The Woman Who Was Left Out in the Rain

            The calls came in steady until after dark. We skipped dinner to search a bar on the south end. I was hoping to finish up quickly, but Mike Christian and Carl Townley found a bag of marijuana and a pistol under a bush on the outside of the bar where someone ditched them to keep from getting arrested. It was 10 pm when we left. Shift change was 30 minutes away.

            I pulled into the church parking lot behind everyone else. For January, it was mild. Our K-9 handler Kevin Dunn let his dog out to stretch his legs. The Belgian Malinois ran around the lot like a shadow, silent except for claws clicking across the pavement. Christian and Townley bagged the marijuana and .38 caliber Chief’s Special. As I caught up on my log sheet, it started to drizzle.

           We were outside of our cars talking when an urgent call came over the radio, but it wasn’t dispatch, it was Obie Galey, a Reserve Deputy. Patrolmen can tell how serious a call is by the caller’s tone of voice or noise in the background, but it didn’t take a law enforcement expert to know something was wrong. Obie was talking fast, his voice was higher than normal, and a car horn was blowing in the background. Obie announced a major vehicle crash on Colquitt Road, four miles west of us. 

           I ran to my car, but no one else heard the call.

            “What’s going on?”

            “Signal 53, Colquitt and Timber Ridge!”   

            I dropped my shifter into drive and switched on my lights and siren. It was a wet, winter night and most of Keithville was in bed. On the way to the crash, Dispatch told us a car ran off the road and hit a tree, and the driver was pinned inside. When I pulled up, the drizzle turned into rain.

            The fire department was half a mile down the road, but I beat them to the crash. I blocked the eastbound lane and grabbed my raincoat and campaign hat from the trunk. The hat was useless in dry weather, but during rain, it acted as an umbrella. With my clipboard and flashlight, I ran to the source of the noise: a white car bent around an oak tree. The piercing sound of the car horn got louder and louder until it was almost unbearable when I reached the driver’s door.

            Colquitt Road has a hard curve at its intersection with Timber Ridge, and the white car ran off the road, went through the ditch, and never slowed down until it was stopped dead in its tracks by an oak tree that was no more than 14 inches in diameter. If the pavement had been dry, the car could have made the curve, but it was going too fast on this night.

            The spot lights from our patrol cars lit up the scene like the mall parking lot. The passenger's side of the car took the brunt of the blow as it hit the tree and lifted the rear end, spinning it to the left.  Motorists stopped to see what was going on and residents who lived nearby came out of their homes and gathered at the corner to find out what the terrific noise was all about.

             I yelled in vain to the driver through the shattered window of his door. He groaned with pain, but I considered it a good sign that he was alive. I put my clip board and flashlight on the trunk and put my fingers in my ears. Carl approached the driver while I went to the front of the car. The hood was pilled  back exposing the engine which was hissing and steaming from a crushed radiator. I found the wires to the horn and ripped them away from the car. The deafening blare became a soft ring that gave way to the sound of falling rain.

            The driver was 15 years older than me and complained of pain in his legs and hip. It wasn’t surprising since were the steering wheel, dashboard, and right front end of his car were shoved up against him. I smelled alcohol and considered the irony that the thing which caused him to crash also kept him alive. His door was welded shut by the impact. Thankfully there were no passengers.

            

            Carl called the driver by name. George (not his real name) had been a maintenance man at Caddo Detention Center where we all once worked. Carl asked him what happened, but all he ignored him.

            “Get me outta here!”

            Carl asked him if anyone else was in the car. He said he was alone. I didn’t see anyone, but I tried the passenger’s door to be sure. It would not open. The dashboard and motor were shoved all the way into the front seat. I opened the back door. There were clothes and fried chicken scattered across the back seat. I threw out the clothes and frisked the seat and floor board. I was relieved to find no one there.

            When the fire department arrived, Firefighter Sherry Bowers spoke to George. When she yelled, “Who is that in the car with you,” I knew something was wrong. I put my clipboard and flashlight down and tried the passenger door again, but it wouldn’t budge. I lifted the latch, and pulled the door while pushing against the car with my foot. The metal bent, opening the door enough where I could get between it and the car and force it completely open.

The clothes were stacked in the backseat, but when the car hit the tree they were thrown everywhere. I pulled away two hand fulls from the floor board and saw a pair of legs snapped in two at the ankle. I moved the laundry out of the seat and found a woman lying on her side. The top of her body was covered by the crushed engine compartment. George was not alone.

That night, George and his wife went to town to do laundry and pick up dinner. While waiting for her to wash the clothes, he drank a six pack, or two, and bought a bucket of fried chicken. On the way home, he was going too fast in the curve and ran off the road. His wife saw what was happening and leaned over in the seat with her head in his lap. When the car hit the tree, her feet were between the seat and the door and the impact broke her ankles.

             She was pinned in the car along with George. A firefighter climbed on the hood with the Jaws of Life and cut the top of the car away from the posts. The firemen peeled the roof back like a can of sardines, cut the back of the front seat off, and lifted her out of the car from the back seat. There was no sign of life.

            George was oblivious to the rescue beside him. He screamed in pain and demanded help. The firemen struggled to get him out of the car, having to cut the door off to get him out. While I took measurements of the crash, they strapped his wife to a back board and put her in an open spot forty feet away and left her alone to wait for transportation. I walked over and stood beside her. Her feet were turned out abnormally, and the rain fell on both of us. I prayed for and wondered about her soul. She was a person made in God’s image, and for all the horror she had been through moments earlier, she was at peace.

            The roar of the helicopter reminded me of why I was there. It was the only time in my career I saw a helicopter fly in the rain. It took George and his wife to the hospital. I followed and found him in the Emergency Room where I read him his rights. He fought against the medical staff, but the nurse drew his blood. He was well above the legal limit for intoxication.

            Kevin knew the woman who was in the crash. She was a committed Christian who led a quiet life and worked with her hands. I am thankful that I was there to see her home.