RECKLESS DISREGARD
Kristen heard his voice before she saw him—deep, cultured, with a very slight European accent—and it made her scalp tingle a little. He stepped onto the elevator, and she could not, without staring, see more than his brown overcoat, oatmeal scarf, and thick, blond hair. She was afraid she might fall in love with the idea of him before she had a chance to know the reality. She assumed he was the new tenant in 2A, but even if he was, he could still be a serial killer or a bore or a drug addict. Maybe he was a spy, like James Bond.
The woman who got on the elevator with him was tall and thin, about thirty, teetering on very high heels. They stood apart, as if they were not together, but they had been conversing. She said, “You remember JFK’s assassination? You must be really old.” Her voice was nasal, her accent definitely New York. Kristen liked older men, which Bobby said was because she missed her father. Bobby was thirty-six and thought he knew everything.
The blond stranger said, “I’m sixty-three. I suppose that seems old to you.” He didn’t sound at all offended, perhaps even amused. “All I remember is the sound of drums, and the horses in the procession.”
“Horses?”
“Yes, horses. You’ll see—I’m sure they’ll show the footage.”
The elevator dinged for the main floor, and the man stepped aside and held the door for Kristen and the other woman. He was only a little taller than Kristen and had a stocky build, but he was not at all fat. His expression was serious, but not stern, his eyes friendly behind square wire-rim glasses. A distinguished look—not a spy, maybe a professor or an author of very scholarly books.
“Thank you,” she said, and he nodded without speaking. He looked at her as if he actually saw her, a reserved, but kindly expression on his face. She thought she would enjoy talking to him.
The couple—if they were a couple—lingered in the lobby, still talking about the sixtieth anniversary coverage. Kristen stepped outside. The air was cold and fresh, and she buttoned her jacket against it. Bobby was waiting on the corner, impatient and surly, smoking a rare cigarette—he was trying to quit—with his other hand in his pocket.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi, yourself,” he said gruffly. He tossed the cigarette and studied her critically. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”
“Well, what do you think?” she asked. She didn’t think anything was wrong with what she was wearing. He was just being Bobby. She hunched her shoulders and tried to take his hand.
“We have to make a good impression,” he said.
“We will. This is a nice dress.”
“It’s ugly,” he said. He did take her hand finally, and they walked toward the bus stop. “You look like something the cat dragged in. Which I guess you are.”
Kristen took a deep breath. The man on the elevator would not have talked to her this way. “You need to show me more respect,” she said.
Bobby snorted. “What’s there to respect?” he asked. “You have no job, no education, no money, no skills, no class. You don’t even know how to comb your hair.”
“At least I have better manners than you do,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair. Why are you being so mean? You’re in an awful mood.”
“Whose fault is that, I wonder?” She didn’t know why it would be her fault, but obviously it was.
“You better be nice to me,” she said, “or I won’t go.”
“Oh, you’ll go all right. I’m nicer to you than anybody else would be. Nicer than you deserve.”
Usually she shrugged, and he would stop after a while, and eventually they would kiss and make up. She liked that part. It was only the image of the man in the elevator that made her want to stick up for herself this time. He would not have treated her like this, no matter what she deserved. “I deserve respect like anybody else,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
I’m a person.”
“You’re an ugly, stupid bitch who got herself knocked up.”
“Yeah, all by myself! I didn’t have any help with that, did I?”
“Oh, I guess you did have help, all right. Who from is the real question.”
Kristen saw red. She had never been with anyone but Bobby, never wanted to be with anyone else. No matter how badly he treated her, she meant to stick by him, and this was how he repaid her loyalty. She pulled her hand free and shoved him away from her.
Away. Not into the street, not on purpose. Not even very far into the street, but the car was close to the curb and coming a little too fast, and the corner was not well lit. Bobby had one foot in the street, ready to shove back, ready to laugh—sometimes it amused him when she was feisty—and then he spun around as the big, dark sedan slammed into him. Kristen didn’t see the driver, didn’t catch any of the numbers on the license plate. All she saw was Bobby, lying in the street, not laughing now, not talking, not even staring up at her with his dark, expressive eyes. There was a lot of blood.
