Content Warning: Fatal Car Accident

It’s around 11:00 pm on a Saturday night, and I’m sitting at home, just getting ready to go to bed. I’m an on-call tow truck operator, and I figure I’ll be going out early the next morning. Right as my head hits the pillow, my two-way radio chirps and a dispatcher speaks:

Dispatcher: “Hey, [My Name], are you still awake?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m up.”

Dispatcher: “Good. We’ve got a one-car accident in [Next Town Over.] The police department wants it expediated, so please hurry, but be safe.”

Me: “Ten-four. I’m out the door.”

After a roughly twenty-minute drive, I’m headed out of this small town looking for the accident. I see it: the coroner and forensics vans parked in the road amongst a dozen squad cars. A typical one-car accident has one officer sitting with it for paperwork reasons with the tow operator. I know things just got a lot darker than I was originally told.

What had happened was six kids between seventeen and twenty had been in an SUV while driving drunk and only the driver had a seatbelt on. The vehicle swerved off the road and the driver went to correct. However, he overcorrected, and long story short, the vehicle ended up rolling down the road in and out of the four-foot drainage ditch next to the road. All five passengers were ejected and died on the scene.

I set up my tow truck at a seventy-degree angle across this two-lane road and start to work with forensics and the coroner to remove the vehicle from the ditch as well as preserve as much evidence as possible. No sooner than I get the winch tight on my truck do I hear the frantic beeping of a car horn.

I turn around and DIRECTLY BEHIND ME is a woman in her forties who is now just holding the horn down, letting it blare nonstop as she’s yelling out of her window. I ignore her and turn around to go back to this delicate job I’m in the middle of, wondering how this woman got past the police roadblock that was roughly a third of a mile up the road at the nearest intersection to keep traffic out of the area.

As I’m slowly maneuvering this 8,000-pound vehicle from its roof onto its side, the honking stops. Maybe eight seconds later, I feel a hand grab my shoulder and attempt to spin me around. I’m 6’3” and 280 pounds, so there is absolutely no way this woman — around 5’4” and maybe 160 pounds — is achieving this goal. I let out a sigh as I stop winching on the vehicle and look at the sky, asking every god I can think of for the strength to not headbutt this woman.

I turn around.

Me: “Ma’am, the road is closed due to a fatal accid—”

Woman: *Cutting me off* “I don’t care what you have to say. Just get out of my way; I’m late!”

I’m extremely annoyed now, and I talk over the woman’s continued complaints.

Me: “LISTEN! Five people just f****** died here, and there is absolutely no way anyone is driving down this road for hours. I suggest turning around and driving back through the police roadblock you somehow got around now!“

She opens with that line that we’ve all heard a thousand times.

Woman: “Excuse me! I live right there—” *points back behind her vehicle* “—and I have to use this road to get to where I am going. You will move your truck now or I’m calling the police!”

By this time, the forensics crew has heard all the yelling over the loudness of my truck idled up and one of the forensic officers comes over. Forensics crews do not dress like police, especially in the middle of the night on the weekends. They’re dressed in plain clothes but carrying a badge on them, and they’ll put on a hazmat-style suit if needed. None were needed on this scene — just gloves and such.

Woman: “Which one of you is the manager? This man won’t move his g**d*** truck and let me through. I’m calling the police!”

She is actually holding her phone to the side of her head and talking to what we will later find out is 911.

Forensic Officer: “Ma’am, I am the police, and I don’t kno—”

Woman: “I don’t want to hear any more g**d*** excuses! MOVE. THE. F******. TRUCK. NOW.”

She claps between each word. I respond in kind.

Me: “YOU. DUMB. B****! DO. YOUR. TWO. REMAINING. BRAIN. CELLS. CONSTANTLY. COMPETE. FOR. THIRD. PLACE?”

Forensics Officer: *Stifling a chuckle* “Ma’am, if you don’t get in your car and leave this crime scene now, you will be arrested.”

Just as the forensic officer finished saying this, a squad car came screaming down the road from the same direction the woman had come from and stopped behind her vehicle. The officer hopped out of his car, and the very first words he said were the woman’s Miranda Rights.

The woman screamed, kicked, and swore that everyone else should be arrested, and she even tried to spit on me (which caused her to catch a charge for tampering with evidence, as we were on an active crime scene). By the time it was all done, her other charges were obstruction, assault on an officer, misuse of 911, and interfering with an investigation. She took a deal that netted her eighteen weekends in the county jail.

However, I did tow her car, as well. On Monday morning, I met her husband and he couldn’t have been more embarrassed. He apologized over and over as he paid me and then inspected the vehicle and signed off that we didn’t damage it. The impound cost roughly $600.

