Barely Bronx: 2013

Jordan Cooper looked at his trainee, his last trainee, and wondered if the horror they had already seen could be any more incredible by watching it as it happened. Coroners’ reports are rarely substantiated by visual evidence, but here it was. The note that came with the helmet cam from the coroner read:

“He went out on a limb; take some Dramamine before you watch this, Coop. Dr. Robert Kline, County Coroner.”

Jordan handed it to the young face across the table and then adjusted the computer screen so he could watch both the clip and the reflection of his rookie on the screen. Terrance Hale read the note and sucked in his lips in a failing effort not to smile.

“He’s a sick man, with an outstanding sense of humor!” Jordan commented. “Now, computer whiz, let’s see what we’ve got.”

Hale’s fingers tapped the keyboard in deliberate staccato. It was an endearing quality to Cooper that he finally had a trainee who wasn’t trying to impress him with the speed of his or her knowledge of a keyboard. Hale’s was “adequate,” and, more important, it was accurate. The fact is, if Cooper had his way, all his trainees would have to hand-write all their police reports. Handwriting told him a lot about a new cop. Details in The Business were vital, but writing revealed more: how organized and neat the writing was, how clear. Someone who had superior penmanship had been writing for a long time, probably enjoyed it, had a larger vocabulary. This “new” generation of cops wrote only when it was time to write a check—even tickets were automated now. It was time to retire.

Jordan slid the copy of the victim’s driver’s license across to Hale.

Richard Lee Toy- 9/14/95

400 Ravenswood #9

Menlo Park, CA 94025

Jordan noted the exaggerated smile on the DL; he had probably just passed the driver’s test and couldn’t hold back his happy face.

“Okay, I think it’s ready to go, Cooper.” Hale’s mouth was open. Staring at the screen, he took one good gulp and hit “play.”

It started at Alice’s Restaurant. Richard Toy began narrating for his helmet cam, turned his head, and noted landmarks for the “audience,” then turned his helmet onto a rear-view mirror showing his own face and the sudden snap of the face mask. He started his bike and slowly drew the camera across the gauges, then took one last look into the rear-view mirror to make sure the camera was set correctly atop the bright multi-colored helmet. The narration of his every move made it clear he’d done this before many times. There were no quick movements. The camera stayed steady—then suddenly he popped a wheelie. The gauges and handlebars rose towards him, then he was on it.

Cooper figured out where the body was found and where Alice’s was; even at mach five it would be at least ten minutes. He sat back and watched the reflection of his trainee. Smarter than most of past trainees, this one had more going for him than he’d seen in a while—or was it that he was paying more attention because this young face would be the last he’d sit in the “silly seat” with? 6’6” and thin—too thin, with already fine and receding blond hair cut short to a crew style. Jordan’s first order to him was, “Grow some hair, get a hairdo, son, have some personality up there while you can, let everyone else look like Aldo Ray, and get some sun on that skin!”

Of course Hale didn’t know who the hell Aldo Ray was, but nodded his head in agreement and said, “Okay, yessir.” The hair on his face appeared to grow only in spots, the chin and some over his upper lip. The rest looked like only a threat to grow in tiny spots around his jaw. Pale blue eyes that at times opened so wide Jordan thought they could fall out of the sockets. It made him laugh more than once. Like all trainees, he wanted to know it all at once, but unlike all trainees he knew it would take more time and he fought his impatience well.

The whining of the gears began to annoy Jordan and he ordered Hale to mute the clip. Hale was glued to small screen, subconsciously tilting his head for the turns coming and then straightening it. Jordan asked him what he was seeing.

“This guy is flying—look at the lines in the road!” Hale’s voice was elevated an octave.

“Forget the line or lines; look at the oncoming traffic—they’re blips! That is the marker for judging speed. But you’re right, he’s moving it!”

They watched the clip in silence and Jordan realized Richard Lee Toy could ride; he definitely had Countach.

“Pause the clip,” Jordan ordered.

Hale abruptly straightened in his seat and hit a key, freezing the frame with Toy on a 45-degree angle.

Jordan looked at the screen and asked Hale, “Do you know what ‘Countach’ is?”

“It’s a car …”

“ A Lamborghini … automobile,” Jordan corrected.

Hale continued, I don’t know exactly what it means, only that it’s the name of that motorcycle site where bikers pay to have their clips shown. It’s run by …”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m familiar with him and his exploits. Brags that he’s outrun the cops dozens of times, never been caught. Of course he never points out we’re in SUVs and he’s on one of those.” Jordan pointed to the screen.

“Years and years ago I was coming up 84 running code 3—choking baby, I think it was. I hit Kesey’s and then the curve this clip ends on. I was over my vehicle’s limit and I knew it. I drifted out over the center line just as a motorcycle going at least 70-plus was shaving his turn. There was nothing to be done, so I braced for the impact. There was a loud bang on the side of my door. My mirror snapped back against the door—you know how it does. I looked in the rear-view inside mirror. The biker was on a 45-degree still, only his arms were both stretched off the bars, hands out, palms up … until one came up with a peace sign. I couldn’t stop, and he clearly had no intention of stopping. Later that night I was a watching a show about Lamborghinis and in particular there latest model, ‘The Countach,’ which I understood, if roughly translated, meant ‘WHOA’… Made me think of the biker that day. After that …”

“You mean you coined the phrase, ‘Riding Countach’?” Hale interrupted.

Cooper studied the face across the table for second then continued.

“A couple of bikers heard me use the term at Alice’s, and one thing led to another. Unfortunately the ass who has that site has caused more injuries and probably deaths than he knows or cares about. But I’m bringing this up because looking at this young man’s ride—you wouldn’t know yet, but he’s got it … and then some. He’s that good.”

“So what happened?” Hale asked.

“Turn it back on, let’s see …” Jordan knew the curve was coming up.

It all happened suddenly, so suddenly in fact that at real speed all the camera showed was the ground becoming sky then ground then sky and then a jolt. The cam showed the tops of trees and then slowly fell through the surrounding branches to land on an indistinguishable dark brown area where the camera lens fought over and over to focus on whatever it landed on, but couldn’t.

“Take it back a minute and put it on slow motion, Rookie.”

Hale tapped gently on the keyboard, the picture froze, and then he looked at Jordan, who nodded.

The picture became slow “snapshots,” not really slow motion so much as short, slow, time-lapsed images. They both watched. Then, there it was … Jordan didn’t have to ask; Hale was already taking it back frame by frame. When he saw “it” again he froze it.

“Oh my God,” Hale said absently. He reached over for Jordan’s arm. Jordan just nodded.

Richard Toy died because a deer bolted from the left side of the road and ran into his motorcycle just as he hit the apex of the curve. It shot him straight off the small berm and sent him airborne. They played it back a few times. No way Richard Toy could have anticipated or avoided the contact. What of course happened to him after the contact just seemed cruel, incredible. Richard Toy came off the motorcycle probably thinking “this one is going to hurt.” He couldn’t have known the Kawasaki would spike up, snap a huge redwood branch, making it a “lance,” and that he would hit that broken branch so hard it would center punch his leather suit and stick out of his back more than a foot.

“Out on a limb … that coroner’s a sick man,” Hale whispered.

“He was an only child. Okay, Rookie, now you know the whole truth. Write it up. Oh, by the way, this should tell you—you can be doing it right, you can be really good doing it right, and it can still end wrong. So when you’re running code 3, think about that deer and especially Mr. Toy.”