“Our victim was the first off the sidewalk. Witnesses confirm the light was still green when he stepped into the street but are inconsistent on whether it had changed to red by the time he was hit. Dara’s pulling the traffic camera footage now. We’re still waiting on the lab, but based on witness testimony, there’s no evidence our victim was drunk, on stimulants, synthetic cannabinoids, or other illegal drugs that may have impaired his judgment. No evidence that he was pushed either. The medical examiner thinks the victim was looking down when hit—witnesses say at his phone—and that he was hit by a car going at least forty miles an hour. This is also consistent with the witness reports—they all agreed the car didn’t brake, and almost half reported that the car sped up. Of course, we’re still waiting on the official conclusion, but the car was accelerating down the hill, and the light was changing. It’s possible the suspect didn’t see the victim and simply wanted to make the light, but—” I hesitate.

“What?” Truman looks up. He has no patience for dramatics, and I know I need to tread carefully here.

“The one thing all the witnesses agree on is the driver didn’t slow,” I say cautiously, “and that he was smiling.”

Truman frowns, and Oliver stirs in his seat.

“We believe the suspect is driving a 2015 to 2017 black BMW 3 or 5 series with front-end damage, and possibly a broken windshield and deployed airbags. There was no passenger. There are helicopters out now. When we catch this guy, Forensics says we should look for linear abrasions on his chest caused by seat belt compression.”

“Does this hold if he didn’t brake?” Oliver asks.

Truman interrupts before I can answer. “Did anyone get a good look at the driver?”

Teddy and I exchange glances before I clear my throat and continue: “There were two students standing at the crosswalk who report looking at the vehicle instead of the traffic light or our victim. Both gave the same description.” I pause. “They described the suspect as a white male around twenty years old, broad nose, high cheekbones, wearing a blue or gray polo.”

Oliver swings his head around to look at the Polaroid taped to the whiteboard.

“And both say,” I gesture to the photo, “that he looked identical to the victim.”

Truman’s still stretched good-naturedly out in his chair, hands folded across his lap, but his eyes have grown watchful. His mouth twists as he examines Teddy and then me. Like we might be joking for some unimaginable reason. I keep my body language neutral, but my heart is hammering. Mine, mine, mine, I think.

When Oliver realizes Truman won’t respond, he chokes back a laugh. “What—like an evil twin?”