Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

“You realize,” Wilson whispered, “that we’re trespassing on private property.”

“I realize.”

We moved from the crunching gravel to the soft grass and climbed the hill toward the house. There were lights burning on the ground floor, but the shades were drawn, and we could not see inside.

We came to the cars and stepped onto the gravel again. The sounds of our footsteps seemed loud. I reached the Mercedes and flicked on my penlight. The car was empty; there was nothing in the back seat.

I stopped.

The driver’s seat was soaked in blood.

“Well, well,” Wilson said.

I was about to speak when we heard voices and a door opening. We hurried back to the grass and slipped behind a bush near the drive.

J. D, Randall came out of the house. Peter was with him. They were arguing about something in low voices; I heard Peter say, “All ridiculous,” and

J. D. said, “Too careful”; but otherwise their voices were inaudible. They came down the steps to the cars. Peter got into the Mercedes and started the engine. J. D. said, “Follow me,” and Peter nodded. Then J. D. got into the silver Porsche and started down the drive.

At the road, they turned right, heading south.

“Come on,” I said.

We sprinted down the drive to my car, parked on the opposite side of the road. The other two cars were already far away; we could barely hear their engines, but we could see their lights moving down the coast.

I started the car and followed them.

Wilson had reached into his pocket and was fiddling with something.

“What have you got there?”

He held it over so I could see. A small, silver tube.

“Minox.”

“You always carry a camera?”

“Always,” he said.

I stayed back a good distance, so the other cars would not suspect. Peter was following J. D. closely.

After a five-minute drive, the two cars entered the ramp for the southeast expressway. I came on a moment later.

“I don’t get it,” Wilson said. “One minute you’re defending the guy, and the next minute you’re tracking him like a bloodhound.”

“I want to know,” I said. “That’s all. I just want to know.”

I followed them for half an hour. The road narrowed at Marshfield, becoming two lanes instead of three. Traffic was light; I dropped even farther back.

“This could be completely innocent,” Wilson said. “The whole thing could be a—”

“No,” I said. I had been putting things together in my own mind. “Peter loaned this car to Karen for the weekend. The son, William, told me that. Karen used that car. There was blood on it. Then the car was garaged in the Randall house, and Peter reported it as stolen. Now…”

“Now they’re getting rid of it,” Wilson said.

“Apparently.”

“Hot damn,” he said. “This one’s in the bag.”

The cars continue south, past Plymouth, down toward the Cape. The air here was chilly and tangy with salt. There was almost no traffic.

“Doing fine,” Wilson said, looking at the taillights ahead. “Give them plenty of room.”

As the road became more deserted, the two cars gained speed. They were going very fast now, near eighty. We passed Plymouth, then Hyannis, and out toward Provincetown. Suddenly, I saw their brake lights go on, and they turned off the road to the right, toward the coast.

We followed, on a dirt road. Around us were scrubby pine trees. I doused my lights. The wind was gusty and cold off the ocean.

“Deserted around here,” Wilson said.

I nodded.

Soon I could hear the roar of the breakers. I pulled off the road and parked. We walked on foot toward the ocean and saw the two cars parked, side by side.

I recognized the place. It was the east side of the Cape, where there was a long, one-hundred-foot sandy drop to the sea. The two cars were at the ledge, overlooking the water. Randall had gotten out of his Porsche and was talking with Peter. They argued for a moment, and then Peter got back in the car and drove it until the front wheels were inches from the edge. Then he got out and walked back.

J. D. had meanwhile opened the trunk to the Porsche and taken out a portable can of gasoline. Together the two men emptied the can of gasoline inside Peter’s car.

I heard a click near me. Wilson, with the little camera pressed to his eye, was taking pictures.

“You don’t have enough light.”

“Tri-X,” he said, still taking pictures. “You can force it to 2400, if you have the right lab. And I have the right lab.”

I looked back at the cars. J. D. was returning the tank to his trunk. Then he started the Porsche engine and backed the car around, so it was facing the road, away from the ocean.

“Ready for the getaway,” Wilson said. “Beautiful.”

J. D. called to Peter and got out of the car. He stood by Peter, then I saw the brief flare of a match. Suddenly the interior of the Mercedes burst into flames.

The two men immediately ran to the rear of the car and leaned their weight against the car. It moved slowly, then faster, and finally began the slide down the sandy slope. They stepped back and watched its descent. At the bottom, it apparently exploded, because there was a loud sound and a bright red flash of light.

They sprinted for the car, got in, and drove past us.

“Come on,” Wilson said. He ran forward to the edge with his camera. Down below, at the edge of the water, was the burning, smashed hulk of the Mercedes.

Wilson took several pictures, then put his camera away and looked at me.

He was grinning broadly. “Baby,” he said, “have we got a case.”

ON THE WAY BACK, I turned off the expressway at the Cohasset exit.

“Hey,” Wilson said, “what’re you doing?”

“Going to see Randall.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you crazy? After what we saw?”

I said, “I came out tonight to get Art Lee off the hook. I still intend to do it.”

“Uh-uh,” Wilson said. “Not now. Not after what we saw.” He patted the little camera in his hand. “Now we can go to court.”

“But there’s no need. We have an iron case. Unbeatable. Unshakable.”

I shook my head.

“Listen,” Wilson said, “you can rattle a witness. You can discredit him, making him look like a fool. But you can’t discredit a picture. You can’t beat a photograph. We have them by the balls.”

“No,” I said.

He sighed. “Before, it was going to be a bluff. I was going to walk in there and bullshit my way through it. I was going to scare them, to frighten them, to make them think we had evidence when we didn’t. But now, it’s all different. We have the evidence. We have everything we need.”

“If you don’t want to talk to them, I will.”

“Berry,” Wilson said, “if you talk to them, you’ll blow our whole case.”

“I’ll make them quit.”

“Berry, you’ll blow it. Because they’ve just done something very incriminating. They’ll know it. They’ll be taking a hard line.”

“Then we’ll tell them what we know.”

“And if it comes to trial? What then? We’ll have blown our cool.”

“I’m not worried about that. It won’t come to trial.”

Wilson scratched his scar again, running his finger down his neck. “Listen,” he said, “don’t you want to win?”

“Yes,” I said, “but without a fight.”

“There’s going to be a fight. Any way you cut it, there’ll be a fight. I’m telling you.”

I pulled up in front of the Randall house and drove up the drive. “Don’t tell me,” I said, “Tell them.”

“You’re making a mistake,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said, “but I doubt it.”