Last night at 11 we heard a tremendous crash right outside our house. Melinda yelled for me to call 911 (which I did) under the assumption that injuries would be inevitable from any crash that loud. I shared this assumption, but it turned out to be wrong.
A hit-and-run driver had smashed into our CR-V parked in front of our house. It appears to have been a high speed impact. Apart from the fact that one of the wheels was completely ripped off of the car, note the damage to the curb in this detail from yesterday’s photo:
That chunk of curb was taken out by our car’s rear wheel being smashed agains the curb. This means that the car has been pushed back about two car lengths from where it was originally parked.
The noise attracted the attention of Alex, who lives at the end of our block. After hearing the crash she saw the car continue driving past her house and she walked up the street to see if anyone was hurt. She noted that the other car had a lot of damage to the front end but couldn’t describe much more about it.
Alex and I noticed that the perpetrator’s car seemed to be leaving a trail of leaked fluid down the street. A trail. Hmmm…
Halfway down the block, we found this compressor (apparently this is called a “kompressor” in German) bearing an Audi sticker.
I thought this was a fantastic find! Surely with the help of this vital clue the authorities will track down and apprehend the perpetrator! Alternatively, I might be hilariously naive.
Farther down the block we found two separate blue plastic containers (windshield washer fluid reservoirs?) sporting Audi logos.
We reached the end of the block and Alex went home. I followed the leaked fluid trail on to the next block. The trail and tire marks indicated that the car collided with the curb on the left hand side, and another car part (a piece of plastic that looked like it might normally be on the inside of a fender) had fallen off. I went back home and got my other (still functioning) car and continued pursuing the trail.
Following the trail, I next found another parked car that had been hit by the perpetrator. (Later I would wonder how many cars might have been hit before ours.) This car was a Jeep that was in much better shape than our CR-V. This time, the perpetrator left just a little bit of damage and a little pile of debris.
I left a note on the Jeep to let the owner know to contact me to see if the perpetrator was identified.
I called Melinda every few minutes to let her know what progress I was making and to see if the police had arrived yet.
A little further down the road a hose had fallen off of the perpetrator’s car.
As I reached the next intersection, a trail of fluid seemed to suggest a right turn. I turned right and continued on but the fluid trail soon ran dry. At the next intersection I didn’t know what to do until I noticed a black object on the road to the left. On closer inspection, it turned out to be some piece of fabric with a tag indicating that it’s something related to an Audi “radlau” (wheelhouse) something-or-other.
I really appreciate how thoroughly the Audi corporation has labeled their car parts. It’s like filling a car with bread crumbs.
I followed the road until the next intersection, where the placement of a black piece of plastic trim in the road hinted that I should turn left, which I did.
Then the trail ran cold. At the next intersection I got out and made use of my flashlight to inspect the ground for fluid or car parts, thinking that I might be due to find an ashtray with an Audi logo. But I found nothing to indicate which direction the evil-doer fled. I took a guess and continued straight. The same disappointment occurred at the next two intersections. From my intermittent calls home, I learned that the police have now arrived at our place. Since my luck seems to have run out, I think of turning around to go home and see what the police have to say. But the next intersection ahead somehow looks appealing, perhaps because it hits a slightly larger road. I reason that the perpetrator is somewhat more likely to have come to a full stop or made a sharp turn that might have dislodged another car part or sloshed out some more fluid. So I park the car near the next intersection and get out with my flashlight, determined to find any possible clue. The next clue turns out to be rather large…
There is a house at the intersection. Parked in the driveway is a silver Audi A8! I walked around to the front of the car to see if it looks damaged. Oh yes, it is.
- Oh, hey! Is your car missing a part? Because I think I found some!
My goal was just to get the license plate number, get the address where the car was parked, relay the information via phone to the police, and leave quickly in case the driver was the sort of person who might show up with a weapon. The Audi’s license plate holder held a sign advertising that the car was certified pre-owned. So there was no license plate number to record, and it didn’t occur to me at the time to write down the vehicle ID number.
The car was parked at the roadside end of a long driveway, outside a closed gate. So I surmised that the car was not parked at the perpetrator’s house. I stood across the street and called home. Melinda handed the phone to the police officer and I told him the address where the car was located.
I had managed to track the car for 1.3 miles. It feels like one of my biggest accomplishments in life.