A few years ago, my ex-husband and I went through a pretty amicable divorce. The initial decision was tough, of course, but after separating, we both agreed it was the right choice. I don’t know about every state, but in ours, you have to be legally separated — living at separate addresses! — for one year and one day in order to proceed with a divorce petition. Don’t even get me started on how hard this makes it for some people, depending on their situation.

So, our year and a day passed and we got a court date. Since we’d already agreed on how we’d split our small list of assets (no children involved, which made the process easier) in our separation agreement, we represented ourselves at the courthouse for the filings and then for the final decree. In total, it was five different visits to different government offices over the course of a few months. Every place we went, we got the strangest looks from the staff because we were doing this together. I’m sure that is rare, but at one office, we had to spell it out several times before the clerk would take the paperwork. She kept assuming we wanted to get married, not divorced.

The funniest encounter, though, was when our “summons” documents were ready to announce our final court date. I was the one who filed for the divorce, so I was the plaintiff and my ex-husband was the defendant. The summons for the defendant had to go out one of two ways: delivery by special messenger and signed for upon receipt, or delivery by an officer of the law. At the time, he worked twelve-hour shifts and couldn’t wait around for a special messenger, not knowing what day it would arrive. I asked if I could just hand it to him and was explicitly told that would be illegal and would force us to start the process over again.

Instead, we went to the summons window, the clerk handed me the summons, and we went to the police department window on the other end of the room. With both of us standing right there, I handed the summons to a cop, who signed that he’d received it and then turned and handed it to my ex-husband. The whole time, we could tell the cop was trying to keep a straight face. We thanked him and managed to make it outside before we lost it. It was one of those situations where we were coming out of the stress of making the decision to divorce and were so frustrated by the red tape that we just had to laugh.

Everything went fine after that, and our divorce was finalized in February of 2020. In March of 2020, our entire state went on lockdown and the government offices closed. If we’d waited just a couple of weeks in our scheduling of everything, we likely wouldn’t have been able to get everything finished for another year. I felt so bad for the people stuck in that process limbo.

My wife and I had a child about a year before lockdowns started, so between our child and the lockdowns, it has been a few years since we have really gone out. Recently, we got a babysitter and decided to go out for a big, fancy date night. Like many times when my wife gets all dressed up, her outfit did not have any pockets, and she didn’t want to carry a purse, so she ended up giving me her phone, wallet, etc., to carry.

We went to a nice dinner, saw a show, and then ended up at a fancy bar. I ordered a round and opened up a tab. Then, we ran into some old friends of ours we hadn’t seen in years and so spent some time catching up. It came time to get the next round and my wife offered to go to the bar and get it.

Wife: “Hello, can I get two neat pours of that angel whiskey?”

Bartender: “Two pours of what?”

Wife: “Oh, shoot. Why can’t I think of the name? That whiskey with ‘angel’ in the name of it. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Bartender: *Pauses* “I think I do. Do you have your ID on you?”

Wife: “Oh, shoot. My husband has my ID in his pocket; he’s right over there.” *Points* “I can go back and get it real quick.”

Bartender: “No, no, don’t worry about that, just… wait right here. I will be back.”

My wife, figuring the bartender had just decided she looked of age since we are in our thirties, didn’t worry about it and waited. Not too long after, I found myself being very pointedly dragged outside by security and held until the police arrived. Meanwhile, the bartender was telling my wife she is safe now and to just stay there. She got away, came outside, and asked what was going on.

Officer: “We got a call about a woman in danger. The bartender said that a woman had reported that she was in danger from her husband and that he was keeping her documents hostage.”

Wife: “What are you talking about?! My husband’s not a danger to me, and he’s not holding anything hostage! He’s holding my ID because I don’t have any pockets!”

I tried to speak up but was shut down by one of the cops and told to be quiet. It took a few hours, but eventually, after a lot of debate between my wife, the cop, and the bartender, they eventually decided to let me go.

It turns out that an “angel shot” is a code word a woman can order at a bar when she is being threatened by her date. Combined with the fact that I was holding her ID, that set off alarm bells for everyone at the bar. I think we might do more date nights at home going forward, though.

I cycle to the pub and hide my bike behind a few buildings, not locked. Last orders come, and my bike isn’t there. It’s my own fault for not locking it, but no one likes to be judged, right? I have a look around and go back to the pub.

Me: “Hi, do you know if there is CCTV out the front? My bike has walked.”

Customer: “Was it locked?”

Barkeep: “I don’t think so, sorry.”

Customer: “Police won’t be interested. You won’t get it back.”

Me: *To the barkeep* “Thanks for your help.” *To the customer* “Thanks, but that isn’t what I asked, and I can deal with the authorities.”

He’s right, though. If you don’t take basic precautions, what do you expect? I report it anyway.

