red leather seat were warm to the touch but manageable.
She knelt on the front seat to fold the screen, her thigh-long blue spandex shorts stretching over unwanted plump rolls. Maybe the unexpected sauna would sweat off even more calories to help achieve her goal, a size two, like the dress size in her wedding photo. Lorraine switched on the air conditioning as soon as the engine turned over. No point in suffering needlessly. Poor John already had to suffer going to traffic school today.
Traffic this Saturday morning was light. Cool air played across her face, and she settled back into the well-cushioned seat. Sweat evaporated leaving her pink skin aglow. Lorraine tuned to light rock, endorphins from her run taking her mood high. A romantic dinner tonight after John”s tedious day might put some zip back in their stalled marriage. She decided to pick up some lobster and champagne at the market. Maybe she”d also stop at Gaylord”s for a well-earned mocha latte -- with skim milk, of course. Got to keep those inches coming off. Driving east, squinting to avoid the sun, she flipped the right-hand signal for the upcoming exit. Oops “ she hadn”t seen that SUV, which seemed to appear out of nowhere. She”d almost clipped him. Waving an apologetic hand in the air, she moved into the lane going down the ramp. The SUV sped up behind her, coming up on the left to pass. Too close. Was he trying to force her off the road into the brush” What a jerk. She turned her head, hoping a smile would appease the driver -- and saw the gun.
Lieutenant Kevin Patterson walked down the ravine, skirting brush and bushes. He followed treaded dirt ruts to the bottom where a bottle-green Mercedes had ended its tumultuous path felling an ancient oak. Paramedics were already on scene, as was Sergeant Max Beil. A woman”s body stretched out on a rubber mat ready for the body bag.
“Who”s the vic”“ Kevin asked.
A yellow hair band pulled back short blonde hair matted now with blood. Shocked blue eyes stared, frozen open.
“Lorraine Graham,” Beil said, his pugnacious face creased into a grimace. “Looks like another case of road rage gone amuck. The perp shot her with at least a .44. Her face is almost unrecognizable.”
And yet, as Kevin knelt to view the body better, he did recognize her. “Lorrie Henderson,” he murmured.
“Who”“ Beil said.
“I think she”s an old friend of mine. A sweeter woman never lived. Brilliant too. A topnotch CPA.”
“The registration says the car belongs to John and Lorraine Graham,” Beil said.
“ Henderson up until four years ago.” Kevin rocked back on his heels. “God, her husband is gonna be devastated.”
“You know him?"
“No. Never met. I “ uh “ was invited to the wedding, but couldn”t make it.”
“Old flame, eh?"
“I guess,” Kevin said, getting to his feet, brushing crushed leaves and twigs from his khaki pants. “Any witnesses?"
“One. Guy said it was a black SUV that ran her off. But he didn”t get the license number. Said the sun was in his eyes.”
John Graham draped a towel around his neck and left the swimming pool deck to come through the house to answer the doorbell. He took great pride in maintaining his same weight as in college, eight years ago. And
he'd needed the swim after an unforgettable day.
Lieutenant Kevin Patterson told him of Lorraine's murder.
“Road rage,” John cried out. “Terrible.”
“Extremely sorry for your loss,” Patterson said, his face sorrowful. “She was a lovely person.”
“You knew her”“ John asked.
“Years ago.”
John examined the cop”s craggy face. He had sharp, penetrating green eyes. He was taller than John, and older too “ close to forty, Lorraine ”s age. He didn”t recall Lorraine ever mentioning being friends with a cop.
“Believe me,” Patterson said, his voice determined. “I won”t rest until the person who did this is brought to justice.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” John said and then he wept.
Patterson and his partner Sergeant Beil, a big burly guy, escorted him into the den. John fixed himself a scotch. He raised a cocktail napkin from the wet bar to his eyes.
“We have to ask,” Patterson said.
“What?" John said, his voice choking.
“Where were you today? We've been here twice and tried calling but only got your voice mail.”
“I was in traffic school,” John said. “I guess that”s kind of ironic, isn”t it.” He laughed but not with mirth. “The instructor asked us to turn off our mobiles and I guess I forgot to turn mine back on.”
“I see,” Patterson said.
“I have the certificate showing I attended traffic school.
Lorraine insisted I go.” John smiled apologetically. “I guess I”m not the best driver. She said our insurance would go sky high if I didn”t attend. I already have two points on my record. What am I going to do without her?"
The policeman had no answer.
On Monday afternoon Sherry Davis came into the homicide office
in downtown Oakland . Male heads turned to watch her trim jean-clad figure
walk to Kevin”s desk.
“I appreciate your coming in, Ms. Davis,” he said. “We need to verify Mr. Graham”s alibi.”
“Sure, fine,” she said, placing a black leather briefcase on his battered steel desk. Ms. Davis was younger than he”d expected, still in her twenties. Her chestnut hair cut short on her small head, raggedy in the current style, but sleek.