While I was on the phone, a Mercedes slowly pulls up to the intersection. The man driving the car rolls down the window and looks over at me. I want the police officer to know that I have company so that he’ll be suitably concerned if he hears sounds resembling choking or gunshots on my end. I don’t realize it at the time, but my cell phone battery has only a few minutes of life left.
I say (in a voice loud enough for the driver to hear), “Oh, someone has just driven up and they seem to be very interested in the situation.”
The driver gestured to the Audi and asked, “Are you wondering about this car?”
“Yes…”
The driver demonstrates that he is skilled in the art of understatement. ”Oh, it has a problem with the steering fluid.”
So that’s what left the trail I’ve been following all this time!
The Mercedes occupants are the perpetrator and his girlfriend. He looks to be about 50. Presumably he thinks that I own the house where he has parked the Audi and that I’m wondering why a car is blocking my driveway. He doesn’t realize that he’s actually caused me a lot more trouble than a blocked driveway and that I’ve spent the last half hour tracking him down with the hope of bringing some inconvenience into his life in return.
The police officer at my house tells me over the phone that it would probably be best if we just exchange insurance information and be done with the matter. I’m trying to think of a polite way to ask the officer if he is insane, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to discuss mental health issues. The officer suggests that I let the perpetrator know that if he comes back to my house he won’t be charged with hit-and-run.
I talk to the driver.
“You hit a car.”
“I did? Really?” This is nice to hear, not so much because I enjoy bad acting, but because it implies an admission that he was driving the car.
“I’m on the phone with the police. They say that if you come back to where you hit the car that you won’t be charged with hit-and-run.”
When he hears that the police are involved, he says something to suggest that on further reflection, really he’s just the owner of the car but not the driver. But he does like the idea of not being charged with hit-and-run, and so he’s willing to go back with me.
“See if he’s OK to drive. Maybe he could ride back with you in your car?” the helpful police officer suggests over the phone. Again I resist the urge to argue with the officer and decide to simply ignore this last suggestion. I’m not thrilled with the idea of being followed by a drunk driver, but it somehow seems much more appealing than giving a lift to a complete stranger whose moral integrity I have reasons to question.
“Are you OK to drive?”
“Of course!”
“Really? Because, you know, you just hit a car…”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t want to switch and let her drive?”
“No, I’m fine.”
I can’t tell if he’s drunk. I haven’t smelled alcohol, but then again I haven’t tried to get close enough to kiss him. It occurs to me that he might not be the driver and could instead be covering up for a teenager. As he follows me in his car, his high beams are on the whole time and I start to give somewhat lower weight to the teenager hypothesis.
As soon as I’m by myself in my car, I want to call home to say that I don’t want this guy in my house and to suggest that it only seems fair that if I’m going to do the work of tracking down criminals and delivering them to the police, that perhaps the police could play a more active role than simply mediating the exchange of insurance information.
While dialing the phone, the battery dies.
Melinda has already anticipated my sentiments. I arrive home and as soon as I step out of the car, Melinda takes me aside and tells me that our awesome neighbor Mark is here and has been talking to the police. Mark is about as happy as I am to have hit-and-run drunk drivers bouncing off of parked cars while careening through our neighborhood, and he has convinced the police officer that this guy might deserve more than a stern lecture.
Once the guy gets out of the car and starts talking to the police, it doesn’t take an in-depth investigation to realize that he has been drinking. The driver’s excuse for the wreckage: “I have a bum foot!” (What did he think the response to this would be? ”Oh, bum foot? Well, that’s good enough for me. You’re free to go, sir. Oh, please mail us your insurance information when you get a chance.” Or perhaps, “Well, in that case, I’m going to have to charge you with DFB (Driving while Foot is Bum).”) I don’t know all the details of the conversation between the perpetrator and the police, but ultimately he is handcuffed, put in the back of the squad car and charged with a DUI.
The story emerges that the girlfriend owns the Audi and he was driving her home in it.
I don’t know if the DUI was assessed for when he drove the Audi (for which there are no known witnesses except for the girlfriend) or for driving the Mercedes (which was directly observed by the police). If it’s the latter, then I’m even happier to have not given him a ride in my car.
The night continued for quite a while as the police officer filled out paperwork and we waited a long time for a tow truck to arrive to reposition the car in a more legal parking configuration. The girlfriend stayed in the Mercedes, not leaving until some of her friends eventually arrived to drive her home. I went to sleep tired but somewhat satisfied.
