Nikki Fontaine, Private Investigator
The Case of the Vanishing Twin
DOOLITTLE DRIVE, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA
June 19, 2023, 10:45 p.m.
Keith Rodman forced himself to leave the corner bar on Webster Street in Alameda approximately 20 minutes ago to drive to his home in San Leandro. Subconsciously, he knew he shouldn't be driving. It had taken him a little under two hours to finish three double scotches, and Keith felt totally under control and able to safely drive home. Doolittle Drive was the back route to where he lived in San Leandro, but he was quite familiar with it. It was a poorly-lit road, but there wasn't much traffic this time of night. Though he was still in what is considered Oakland, the body of water to his left was known as San Leandro Bay. He always thought that strange.
Keith was 44, and his wife thought he was suffering from a mid-life crisis when he decided to buy a brand new 2023 Ford Mustang GT500 that packed 890 horsepower. This rocket could eat pavement at 180 miles per hour, which was factory limited, and blow through a quarter-mile in under ten seconds. Even though Keith was driving down the locally famous Doolittle Drive, which was where teens raced their muscle cars in the mid-1960s, he kept his foot out of it and was cruising at a legal 50 miles per hour. Going fast in this car was a blast, but refilling the gas tank every two days was far too costly.
It was a chilly Bay Area night, and the air was slightly damp, even though it was close to the beginning of summer.
Keith was lost in thought, mainly thinking of how pissed off his wife would be for him being so late arriving home. He was driving mostly by way of autopilot.
Keith's mind was ripped from autopilot mode when he impacted something that he had not even seen on the road in front of him before the impact. Like a bolt out of the blue, the Mustang's front end crushed in towards him as if he had struck a tree.
It took several seconds for him to recover from the airbag deployment's confusion, and his eyes and lungs were still burning from the chemicals that come from airbags during a collision. Keith then jumped from his car and rushed to the front to see what he had struck.
What he found made no sense to him at all. It defied everything he thought he knew about science. The front of his car indeed looked as if he had struck a tree. Which only confused him more when he found a man's body impaled through the front of his car and into the engine compartment.
At least he thought it was the body of a man. It was almost impossible to tell for sure since the body appeared to have been run through a wood chipper and poured into the engine compartment. The only genuinely recognizable things were the shoes protruding from the front of his car attached to what appeared to resemble two legs.
How could a 45-mile-per-hour collision cause so much damage to a human body and over four thousand pounds of Detroit steel?
11:20 p.m.
The tow truck was the first emergency vehicle to arrive on the scene. Upon approaching the damaged Mustang, the two men from the tow truck stood and stared at the car's front end.
"What do you make of that?" asked Fred.
"You got me," replied Derek. "I've never seen this kind of damage from a car hitting a pedestrian. This looks more like a high-speed impact with a pole or tree."
"Exactly. This car must have been flying. What do you think? Maybe a hundred or more?"
"Maybe," replied Derek. "These Mustangs can haul ass, way over one-fifty. Look at what happened to that body. Have you ever seen a body get that fucked up from getting whacked by a car?"
"I'll tell you one thing. I'm not gonna be the one getting what's left of that body out of that engine compartment. I don't get paid enough to do that kind of shit."
"Amen, brother. Ain't gonna be me neither," replied Derek. "Here comes OPD. Let them deal with this. They're gonna have their crime scene guys all over this thing for a while. Hopefully, they'll vacuum the body out of there and leave us the car to tow. We'll probably have to come back tomorrow, from the looks of it."
"Vacuum?" replied Fred. "You have such a way with words. I hope they don't forget his shoes. That would be creepy to have to mess with those shoes. Shit. The feet are probably still in them. That's it. Let's get out of here until tomorrow."
The two officers from the Oakland Police Department Traffic Investigation Unit knew this wasn't your typical man-impaled-into-engine-compartment type of car-pedestrian accident. Neither of them had ever seen this much damage done to a car by a human body, period. This accident would require some serious reconstruction work, way beyond what the police department could provide.
"Let's see what the driver has to say about this mess," said Officer Jenson.
"I'm dying to hear what his version of this accident is," replied Jenson's partner, John Sikes.
Officer Jenson had placed Keith Rodman in the back of their patrol car upon arrival at the scene, which is standard protocol, especially since Jenson could smell alcohol on his breath when he first approached the confused driver.
"Mr. Rodman, I'm Officer Jenson, and I'd like your permission to perform a breathalyzer test to determine your blood alcohol content. Do I have your permission, sir?"
Keith thought it had probably been long enough since his last drink that he should be able to pass the BAC test without much trouble.
"Sure. Go ahead."
"Okay. Please place your lips on this part of the breathalyzer and blow deeply for me."
After a deep breath and blow into the device, Keith stood by awaiting the results, which he figured would be in the legal range.
