At 11:47 p.m., Officer Daniel Rusk saw the sedan beneath the broken streetlamp and knew, before he touched the radio, that something was wrong.
Mercer Street ran downhill toward the river, a narrow seam of cracked asphalt between warehouses and brick apartment buildings gone dark for the night. Rain silvered the pavement. It tapped against Rusk’s windshield and blurred the red glow of the traffic signal three blocks away. The sedan sat at the curb with its engine running, headlights off, windshield wipers beating steadily against an empty view.
Rusk slowed his cruiser. The car was a blue-gray Honda Accord, clean enough to belong to someone who had pulled over only moments before. Its exhaust curled pale and ghostly behind it. No hazard lights. No driver visible. The front passenger door stood open six inches, trembling each time the wind pushed rain into the cabin.