The Satan Car
I saw the Chevy Nova this morning when I rode to the coffee shop. It was an “SS” model from the early 1970s. Painted with a black matte finish and lifted to accommodate its oversized set of bright chrome alloy wheels, the car had an aggressive look, open for business and ready for anything. All its windows, including the windshield, were tinted and almost impossible to see through. In California it is illegal to completely tint the windshield. Despite all its modifications, the car made me think of a mechanical cockroach. Its Nevada license plates said “LUCY-FOR.”
“A Satan car,” I thought as I rode by.
I sat in the coffee shop for almost two hours. At 4:00 a.m. the internet went down for most of the day at our house, so while I drank my mocha latte and ate a brownie, I went through all my email. Since it was an election year, I had to skim through about 200 messages, one of the previously unforeseen elements of modern life.
On my return trip from the coffee shop two hours later, there were several people wearing white Tyvek jumpsuits, face masks, and nitrite gloves closely inspecting the Chevy Nova. They all held small electronic devices they waved around the car. A tent surrounded the car, but one side of the tent was open, leaving one side of the car visible. The tent reminded me of the tents set up around crime scenes on the detective shows from the United Kingdom. One of the crime scene guys emerged from the open driver’s side door of the “Satan car” carrying two paper evidence bags. The arms, legs, and seat of his white jumpsuit were stained bright red.
I heard him tell one of his colleagues, “Seriously, man, there was blood all over the interior and I have no idea how anyone could drive this thing ‘cause all the windows are hella tinted. But check out this tablet that was mounted on the dashboard. It has some kinda infrared camera app installed on it, but I didn’t see a camera anywhere in there.” Then he put the tablet into an evidence bag.
“This here is some scary-assed shit,” one of the other crime scene technicians said. “The trunk was clean, and that seems kinda strange, considering everything else with this car.”
Two uniformed Modesto Police officers stood around making sure curious onlookers kept a safe distance. Several people from the neighborhood stood on the sidewalk across the street from where the crime scene investigators in protective clothing examined the car.
One of the patrolmen told me, “You just missed all the excitement. The bomb squad left a few minutes ago, and we had to evacuate the area for about half an hour. Most of the people in this area are either at work or school, so we only had to relocate about 10 folks for a short time. The bomb squad finished looking in and around the car in a couple of minutes and didn’t find anything explosive, so they left. The car is gonna be towed to a secure site, a warehouse where they can examine it more closely, but…” His voice trailed off when a couple of black sedans and a tow truck suddenly showed up.
A woman in a black business suit hopped out of one of the cars and identified herself as a special agent from the National Security Administration, the NSA. “Thank you, officers,” she said to the patrolmen and the crime scene technicians, “In the interests of national security, we have to impound this vehicle and secure it for further inspection. We’re also need to confiscate all the evidence you gathered, including the equipment you used, your notes, material in evidence bags, and all your personal protective equipment, masks, gloves, and jumpsuits.” She handed a paper to one of the police officers, and told him he needed to give the document to his superior on the force.
Half an hour later, all the materials she demanded were carefully collected and labeled.
The NSA woman announced to the CSI people and the two cops that the country appreciated their cooperation and all confiscated equipment would be either returned to the police department or replaced by the end of the workday.
“Okay,” she told the others with her, “Let’s get this thing back to the lab. I’m sure glad there wasn’t anything in the trunk like the last one of these damned things.”
The CSI guys turned and nodded to the two patrolmen, got into their special truck and left. The NSA tow truck moved into position and the NSA people and the “Satan car” were gone in less than five minutes.
I looked at the policeman I talked to earlier. Before I could say anything, he said, “Well that happened, didn’t it? I have no answer for any of this.” Then he turned to the other cop and said, “Okay Craig, back to the salt mines. Let’s get outta here.” Then they got into their squad cars and left.
I got back on my bike and headed home. I heard one of the local residents tell another, “Hey man, did you hear what that guy said about blood all over the inside of that ride? You think it’s some kind evil vampire shit or something?”
“Dude, I don’t know, but I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to nobody about it. I’m trying to sell our house right now and a story like this could cause property values to go down.”
Of course, I knew about the car. And no, despite the blood, there were no vampires involved. It was something much worse. I needed to file a report with the consortium right away.