"Mr. Rodman, I'm afraid you just blew a.09 reading, which means you are over the permissible alcohol limit to operate a motor vehicle legally. That plus the fact that there was an accident involving a fatality, we're required to place you under arrest for driving under the influence of alcohol and possible felony manslaughter. The DUI is pretty solid. You're going to need to get an attorney to help you through this. It will be up to the Traffic Investigation Unit to turn this case over to the homicide division for further prosecution. That is out of our hands. We'll be creating an accident report and turn it over to them to include in their investigation.
"We will now be taking you to the Oakland jail to be booked into the system. You will have an arraignment within two days, and you will find out what your bail will be at that point. Please place your hands behind your back so we can handcuff you."
"And I thought my wife was going to be pissed at me getting home so late. I can't even imagine what she's going to say about this," said Keith in a barely audible voice. "Damn."
NIKKI FONTAINE INVESTIGATIONS
GRAND AVENUE, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA
June 23, 8:50 a.m.
Being Nikki Fontaine has become my full-time life. I can feel myself sliding through a man-to-woman transition that I had never planned on. My new identity was supposed to be a temporary hiding place from the Chicago goombahs trying to find me, erase me, and get the $30 million that I took from them back.
I have spent most of my free time with my love, Max Dupree, since we came out as a couple almost four months ago. We really like each other and enjoy being together. That's a good thing. I can tell that she likes me too. Like is a necessary ingredient to a good relationship, especially when you want each other all the damn time.
She came to California from New Orleans a beautiful, straight black woman. She's probably wondering what the hell happened to her life, now that she's in love with a transgender woman who is still part man, part woman. If she's half as confused as I am sometimes, I'm surprised she hasn't turned into a full-blown alcoholic.
Occasionally, I'll glance over at Max, working diligently at her desk, and blow her a kiss. When Max felt frisky, she would put one of her fingers in her mouth and slowly pull it out while sucking on it. She knew that would drive me crazy, as well as cause my face to turn bright red.
Jessie didn't miss much that went on in the office, including me and Max's little sexual interplays.
"Hey, Nikki," said Jessie as she walked up to my open door.
Jessie smiled on the outside while roaring with laughter on the inside.
"What's up, Jessie?" I asked.
"Are you feeling okay? Your face is bright red."
"I think I'm starting menopause about 15 years early because I have hot flashes."
"Power surges," replied Jessie.
"What?"
"Call them power surges. Hot flashes make you sound old, and old you ain't, sweetie. I just wanted to let you know that I've finished 60 days of my 90-day online private investigator course that I've been taking. I should be able to skate through the last month with ease."
"That's great, Jessie. And I can make your job experience retroactive to the first day you started here. I will apply all of your time here against the three years/6,000 hours of on-the-job experience you'll need to take the test for your license. Or you can shave off six months and a thousand hours by taking online or night courses to get an AA degree in police science, criminal law, or justice. In either case, I'm proud of you. In the meantime, look at all the great experience you'll be getting while working here. Now get back to work," I said with a big smile. "You're doing a great job here."
Jessie is a downright computer whiz, who is young and cute, which works perfectly for her hotter than hot relationship with my office assistant Nora, who is a knockout blonde who happens to be a lesbian. This office is turning into a real box of assorted candy--a flavor for every taste.
This was the first sunny day in about two weeks. Summer is taking its sweet time arriving in Oakland this year. Of course, it's late most years. Still, people always forget, just like they forget that late September and early October is Indian Summer because it's usually hot during that time.
"It's about time that the goddamn sun made an appearance," said Nora as she carefully hung her stone-colored Sofia cashmere U-Cape on the coat rack inside the door. "I'll be glad when I don't have to wear these uncomfortable stockings."
I was standing next to Jessie's door chatting with her when Nora walked in.
"Maybe you could try wearing a long dress, or even, God forbid, some warm pants," I said, bearing the slightest of grins. "I mean, you could give the drivers down Grand Avenue a break and try not wearing one of your miniskirts for a change."
"I could," replied Nora. "But then I'd miss all the honking. I'm kinda getting used to it."
"Well, that's a surprise," added Barton, still sitting behind his desk.
"Oh, good morning, Barton," responded Nora.
"Good morning, Nora."
"Hey, everyone, I have a prospective new investigator coming in later this morning for an interview with Max and me. So try to be on your best behavior and not scare him off. We are in desperate need of another investigator, and this guy has great credentials. Capeesh?" I said.
Jessie shook her head. There she goes with her Godfather talk again.
11:20 a.m.
Rex Morgan Brown was ten minutes early for his 11:30 appointment. He wanted to be punctual without seeming desperate or overeager.
Morgan, as he liked people to call him, carried a lean, athletic frame, and clothes hung attractively on him. At an even six feet tall, deep blue eyes punctuated his movie-star looks and showed off his wavy blond hair. Women loved that he was straight and single. Gay men knew it was fruitless to try to make him switch sides.
He was wearing a charcoal gray Armani suit with a light red tie adorned with several Teddy bears. Women always loved this tie.
As he approached Nora's desk, all eyes in the office were melting all over him.
Oh, my God. I believe Nora just watched her eye candy competition walk in the door.
