“Accident report? Kohler?” “You’re with the insurance?” “His brother.” “Companies usually get it direct. Not through the family.” “But I could see it?” “You could ask,” the clerk said, then got tired of himself and went to get the folder. In fact, there was little Ben didn’t already know. A more precise time. No eyewitnesses to the fall itself. Neighbors alerted by the sounds of garbage cans knocked over when the body hit, an unexpected detail. No scream. At least none reported. Police response time. Alcohol in the room (dizzy spells not even necessary here—already unsteady). Taken to Hollywood Presbyterian with head injuries and multiple lacerations. Several boxes with numbers and acronyms for internal use. Everything consistent. “I was told there were pictures.” “Told how?” “They took pictures.” The clerk stared at him, annoyed, then checked the report again, glancing at one of the numbered boxes. “Give me a minute,” he said, going back to the file room, a martyr’s walk.