The car stopped beyond them, but not for long. She heard the door open, sensed someone getting out to look, as she was looking, unable to avert her gaze, unable to see anything else, and then, although she didn’t hear a sound, she knew the car was gone.
#
Everybody was very nice, but the flashing lights had given Kristen a headache. They had so many questions, and she had so few answers. She had trouble remembering anything about what had happened, and the more she tried to recall, the less she was sure of. One thing was clear: Bobby was dead. They had missed the meeting with the couple who wanted to adopt the baby, too, and she didn’t even know how to contact them. Bobby had made the arrangements.
The police wanted to find the hit-and-run driver, and she was the only one who could help them. They were kind, patient, and persistent, especially the older detective, a thin, edgy man with a dark mustache. He did his best to put her at ease, and he suggested she might be able to remember more later. She agreed that she might, mostly because she wanted to please him. She couldn’t deny that she liked his attention. She had been shaking all over, and he brought her a cup of hot coffee. It didn’t stop the chill in her bones, but holding it between her palms helped to steady her.
Reporters had asked questions too, and flashbulbs had blinded her, but the older cop, Detective Cabral, told her she didn’t have to talk to them. He had given them a statement that she was cooperating with the police in the investigation. It made her feel special, important, like someone on TV.
She didn’t think she had seen the driver, but he said she might have noticed something without realizing it. He even suggested they could try hypnosis to help her remember. She didn’t like that idea; she didn’t know what she might say. She tried to imagine what she could have seen, who would have been behind the wheel. It was a big car, heavy and quiet, an expensive car. What kind of person would drive such a car? Someone important or at least rich, someone distinguished, with good taste. Someone like the man on the elevator, the man who had held the door for her.
“I think he had blond hair,” she said. She said it hesitantly. She didn’t want to mislead anyone or get anyone in trouble, but she wanted Detective Cabral to keep his respectful attention on her, his focused, hopeful expression. “Or maybe gray,” she said. “He was older.”
Cabral made a note. He was very pleased. He smoothed his mustache with one finger, a habit she had noticed earlier. “What else do you remember?”
“He wore glasses,” she said. “The kind with wire.”
“Did you see him behind the wheel, before the accident, or—”
She knew she hadn’t seen the car at all before it hit Bobby. There was no streetlight on that corner. But the next intersection had one, near where the car had stopped. She didn’t remember even looking up after he was hit, but she must have, because she knew the driver had gotten out of the car. Had she seen him? She imagined the light falling on his light-colored hair, his dark shape near the car. “No,” she said, and now she spoke more definitely, her voice stronger. “When he got out of the car. He was…big, I think. Not so tall, but with broad shoulders. He was wearing an overcoat. I remember now.” She met Detective Cabral’s eyes, and he was so pleased with her, so intent on her. She wanted it to continue. “He looked and then he got back in the car. He didn’t help us.”
Cabral asked her to sit down with a young woman who tried to draw a sketch of the driver. She was nice too, very patient and kind. She showed Kristen different shapes of eyes, noses, and mouths and asked which ones were closest to what she remembered. Kristen tried to keep an image in her mind, a face seen dimly under the streetlight. She knew that in court they would say she couldn’t have seen him clearly, but she wouldn’t have to go to court. She wasn’t going to identify anybody. She mustn’t be too definite, too sure, or they would think she was lying. If she kept trying, but not quite succeeding, they would keep taking their time with her, making her feel important and special.
The finished sketch both did and did not resemble the man in the elevator. It was vague, but Detective Cabral was pleased with it, pleased with her. He said they would show the picture around the neighborhood and see if anybody recognized him, and if that didn’t turn up a suspect, they would ask the newspaper to run it. It was an exciting idea, that something she had helped create would be printed. But of course, nobody would recognize him, because he didn’t exist. Well, of course somebody had been behind the wheel of the car—it might even have been the man in the elevator, if he had left the building right after she did.