Me: “Hi, can I report the theft of a bicycle?” *Gives details*

Police #1: “I’ve logged that, incident [number]. I hope you get it back. Good luck.”

My phone rings soon after.

Police #2: “We have your bike here at [Police Station ten km away].”

Me: “I… How? Did somebody presume it was lost or something? I’ll come and get it in the morning.”

Police #2: “I don’t know, probably.”

My phone rings again soon after.

Me: “Bicycle theft victim answering service, how may I be of assistance?”

Police #3: “Would you like to make a statement for court?”

Me: “How can you make a statement about a lost bicycle?”

Police #3: “Actually, I confiscated it.”

Me: “Wait a minute. At 10:00 pm, I leave a $50 bike in a car park, not secured in any way. Two hours later, it is in the police station. How did that happen?”

Police #3: “I was on a foot patrol. A ten-year-old boy cycled past. I knew him, and I knew it wasn’t his bike, and I’m treating it as theft.”

Me: “Where?”

Police: #3: “On [Street the pub is on].”

Me: “Well, I can’t fault that for service. What will you do with him? Have a chat with the [jargon for officer who deals with children]?”

Police #3: “Realistically? I’ll give him a telling off with a social worker in his care home.”

I now have the full picture. At 11:00 pm, a child absconded from his care home and took my bike for a joyride. Two hundred metres away, he cycled past a cop. Game over. I was exceptionally lucky.

Me: “If it makes it easier to explain to him that taking bicycles is wrong, then I’ll make a statement.”

Police #3: “Are you one of my colleagues? You know some cop-speak.”

Me: “Not currently, but some of my in-laws are.”

My phone rings again.

Police #4: “Are you in now, and I’ll drive this bicycle out to you?”

Me: “If you can fit it into your car. It’s 0130; I would have thought you would be busy.”

Police #4: “No, it’s Tuesday. Actually, we’ll leave it to the morning; you’ve clearly had a few pints and I can’t take a drunk statement.”

Me: “See you then.”

The next morning, two detectives arrived at my house with the bicycle. They took a statement of one paragraph that basically said, “My bike wasn’t where I left it.” I thanked them profusely and assured them I would be more careful. Through unofficial channels, I heard that the conversation took place between the boy, the youth police officer, and a social worker attached to his care home.

But really, you absolutely can’t fault the service from law enforcement. Foolish man abandons cheap bicycle. Child finds it and goes for a joyride. It is confiscated from him on the same street and returned to the owner the next day. What are the odds?

About twenty-one years ago, I was making my bi-monthly drive from Duluth back to the Twin Cities. The drive up and down I-35 is boring. At the time, the speed limit was sixty-five miles per hour, and it was a solid three-hour drive from Duluth to the Twin Cities driving at this speed. My car at the time was a 1989 Ford Tempo and the color was called “almond,” but it was really an off-white/tan looking color. The car wasn’t fast, but it was awesome with getting high miles per gallon, and it got me from A to B without issues. The speedometer only went to eighty-five, but on a few occasions I buried the needle and I’m sure I was flirting with 100, but I didn’t make a habit of it.

It was Sunday, early morning, and I was about halfway home from Duluth. The speed limit was sixty-five miles per hour, but I was cruising at eighty-five. As I came around a bend in the highway, about a good mile down the road on the straightaway I saw the glimmering of a car sitting in the median.

I thought to myself, “Crap, a state trooper is sitting there.”

I killed the cruise control and let my car slow down closer to the speed limit, and I continued on. As I passed the trooper, he was not moving, and I impatiently watched in the rearview mirror to see if he’d come out. I got maybe half a mile past him and started to feel relieved that he didn’t follow me, but that feeling of relief soon vanished as I watched him pulling out of the median.

I thought to myself, “Son of a b****. I’m screwed.”

I rounded a bend in the highway, and the trooper was far enough behind that he was no longer in direct line of sight in the rearview mirror. I was in the right lane, and I was coming up on an exit off the highway. I passed it, and a car was coming up the onramp. I got in the left lane to allow this car to merge onto the highway.

The car merging onto the highway was the exact same make, model, and color as my car, had Minnesota license plates on it, and had a single male driving the car — just like mine.

I’d been checking the rearview mirror this whole time and the trooper hadn’t come into view yet, so the trooper never saw this other car merge onto the highway.

About ten seconds later, the trooper came into view, and he had picked up speed to catch up to me. About thirty seconds later, he was right on the tail of the guy driving my cloned car in the right lane, and I was driving along next to him in the left lane. The trooper hung back behind both of us for a couple of minutes, and then he dropped back and went into a cross point in the median on the highway.

My best guess is that the trooper didn’t know which of us had been speeding, and after pulling up our license plates in his system, nothing came back to give him a reason to pull either of us over.

The rest of my drive home was much closer to the speed limit.