I’m sure the last thing anyone would want to see in the rearview mirror is the flashing red light of a police car when they have a dead body in the trunk. The body in question was that of my late wife, Georgia. I didn’t mean to kill her. But that makes me no less a murderer, I suppose. Now, on my way to the countryside to dispose of her body, I had the misfortune to be stopped by a patrolman.

I swore to myself and fought the panic that was rising in my throat. I desperately tried to figure out what to do. I couldn’t outrun him. I had no alternative but to pull over and hope to get rid of him as soon as possible.

I brought my car to a smooth halt on the edge of the road, making certain I was not too far off onto the shoulder. Maybe he would get his business over with sooner if he had to stand on the ragged edge of traffic. I struggled to fight for composure as I watched him climb out of the car and saunter slowly toward me.

He was a young man, tall, and ambled toward the car with a nonchalance that belied his profession. I was disconcerted by this. He was in no hurry, and that meant he would take his time in dealing with whatever it is I had done. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, composed myself and put on an innocent face.

Rolling down the window, I smiled at the young policeman. "Good evening, Officer."

He touched the bill of his cap in response. He stepped back, inspected a spot on the back of the car, then stepped over to the window.

"What am I guilty of, Sir?" I said with a smile, certain he could hear my heart beating.

"Nothing serious," he replied. "Your left taillight is out." He scratched his cheek and grinned. "It’s a slow night. I have to do something to earn my pay."

I smiled back. "No problem. Just write me a warning and I’ll have it taken care of."

"Tell you what," he said. "I’m a pretty good mechanic. Work on cars in my spare time. I have a dozen or so right now." He stepped toward the rear of the car. "Why don’t you just pop the trunk and I’ll take a look at it. It might be a loose wire or something simple."

My heart flipped. Thinking fast, I said, "No can do, sir. You see, this isn’t my car and the key I have won’t open the trunk. It’s one of those keys you leave with a mechanic when he is working on the car and doesn’t need access to the trunk."

The policeman creased his brow. "Can’t you pop the trunk from inside?"

I shrugged. "Cheap car. No release in here."

He strolled back to the window. "May I see your driver’s license?"

"Sure," I said. I dug my driver’s license from my wallet and handed it to him. He took it, held it up to the light and squinted.

"Harold Watson. Is this your correct address?"

I nodded.

He studied the license a while longer, then handed it back to me.

"Sir, let me see the registration," he said.

I started to protest, then rummaged through the glove compartment and pulled the registration out. I handed it to him.

Again he held it up to the light. His frown returned. "This car is registered in your name. I thought you said this car wasn’t yours."

Cursing myself for being a fool, I gripped the steering wheel. Of course he would want to look at the registration. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I should have told him that the lock of the trunk was defective. Well, I wasn’t prepared for this and didn’t have a story ready. Now I was cornered like a rat.

I thought fast. "Well, Sir," I said, "it’s a long story. My friend--actually my cousin--wanted to buy a car but his credit rating was bad and he couldn’t get it financed. So I took out the loan and had the car put in my name." I paused and searched his face for a response. He was listening carefully, his expression neutral.

"The car was paid off a few months ago, but we haven’t gotten around to changing the title." I squirmed in my seat, all the while looking at the officer, hoping he was buying my story. "There’s a lot involved, you know. The car has to be smog tested. Title transfer fees. Insurance adjustments and all that. Too much red tape." I smiled in what I hoped was an embarrassed way. His expression remained neutral. "I guess you could write me up for defrauding the Bank of America," I said, laughing at my feeble joke. He didn’t smile.

He stepped back from the car, registration in hand and ambled to the front where he noted the license plate. Taking a pad from his pocket, he jotted down the number and strode back to the window.

"What’s your cousin’s name?" he asked.

"Gentry. Phil Gentry," I replied, pleased to be able to utter at least one bit of truth to the policeman.

He wrote down the name and started walking back to his cruiser.

"I’m in a hurry, Officer," I called after him. "Can you make this fast?"

He waved a hand at me. "I won’t be long. With these on-board computers tied directly to the DMV I don’t have to go through headquarters. It’s a real time saver."

I watched in the rearview mirror as he picked up his police computer and typed info into it. In spite of his assurances, he took a lot longer than I was comfortable with. From time to time he looked my way. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he set the computer aside and walked over to the car again.

"The car is in your name, all right," he said. "But I’m a bit confused by something."

"What’s that?" I asked.

"Well," he said scratching his head, "I ran your cousin’s name through the file and found that he had a car in his name as well. In fact," he stepped back and inspected the car, "it’s the same make as this one, only a year older."

I was at a loss to explain this, and again cursed myself for not thinking of it before I gave him the story. I sat back and stared straight ahead. "There must be some mistake."

"Oh, no," he said. "No mistake. Would you step out of the car, please, sir?"

"Maybe there are two Phil Gentrys," I said feebly.

"Maybe," the officer said, his voice lacking conviction. "And maybe you could open the trunk of the car. I don’t believe your story."

"Please, Sir," I said. "I’m already late for an appointment. Give me a break."

The young policeman stood firm, holding out his hand. "The key, please."

I gripped the key. "I know my rights," I said. "You must have a reasonable cause to search my car, and a broken taillight is not reasonable cause."

"Maybe," he said. "But it seems to me lying to an officer of the law is cause enough. Let the court decide that. The key, please."

I stood defiantly facing him.

He lowered his hand slowly. "Mister, if you don’t cooperate I’ll call for backup and have you arrested for resisting a police officer. Now, are you going to give me the key?"

"I’ll have your ass for this," I said. "The ACLU loves this kind of shit. Look, you’re young and have your career ahead of you. Don’t get off on the wrong foot."

"For the last time," he said. "Let me have the key."

I stared him down for a few seconds, then reluctantly handed him the key. He took it and walked to the back of the car. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it. The trunk lid clicked and popped open. He stiffened and stood up straight.

I acted quickly.

It only took me a few minutes to get back on the road again, driving well within the speed limit. I obeyed all the traffic laws and kept to the back roads lest some policeman with nothing better to do stopped me because of my faulty taillight. I’m sure the last thing anyone would want to see in the rearview mirror is the flashing red light of a police car when they have two dead bodies in the trunk.

Contact the Author - hcozine@yahoo.com