“The bar is closing, Bev,” the bartender tells her. He notices that she is completely wasted. “Do you need a ride?”
She smiles and turns her head. She walks out of the bar and stumbles to her knees. A large gash of blood and dirt covers her lean legs. She laughs, as if immune to the pain.
After pondering her next move, she decides she must go home to quench her utter thirst. She gets into her pretentious Saab convertible and attempts to steer. The car stalls out and comes to a halt. She laughs in hysterics wondering why she isn’t able to drive her own car.
She starts the car again and pounds her stiletto-clad foot on the gas as she releases the clutch with the other foot. The car tears out of the gravel parking lot and into the barren Park Boulevard.
She accelerates as if trying to win the Indianapolis 500. She screams in exhilaration like a rebellious teenager with their new license.
As she approaches the corner of a bend in the road on Park Boulevard, the car swerves. She tries to take control of the car, but it is too late. An oncoming vehicle smashes head-on with her car; glass shatters all over the road from the crash.
She opens her door erratically and attempts to run over to the other car. She falls to the ground.
Sirens feverishly disturb the night silence. Police vehicles approach the scene and medics rush to the bodies to determine their fate. Bev is awakened by a concerned medic.
“I am fine,” she slurs as she hurriedly stands up. She tries to walk away, but the medic puts a tight clench on her fragile wrist.
The medic forces her to take a breathalyzer test. Almost impossibly, her blood-alcohol content is registered as 0.41.
“I am fine,” she repeats in angst as she is lowered into the back of the police car. “I am a cop!”
The police discover this statement is indeed valid. Bev was Detective Beverly White, a highly regarded detective in her prime in Seattle for the last twenty years.