From AN ACCIDENTAL CORPSE by Helen A. Harrison

© 2018

“Damn, this road is dark,” observed Fitz. The night was clear, but with hardly any moon. “It’s black as your hat out there. Once you get away from the bar’s lights, there’s nothing. Not even house lights, all the good Christians must be in bed. I’m glad both headlights are working, and we know where we’re going.”

They turned right off Fort Pond Road and headed south on Fireplace Road, passing Pollock’s house and Ashawagh Hall, with no lights on at either place.

“When I mentioned to Mr. Bayley that we were driving to Springs for dinner, he told me to watch out for deer on the road after dark,” said Nita. “They can do a lot of damage to a car, he said.”

“Keep your eyes peeled, then,” Fitz replied. “Can’t be too careful, and there’s no rush to get back. TJ is sound asleep.”

As they passed the Gardiner Avenue intersection and headed toward the road’s major curve, they saw headlights approaching, well to their left but coming up fast. “Looks like he’s not worried about hitting a deer,” said Fitz.

Suddenly the oncoming car veered sharply into their lane, cut across in front of them, careened into the woods on their right and flipped end over end.

His heart in his mouth, Fitz slammed on the brakes as Nita braced herself against the dashboard and TJ rolled off the backseat and onto the floor behind her. As they came to a stop, their lights showed the other car lying upside down among the trees, its horn blaring. It was a green convertible, an Oldsmobile Rocket 88.

“Jesus Christ,” blurted Fitz. “That’s Pollock’s car!”

Fitz pulled off the road, and he and Nita jumped out. TJ, wide awake now, followed them. The body of a woman lay by the roadside, and as they approached they could hear her moaning. Nita crouched down beside her, looking for apparent injuries, ready to apply first aid.

Fitz got between the women and his son, blocking his view. He was a protective father, but also a seasoned policeman who knew how to take charge of a situation. After nearly two decades on the force, he was no stranger to accident scenes. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wrecked car’s horn.

“TJ, I want you to go across the street quickly and wake up the people in that house over there. Be careful, look both ways before you cross, just like in the city. Tell the folks to call the police, and an ambulance.”

Just then a light went on in the house. “That horn could wake the dead,” said Fitz. “Go on now. Tell them there’s at least one injured person, probably more. Get them to make those calls right away.”

Stifling his curiosity, TJ did as he was told. As soon as he was safely away from the scene, Fitz turned his attention to the wreck. He assumed that the driver was Pollock, not the injured woman, whom he vaguely recognized. When the car had passed them that morning, he had glimpsed her and a companion in the backseat. As they rushed by, she’d turned to look back toward Ashawagh Hall, her dark curls billowing around a pretty young face. He thought he had seen that face again while they were having lunch at the fair.

His headlights now showed it caked with dirt and scraped along one cheek, where the woman’s head had apparently hit the pavement. Nita had rolled up her sweater as a pillow, but cautioned Fitz as he knelt beside her.

“Best not to try to move her, she may have internal injuries. I’ve been trying to get her to talk, give me her name, but she’s only semiconscious. I hope the ambulance gets here soon.”

Fitz stood up. “I’d better have a look around for the driver. Hope to God he was thrown clear, too.” He moved off the road and into the woods.

The Oldsmobile’s headlights cut a path of visibility through the undergrowth. Fitz’s first impulse was to try to silence the horn by turning off the engine, but that would also douse the lights. He decided to do it anyway, to relieve the mechanical scream that made the accident scene all the more macabre. The windshield was crushed, but the space between the door and the driver’s seat allowed enough room for him to get his arm under the wheel. Groping blindly at the dashboard, he found the ignition key and turned it, killing the engine. Abruptly the woods were plunged into darkness and silence.

With the horn’s echo still in his ears, Fitz returned to his own car and positioned its headlights toward the scene. They picked out a human form a few yards in front of the Olds, off to one side, sprawled at the base of an oak tree.

As Fitz approached, he detected no movement, heard no sound other than his own footsteps rustling through the leaves. He saw that it was a man—Pollock, he presumed—lying on his right side with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open, as if he were asleep. Fitz bent down and pressed his fingertips against the neck, just under the jaw, and felt no pulse.

There was nothing more to be done, so he decided to leave any further examination to the local authorities. He returned to where Nita was standing watch over the injured woman.

“I found the driver,” he told her, “he’s dead. Looks like he was thrown out when the car flipped. Probably broke his neck when he hit the ground. Looks like this gal had better luck.”

Just then a patrol car pulled up and out climbed Officer Finch.

“The Bennetts phoned it in,” he told them. “Your boy gave them the information. I live just around the corner on Gardiner, and I got the radio call.”

“What about an ambulance?” asked Nita. “This woman is injured, though I don’t know how badly. She needs immediate medical attention.”

“Doc Abel will be here soon. The ambulance will take a while, has to come from Southampton, but the doc will see to her.”

“There’s a dead man in the woods,” said Fitz. “Must be Jackson Pollock. That’s his car, the one you pointed out to us this morning.”

“Let’s go take a look,” said Finch, and the two men headed past the overturned car to where the body lay. Finch pulled out a flashlight and focused it on the face. “Sure enough, that’s him all right. Can’t say I’m surprised. He’s been asking for it for a long time.”

 They walked back toward the Oldsmobile. “Car’s pretty well totaled,” observed Finch, playing his flashlight over the wreck. Suddenly he stopped, and trained the light on the passenger side. A bare arm, nearly covered by leaves, protruded from behind the seat.

“Hold it, there’s somebody in there! Looks like another woman.”

While Finch held the light, Fitz dropped to his knees and felt the wrist for a pulse. Nothing. “I think she’s dead, too, but I can’t be sure. Should we try to get her out, or wait for the doc?”

By this time a couple more cars had pulled up, and several onlookers were standing at the roadside. “Hey, bub!” shouted Finch, “you there, Dick Talmage, come give us a hand.” The burly plumber advanced toward the Olds, and Finch explained the situation. “You and me are gonna push this thing over toward the driver’s side, and our friend Fitz here’ll try to pull her out from under.”

Talmage motioned back toward the road, and another volunteer appeared. With three men pushing, the Olds rolled over enough for Fitz to get hold of the woman under the arms and drag her free of the car. As her body emerged, covered with dirt and leaves, her head flopped back alarmingly and a pair of vacant blue eyes stared up at Fitz.

“She’s done for,” he told the men. “Pollock took her with him.”