#
Two days later, Detective Cabral told Kristen they had identified a possible suspect. He asked her to come to the police station again to look at an array of pictures. She was determined not to mislead him any further than she already had, to simply say she couldn’t identify anyone. The pictures he showed her were on a computer screen and appeared to be blow-ups of driver’s license photos. All of them were men in their forties or fifties with blond or graying hair, and all but two of the nine wore wire-rim glasses.
Detective Cabral spoke to her soothingly, telling her to take her time and let him know if she recognized anyone. He stressed that the perpetrator might not be among them, and even if he was, they understood she might not be able to identify him after a brief glimpse in the dark. The investigation was still going on, and she might still remember something else. She should not feel pressured at all. She would not be wasting their time if she couldn’t come to any definite conclusion today, and he apologized if they seemed to be wasting hers.
How could she disappoint him when he was so kind? He must be the best detective in the entire department, very experienced and very wise. He had chosen these pictures for a reason, and she gave each one careful consideration. After a long silence in which Detective Cabral sat quietly and drank coffee, appearing neither impatient nor bored, Kristen said hesitantly, “This one looks familiar.” It was of course the man in the elevator.
He didn’t look at the picture she indicated. He kept his eyes on her and asked, “Where do you know him from?” She knew from watching TV detective shows that she was supposed to say she had seen him get out of the car after he hit Bobby; he mustn’t assume anything or put words in her mouth.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if he was the driver, but I think I’ve seen him somewhere.”
Cabral smoothed his mustache before he turned to the computer screen. She pointed again. He kept his expression carefully neutral and gave a little nod. She knew he was suppressing something—excitement or disappointment? “In the newspaper, maybe?” he asked.
Kristen blinked at him. She hadn’t expected the question, and it felt like a trap. “No,” she said with perfect honesty, “I never read the newspaper. Bobby says it’s all lies anyway. Oh!” she added. Bobby was dead. To cover her confusion, she said, “I might have seen him before…in the elevator of my building. Maybe…maybe it was the same night. I’m not sure.” That would keep him on the suspect list, without her having to lie about what she had seen on the street.
Cabral studied her. She was very self-conscious, but oddly happy. He was so nice, especially for a cop. She had gotten lucky, having him assigned to the case. She was in good hands. He cleared his throat and opened a drawer. He laid a folded newspaper on the desk in front of her. The man from the elevator gazed up at her, calm and smiling. He looked exactly as she had remembered him and very much like the sketch. The photo so mesmerized her that it took a minute for her to absorb anything else.
His name was Ryder. James Vance Ryder—an aristocratic name if she had ever seen one. Councilman James Vance Ryder. A politician! She didn’t know anything about politics. She had never heard of him. What was he doing in her building? Surely a man with a fancy name like that had not moved into 2A. She looked up at Detective Cabral and said, in frank astonishment, “He’s like famous?”
“Yes. Are you sure you didn’t see him in the paper, or on TV?”
“Not in the paper,” she said. “If I saw him on TV I don’t remember. Has he been on TV?”
“A few times. On the news. Especially recently, since he decided to run for mayor.”
“No shit? Mayor?” Slowly she recovered from the shock. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
“I’ve heard worse,” he assured her.
“I don’t usually watch the news,” she admitted. “I don’t care about politics. I guess I should, but…I’m pretty sure the first time I saw him was in the elevator.”
“Anywhere else?”
Now she was supposed to say she had seen him get out of the car and look at Bobby’s broken body. “I don’t know,” she said apologetically. “I can’t be sure.”
“Okay, that’s fine,” he said, and it sounded sincere. “Were any of the others familiar?”
“No. I mean…it could be any of them, but…no. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You did fine. Would you do me a favor?”
“Uh…sure.”
“If you happen to talk to the press—or anybody, really—could you not mention Councilman Ryder? It’s too soon to open that can of worms.”
“Councilman who?” she asked. She smiled, and Cabral smiled back, a smile that made her tingle. He was good-looking too, with the same sort of dark and handsome Latin look Bobby had.