"I taught two classes this weekend,” she said. “Graham was in the Saturday class.” She smiled. “Right”“
Sherry Davis was a pretty young woman. But that smile -- a light going on in a drab room -- dazzling. Was she trying to charm him”
“You don”t remember”“ he asked.
“We don”t get to know names in class, not enough time. And I had forty people in Saturday”s class.” She snapped open the briefcase and took out a large white envelope. “Students sign in twice, once in the morning,
and at the end of class when I sign their certificates for court. I enter each certificate number onto the roster.”
She placed the roster on the desk, turning it sideways so Kevin could also read. With a long red fingernail, she scrolled down the page. “Here”s his name and signature,” she said, tapping a line. “John Graham, right”“
“Do you remember him”“ he asked. “Most women would find him good looking.”
She shrugged. “Do you have a photo?"
“Nope.”
“Well, then, no.” She looked down at the roster as if sorry to disappoint him, black lashes shadowing the curves of her cheeks. “But I do have a copy of his certificate,” she said, her voice brightening. She pulled out a pink carbon copy from a bunch of pink papers. “This proves he was in class.”
“How easy would it be to slip away and show up later for the certificate?" Kevin asked.
“I”d lose my job if I let that happen,” she said. “Students must be there all day, 400 minutes. It”s the law. After lunch I always count to make sure everyone has returned. And, believe me, the other students would
raise holy hell and inform on anyone trying to sneak in or out of class.”
“It appears Mr. Graham has the perfect alibi.”
“Yes, it does, doesn”t it”“ she said and once more gifted him with her own perfect smile.
On cable news Wednesday night an NRA member recommended people arm themselves against road rage. Lorraine ”s murder had become national news. She”d been well known in financial circles.
"With everyone carrying, road rage would disappear,” the gun advocate said.“People could defend themselves, retaliate.”
“Seems extreme,” the anchor said. “Still something must be done.”
Then a clip rolled of Kevin”s news conference reassuring the public that a suspect would soon be brought to justice.
“What crap.” Kevin snapped off on the remote. No black SUVs had turned up in any Bay Area body shops, or any other color SUV, for that matter. Every lead he and Max had followed -- DMV accident reports,
insurance reports, anonymous phone tips -- had led to a dead end .
Maybe the murder wasn”t caused by road rage” Maybe Lorrie had been deliberately killed” But the only one who”d benefit was the young husband with the perfect alibi. Lorrie”s estate was worth a cool $3 million.
Everything went to Graham. Did he hire a shooter”
Kevin drummed his fingers on the coffee table. He hadn”t liked John Graham but chalked it up to latent jealousy. Graham”s grief had occurred right on time. Programmed”
"Had he been cheating on Lorrie”
“Nothing on the husband.” Max Beil dropped a file on Kevin's desk. “Clean as a whistle except for some minor traffic violations.”
“Right.” Kevin rubbed the top of his head. “Any connection between Graham and Sherry Davis before the traffic school class?"
“Nothing,” Beil said. “No one”s ever seen them together. I checked phone records. Nada.”
Kevin opened the file. “Says here Graham was caught on camera running a light. Where”s the photo?"
“What difference does it make?" “I don”t know. I just want to see that photo.”
Sherry Davis opened the door. “Lieutenant Patterson, this is a surprise.” She turned on her 1000-volt smile.
“I”m afraid we”re going to have to place you under arrest,” he said.
“For what?”
“The murder of Lorraine Graham.”
“That”s insane,” she said. “I was teaching class. I have 40 people who”ll alibi me.”
“Cuff her, Max.”
Sherry crossed her arms in front rigidly. Max Beil took hold of both wrists gently twisting them behind her back to snap on the handcuffs while reciting her rights. “You have the right to remain . . .”
“We have a search warrant for your SUV,” Kevin said when Max finished the Miranda. “Perhaps we”ll turn up the murder weapon. Your boyfriend”s already in custody.”
“I don”t have a boyfriend.”
“Graham signed the roster before the class even began, the certificate made out in advance. He never attended class because he was using your SUV to run his wife off the road. No one remembers who attended traffic school, just like you said. We”ve asked. And why would you lie?”
“Oh,” Max said, turning around to grin at Kevin. “I can think of about three million reasons why.”
“Never met Mr. Graham before that class, right”“ Kevin said.
Sherry Davis nodded, wide-eyed, feigning innocence.
“Except for a red light camera you'd have got away with it, too,” he said.
“The copy of the photo sent to John Graham had the passenger side blocked out. But when we checked the original, it shows you, Ms. Davis, in the passenger seat when John Graham ran that light last winter.”
“You can”t prove a thing,” she yelled.
“Haven”t you heard”“ Kevin said. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”
End |
