“Is she dead?”

The hum of black rubber on a tarmac has a life like a musical score. There is a tune in it, a melody its grooves create as cool air siphons through the perforations, by divine design. When tires squeal on a sharp turn or in a burst of acceleration, it adds to a symphonic collaboration as any orchestra is incomplete without a piccolo. The year and model of this Mercedes always had the sound of some grumbling wild animal, as stealthy and predatory, in hungry pursuit of asphalt prey. By popularity and dependability, the W140 model of the Benz was so admired they were the stock choice of taxi companies in France and around Europe. In contrast the commonality of this particular model of luxury sedan, its black paint buffed to a high gloss, was often seen driven by many of the populace of means and style. It was only logical to have several of the cars functioning as decoys in front of the hotel, allowing these revelers a chance to slip out the back then escape unnoticed.

The three occupants and their driver probably were not even remotely aware of the orchestral harmony of the inner and outer workings of this masterfully crafted transport, as they likely had custom speakers drowning out the tires, the engine or any other audible distractions beyond the reflective glass. They were insulated and isolated, most likely engaged in some conversation as reflections on the evening’s events. Two occupants in the back seat may have been locked in a lover’s embrace, sharing a gaze, a passionate kiss, ignoring the concert, the dance of lights and sound surrounding them. Perhaps they remained sitting quietly side-by-side, eyes closed, holding hands, breathing in those moments with the scent of leather seats, taking in the solitude and security of their mobile domain. A blissful state of being, opposed to the origin of their journey at the crowded Ritz, was surely calm by comparison.

Their final turn was onto Pont de L’Alma Road, an unassuming and commonly used route for many tourists and Parisians alike. As August nights went that Sunday evening the sidewalks were aflutter with activities. The lights of streetlamps popped like strobes as they passed by. Apartment houses lined the landscape. People peered out glowing windows, casting silhouettes, catching a nightly glimpse of Paris from a safe distance. Oncoming cars hustled and bustled past black windows on the Benz. Motorcycles buzzing around the car like mosquitoes ready to strike at a food source, flash bulbs snapped that dark night to attention as their increasingly anxious driver began navigating around the pests, flying faster and faster, attaining unsafe speeds in mere moments. The single stationary object visible in the distance was the Eiffel Tower in all its illustrious, illuminated majesty, splitting the landscape in two.

Unknown to them, they had been spotted and followed. As he then accelerated toward a six-degree bank of the road, a rapid dip into the tunnel, their driver seemed unstable, fishtailing into the right lane, nearly sideswiping several other vehicles all rapidly disappearing in his rear view mirror. Everybody in the car suddenly shifted in their seats with the sharp pitch of the road, all at the mercy of centrifugal force. It produced the dangerous equation, one reduced down to its common denominator: speed. He was descending into the depths of hell, taking them along for the ride.

The tunnel alive with lights, well-traveled, echoed the elements making up the mobile musical composition reverberating between solid concrete columns. Faster on the curve then down the hole into that treacherous tunnel, faster into the abyss, suddenly went any unawareness of their surroundings. Jolted by an urgent sense of alarm, an equally watchful couple in the back seat remained as vigilant as were the occupants in the front as men on motorcycles encroached on the sedan’s perimeter. Men hidden behind camera flashes attempting to capture the snapshot (even though glass barriers protected those inside from such intrusion), they provoked the couple, no doubt hoping they’d roll down a window in anger. Trying to make a quick buck by selling those images to tabloids, they’d made their presence known. Risking life and limb to steal a “still” of the rich and famous, they did so for the money, for the chance a rag mag would cut them a big fat check. All of this madness, so somebody less fortunate standing in a checkout line could, for a moment, escape the doldrums of a middle class existence and slip into a fantasy world. “What must it be like to be a princess in France, whisked away in a luxury Mercedes sedan after dinner?”

Rolling. Spinning. Screeching.

Who would have thought on that particular assignment, paparazzi on this night would have witnessed what they did, perhaps what they might have even caused? Could this have been a comedy of errors, the tragic scene? Had it been all of these photographers encroaching on their car that ultimately caused the mishap...a little bump that became the big bang? That was one theory. Any chance their driver was impaired? Had he enjoyed a few too many cocktails with dinner or was the accident caused by oncoming lights or the distraction no one saw happening? Or was it that close call with an older model Fiat? Time would tell. Should anybody wonder what the noise of the vehicle hitting a concrete barrier at such high velocity sounded like, caving in the front end, forcing itself up inside the engine, crushed into a dashboard, fracturing the windshield? This dreadful night, the splintering of human bones was not the kind of accordion bringing music to their ears. Who could’ve imagined such painful, disturbing sounds piercing the ears and hearts of witnesses? The Mercedes Benz impacted the concrete support in that tunnel, one of the solid beams separating them from the flow of oncoming traffic. The head-on crash came quickly, so violent it caused the back end of the vehicle to twist and bend, swinging around to the right. Full stop, settling in place, it came to rest facing the opposite direction of the lane’s stream of cars. Photographers raced to the rescue, not to aid the injured and dying occupants of the wreck but to rescue their efforts at getting the big scoop.

