Prepared by Sgt. James Griffin, responding officer
Chester County Sheriff Department
Preliminary report
Received call from dispatch at 2340 hours. A passing motorist
reported that a middle-aged male, Caucasian, 25-35 years old, wearing a white
T-shirt, was observed on the shoulder of Main and South. I made a U-turn
and headed south on South Avenue .
Received another call from dispatch at 2345 hours. A second caller
indicated that he struck a pedestrian with his silver Honda Accord. I radioed
dispatch and responded to the area of Main Street and South Avenue . The pavement was wet under a
slight drizzle. It was otherwise warm and humid.
Upon arriving on the scene, I witnessed a male matching the
description provided by the first motorist stomping through the knee-high weeds
in the ditch along the side of the road. He was approximately 30 yards behind a
burgundy Honda.
The man was visibly shaken. He repeatedly cried: “What have
I done!”
I demanded to see where the impact occurred, assuming that
the victim would not be far from that spot.
Scanning the area on both sides of the street, I was unable
to find any blood, shoes, etc. that would indicate that the collision occurred
at that spot. The man had stopped searching, but still muttered, “What have I
done?”
Finally, I detected an irregular pattern on the shoulder, as if something were dragged. My stomach sank as I looked down the road at the
back of the Accord, tail lights still on.
I whirled around to look at the man, who was startled by my
stare. “Did you drag someone?” I shouted at him, shining my flashlight in his
face.
“No, no, no, no!” he cried, holding and shaking his head as snot flowed from his nose.
“Please, no!”
I started running for the front of the car, my heart
pounding in my throat. “You stay right where you are!” I ordered the man.
I reached the front of the car, dropping to my knees to look
up the passenger side wheel well. Nothing. No one. The headlights were intact,
and the windshield had no cracks. Further investigation revealed that the marks
in the gravel were likely the lengthy skid mark.
“Hey, buddy,” I called. “Step up here to the squad car. Right
up here! Hands on the trunk.” The man complied, placing his raw, chapped hands
on the trunk. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his shoulder.
“Driver’s license and registration,” I demanded. An
ambulance pulled up behind us. The man reached around into his back pocket to
produce the documentation. Thomas Michael Halton, born November 28, 1987.
“Mr. Halton, can you tell me how fast your vehicle was going
when this incident occurred?” I asked, pulling my notepad out.
“I don’t know,” he said, calmer now. “Maybe 45, 50 miles per
hour.”
“At that speed, I would have expected to see some pretty
serious damage to your car,” I explained, half wondering out loud. The man looked
confused. “I see no evidence of impact,” I continued. “Did the victim run off
when you hit him—or was it a her?”
“No,” the man said. “I don’t think so.” He sighed.
“What did the victim look like? Male or female?” I asked.
He looked up out of the corner of his eyes, as if visualizing
the scene. “I don’t know,” he said. Suddenly, a wide smile. “Oh, thank God! I
don’t know! I don't know!” He beamed.
I searched his person and his automobile, with his permission, and found no contraband. Suspect was released with a warning to go directly home.
