Even above the sound of the trolley rattling over the tracks, I could hear the wet, grisly sound of the trolley’s impact.
No, no, no.
I ran to the railing.
The engineer was braking the trolley, but it wouldn’t matter anymore to the man who’d jumped. I wondered if the people aboard had felt anything, if they had any idea what had just happened. I noticed something wobbling to a stop beside the tracks. Then I realized what it was.
The man’s shoe.
And it looked like it might still have his foot inside it.
A sour, churning flood of nausea swept through me. Some people grow numb to it all. To the death and blood and violence. You’d think in my job I would have, but it still bothers me. It still breaks my heart and turns my stomach.
I took a deep breath to calm myself and then remembered Tessa.
I swiveled around and ran to our car, part of my mind cataloging the scene.
Entrance and exit routes-K Street and 16th. No mobile traffic.
Check.
License plate numbers-five parked cars, memorize the plates.
Check.
Potential witnesses-trolley riders? Unlikely. In the channel, they couldn’t see out… college kid, store owner? Possibly. Tessa, me.
Check.
Surveillance-no visible cameras.
Check.
Tessa was sitting in the passenger seat, rocking back and forth, both hands covering her face. My phone was still in the car beside her. I knocked on the window and called for her to unlock the door.
When she didn’t move, I flagged down a man in a maroon Ford Mustang who’d just turned onto our street. At first I didn’t think he’d stop, but when he saw me glance at his plates, he pulled to a stop beside the curb.
“What’s going on?” he asked. His eyes landed on the blood seeping out of my arm.
“Do you have a phone?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Call 911. Tell them a man jumped in front of the trolley.”
He kept gazing at my arm.
“Do it.”
He dialed.
I had to call to Tessa four or five times before she finally unlocked the door and I was able to climb in beside her. “Are you OK?”
She was shaking.
I pulled her close. Held her tight.
“Did he do it?” Her voice fragile, broken. “Did he jump?”
Good. She didn’t see. Thank goodness she didn’t see.
“Don’t worry about that-”
“Did he jump!”
“Yes.” I had to be straight with her. “He did.”
She began hitting me with small, rigid fists. “He shouldn’t have done it, Patrick. He shouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
“Why did he do it?”
We always want a reason, an explanation, but sometimes there aren’t any. “He was confused,” I said. “He made a terrible mistake.”
I hugged her, tried to calm her. “Now, are you OK?”
“I wish we hadn’t come here.”
“Me too. I’m sorry.”
“Can we go?” She was wiping a tear away. “Please. Let’s go.