#
Kristen went to Bobby’s memorial service in the “ugly” black dress she had been wearing when he died. It was the only suitable one she owned. Much to her surprise, Detective Cabral was also present, sober and dignified in a black suit and a wide maroon tie. Oh yes, she knew from TV shows that the cops sometimes went to victims’ funerals in case the murderer showed up. She scanned the church but didn’t see anybody with blond hair and wire-rim glasses. It made her nervous to think the driver might be in the room with her and she wouldn’t recognize him because he didn’t fit the description she had made up.
The only other person she knew was Bobby’s brother Leo. She didn’t like Leo. He was mean and shiftless, and Bobby had told her he used to torment him when he was little. She felt a little sorry for him now, though. He looked uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit, and his eyes were red as if he had been crying. Bobby was his only brother, and he was apparently sincerely grieving. Leo didn’t see her at first and when he did, he scowled and turned away.
She was pleased with the service in general. It was very respectful, perhaps even more than Bobby deserved. The altar was decked with flowers, colorful and sickly sweet, and a blown-up photo was mounted on an easel beside it. It was a good one and showed how handsome he had been, with the half smile she could expect when he was pleased with her. She tried not to remember that the absence of a coffin meant his remains were still evidence, locked in a freezer somewhere. It was not Bobby anyway, only what he had left behind.
The reception was held in a meeting room in the basement of the church. Leo continued to snub Kristen, but Detective Cabral approached her and asked kindly, “How you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” she said, but her lip trembled, and her eyes stung. Sympathy always made her feel sadder, or at least more in touch with her sadness. He was more attractive, better dressed, and more dignified than anyone else in the room, and his presence added a little class to the proceedings. She was grateful and wanted to please him. “I remembered something else about the accident,” she said. She wasn’t sure “accident” was the right word, but “murder” sounded too premeditated.
Cabral became even more intent on her. He moved a little closer and put his hand gently on her arm. It sent a flush of warmth through her, and she couldn’t speak at first. “Take your time,” he said.
“There was somebody else in the car,” she said, improvising wildly. “I think it was a woman.” She had to pause to sip her lukewarm coffee, because lying made her mouth dry. “Maybe that’s why he didn’t stay—like maybe it wasn’t his wife.”
Cabral considered this. “Could she have been the driver?” he asked.
“No—he got out on the driver’s side. I only saw her head, the back of her head.”
“She didn’t turn around?”
Kristen frowned as she struggled to visualize her imaginary scene. “I was looking at him. I saw her out of the corner of my eye—like a cut-out, you know, a shadow.”
“A silhouette,” he suggested. “The back of her head, not her profile?”
She closed her eyes. “No—or just barely. Maybe she started to turn her head when he got back in the car.”
“Could you tell anything, the color of her hair, or the style?”
“Um, no. It was too dark in the car. I’m sorry.”
“Good God, Miss Bennett, don’t apologize. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
“Call me Kristen,” she said. “Miss Bennett sounds like some old schoolteacher.”
“Kristen, then,” he said. He gave her a small, tight smile. He glanced around the room. “This is pretty dreary. Can I give you a lift home?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she said. She was used to taking the bus and didn’t mind it.
“Now, if I’m going to call you Kristen, you can’t call me sir,” he said. “My first name is Tony.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she protested. He was an authority figure, a generation older than she was, and she was a stupid girl who was wasting his time.
“Okay,” he said, almost laughing, but not in a rude way. “But no more ‘sir.’” He smoothed his mustache. “Are you sure I can’t take you home?”
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Linda Griffin earned a BA in English from San Diego State University and an MLS from UCLA. She retired as fiction librarian for the San Diego Public Library to spend more time on her writing. Her stories have been published in numerous journals including Eclectica and The Main Street Rag. The Wild Rose Press has published ten novels and novellas, including Morgan’s Landing (2025) and The Axe (2023), which placed second in the 2024 National Excellence in Storytelling contest and third in the 2022 Hooked on a Book Competition. In addition to the three R’s—reading, writing, and research—she enjoys movies, Scrabble, and travel.