Traffic came to an abrupt halt. Six minutes later, (right on cue), a multitude of ambulances arrived at the scene accompanied by the French police. They’d witness the deadly outcome of a foregone conclusion. Mangled by the implosion created by a collision between the steel frame of the Benz and a cement barricade, it was hell on wheels.

Sirens wailing, horns honking, many people gathered together talking in hushed tones, some quietly crying, others screaming at the sight. Ancillary figures hovered like ghosts in the ether as noises overwhelmed the lingering paparazzi, scrambling for one last shot in the dark. Hopping onto their motorcycles, vultures scattered in a flicker of light, disappearing through a black hole at the far end of the tunnel under the cover of night, their squealing tires layering more musical instrumentation upon an operatic cacophony of sounds, a passion play unfolding before their eyes. It was a vision seen through the lens of a camera, each viewfinder fixated on that singular, stationary object. Scavengers had captured an accident they’d likely caused on film, death resulting, then took flight as they fled the sickening scene.

It came, a strange, unnatural sound...an out-of-tune tuba...a loud buzzer.

“CLEAR AND RESET” A booming British voice came over the large speakers as the order was given.

“Oh no, not again.” The thought uttered as a collective sigh swept through the air then sank into the soul of every witness to the carnage.

All the participants began filing out of the tunnel on cue as other vehicles were then strategically backed up out of sight. They’d done it before in practiced fashion, in fact, a multitude of times. Someone flipped a switch. Instantly flooded with light, the full extent of the crash site stunned even those who had seen it previously. Six men, all in yellow jumpsuits (the initials FTC worn prominently as an identifying emblem) approached warped wreckage in an unemotional, detached manner. Men on a mission, they circled the Mercedes Benz, assessing the damage, inside and out. Peering through its fractured glass, the crew photographed positions of the victims from every conceivable angle until an enormous machine lumbered onto the scene. Team members stepped aside as a huge wheel-driven construction vehicle assumed its proper position. Slowly extending a claw-like arm it savagely ripping the vehicle apart. As opposed to its counterpart, the Jaws of Life, this mechanism resembled jaws of death. Off came the passenger side front door then the rear door, bending solid steel joints in ways they weren’t intended to bend. The jumpsuit brigade could then freely access the inside of the compartment of the crushed fuselage.

“Is she dead?” A young technician made an honest inquiry.

It began systematically. Tugging and pulling, yanking four occupants out of the twisted tomb with no regard for the injuries, computers had done the work, reading the head-to-toe sensors which established a cause of death, the full extent of wounds sustained. From the front passenger seat came a right arm, dismembered from the body. No blood, bones or cartilage revealed in the retrieval process, it wasn’t that kind of arm. A whispered private thought escaped the lips of the startled FTC team member left holding it. “Oh, no. That’s not supposed to happen.” He cast it aside. Human error.

No need for delicacy. As computations were made, facts and figures gathered, by the time the team approached the car, their experiment was over and all the hard work they’d do was merely an afterthought. For all intents and purposes, they were glorified janitors but what a cleanup crew! Their role was integral to the process. A young engineer reaching into the back seat had more luck. He was able to extricate the victim, removing their test subject intact. Technically still alive, she would die later on in the local hospital. It was beginning to look a lot like death by paparazzi. Ironically, flashes of light continued unabated even after the bikers were long gone. Surrounding the team as they worked striking the set, photographers documenting the results of the reenactment as well as the program itself, recreating an unnatural disaster, they captured it from every angle. It was merely probability and statistics, compiled and cross-referenced to identify then determine the causal connection, all done for the sake of clarifying history, a noble cause.

“This one’s still alive. We got it right!” The lead assistant praised the effort.

“He’s still warm. They’re really lifelike even when they’re dead!” An awkward quip slipped from the junior member of the team who fell silent with a glance from his boss. This was serious business. An enthusiast among them was reminded.

“Keep your heads, gents.” Perturbed, the stern team leader said nothing more. He didn’t need to, as his expression said it all. There wouldn’t be a single oversight, no room for error, no distractions allowed. No comments. No joking. This was not a laughing matter. Heads would roll if he heard another word.