STINSON BEACH: At 2:15 p.m. a woman said a man with a “spattering” of silver hair had nearly hit her while she was climbing into her car; she had flipped him off and then he had returned and said he should have run her over. — Jan. 8, 2015
“That’s what happened, sir, I swear,” Edna Ferguson said.
Bernard frowned. It seemed like people were being a lot more rude these days. “Mrs. Ferguson, ma’am.” Bernard pulled out his steno notebook and pencil. “Start from the beginning, please.”
“It’s Ms. Ferguson, sonny. Never found anyone worth carrying his name.”
“Yes, of course, Ms. Ferguson. My apologies. Again, what happened, exactly?
“He followed me down Panoramic. Guess I was going too slow for him. He kept creeping up on my rear bumper, flashing his lights. He wanted me to go faster–or hell, pull over. Where the hell am I supposed to pull over? It’s cliffs all the way to the water.”
“You were right to go slow, Ms. Ferguson.” Bernard scratched his bald spot. He was none too happy about losing his hair at 32. It wasn’t Dad’s fault—he had leonine hair—and perhaps it was Mom’s, but when he’d talked to her about it she’d let out a snort. “Didn’t you learn anything in biology, Bernard?” He decided not to call her this weekend.
His feet hurt. He’d been on duty since 6 a.m. “And after that?”
“I pulled up to the fire station, to make a complaint, and the bastard slowed and stopped behind me. I got out of the car but felt scared and even though the fire station door was only 20 feet away, I couldn’t take the chance, so I climbed back in.”
“Did you get his license plate number?” Bernard asked, thinking he’d call Dad instead and see how Mom’s cold was, but he’d put her on the line. Bernard thought the invention of the cell phone hadn’t been that good an idea.
“Hell no. I was afraid for my life. He pulled up next to me while I had the door out and was threatening me, officer.”
“Please, take a breath.”
“I’m a usually kind person, but I did not have Ralph with me—“
“Your husband?”
“My Glock.”
“And you have a license for this handgun?”
“A concealed carry. AG 26. Where the hell are the cops when you need them?”
“What happened after that, ma’am?” Hell. She looked like his grandma, white hair, peter pan white collar on blue dress, sensible shoes, and packing. Dear God.
“He looked like one of those movie stars—you know the one for beer? XX beer—that’s not a dirty movie, Deputy. Do you mind if I have a cigarette? This whole thing makes me nervous. Silver hair, lots of hair. In his 50s.”
Bernard only wished he’d have hair in his 50s.
“What’s a girl to do? I got back inside the car, gave him the finger and drove off. I hid behind the market, up one of those single-lane roads, and was about to turn around, when he comes climbing up the hill after me.”
“In his car?”
“Of course in his car. Late model Mustang. Guy thinks he’s a jock. That’s when he threatened to kill me. Oh God!” She burst into tears. “I knew I should’ve had Ralph with me.”
“Anything you can remember about the car? Color? New? Convertible? This is assault, Miss. You could have been hurt. Fighting with people in cars is dangerous business. Best not to start.”
“He’s the one who tried to run me off the road! I’m an unarmed woman, deputy. Isn’t it your job to protect and serve?”
Bernard, chastened, pulled out his radio. “Do you know if he went up or down Route One?”
“I was shaking so hard I couldn’t tell. Officer, you’ve got to do something!”
Bernard barked into his radio.
“Mustang.”
“Candy-apple red,” Edna said, feeling somewhat satisfied. “2015.”
Bernard repeated the info into the
radio.
“GT Premium.”
Bernard looked at Ms. Ferguson. “Anything else you want to tell me, ma’am?”
“About cars?”
“About anything.”
“He’s my brother, officer,” she said, shading her eyes from the sun. “And he’s been pissed ever since our mother died and I got everything.”