“Has your family talked to the cops?”
“No,” Jimmie said.
“I did. They left here a while ago. Kind of hard accident to explain. Clear road, good visibility, no traffic except your brother waiting on the stop street, and this dinge whizzing through on the boulevard.”
“Colored man, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“He hurt?”
“Killed. Deader’n hell. His car looked like an accordion.”
“Have his lights on?”
“You can’t ask him,” the intern answered petulantly. He regarded Jimmie a moment. “The sarge says the reflectors were warm, though. What he could find of ’em.”
He hesitated again. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? I noticed how you questioned him—”