ATLANTA METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT
TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW
OFFICER: PRESTON (Q)
SUBJECT: AMANDA BEAUMONT (A)
Q: This is an interview by Detective Mary Preston beginning at 4:08 p.m. on July 11, 2021. Would you state your full name, please?
A: Amanda Louise Beaumont. B-E-A-U-M-O-N-T. I didn’t know if I needed to spell it.
Q: That’s fine. Amanda, you gave me permission to record this conversation, correct?
A: Yes.
Q: Thank you. What do you do for a living?
A: My main job is driving for OpenRoad.
Q: Could you describe OpenRoad for me?
A: Well, it’s, erm, like Uber and Lyft. It’s just not as big.
Q: Does OpenRoad have a passenger named Dennis Kinzer?
A: Yes. He’s a regular.
Q: When was the last time you drove him?
A: Tuesday the ninth – erm, no, three days ago, the eighth. (Pause) I guess I’m kind of nervous.
Q: That’s all right. Where did you pick him up?
A: Starbucks in Midtown.
Q: Could you be more specific?
A: I’m sorry. It’s on 14th Street by the Marriott.
***
I should’ve known something was wrong when he got in the car. Because he was being nice. Whenever I’d tried to talk to him before, he just grunted and stared out the window, always watching for something or somebody. In all the times I drove him, he never smiled, not once. A couple of other drivers even called him Smiley.
He was definitely a little creepy but without the weird ones we’d starve. That day was hazy and stifling, the heat trapping most people indoors while the few who wanted rides kept bitching about the A/C in my old Mazda. I was barely making gas money and my other gig, the one I went to school for, had flatlined. In spite of his disposition the guy tipped well, wasn’t a complainer or a drunk, and never hit on me. I was glad to see him.
He was wearing a black Motorhead T-shirt and ratty jeans, his dirty blonde hair matted like he’d been out in the heat a long time. He had a thin face, his high cheekbones and square forehead framing copper-blue eyes. I wasn’t certain how old he was, maybe in his early or mid-30s. Older than me.
He said he was going to a street south of Midtown. He did that often, giving me the destination when it was already in the app, only this time he kept talking. “Christ, it’s hot, ain’t it? I never saw it like this.”
“I know. That’s why there’s no traffic, nobody’s out. It should be a quick trip.”
“Hey, no problem. I’m in no hurry today. Nice and cool in here too.” For him this was chatty but he still didn’t smile. His voice, which I’d barely heard before, was high and nasal, the accent not Southern. He said, “I know this is a tough way to make a buck.”
“It’s not bad,” I said. “I choose my own hours and work as much or as little as I want.” At least that’s what OpenRoad told me I could do when I started driving. “It’s actually kind of fun.”
“Yeah?” he said. “You ever watch Taxicab Confessions on HBO?”
***
Q: Before that day, did you see any sign Mr. Kinzer was involved in illegal activity?
A: He smelled like pot sometimes. But a lot of people do.
Q: All right, Amanda. What did Mr. Kinzer tell you that afternoon?
A: He said – he said he, he – (Pause, sniffles). I’m sorry. I thought I was ready to do this.
***
I laughed. “I’ve seen that show but it’s not real. Nothing much happens on this job.”
“You kiddin’?” he said. “You could probably write your own episode. You must meet all the freaks and assholes in this town.” A pang of anxiety rose in my stomach. He stayed quiet for a moment, then said, “I guess I shouldn’t talk.”
Though he was out of the sun, his forehead was drenched in sweat. “What do you mean?” I asked, very carefully. It felt like hours until he answered. “Well, it’s uh, it’s like this. I killed somebody. Pretty sure I did.”
***
Q: What did you do then?
A: I almost had a panic attack, but I thought I should keep him talking. That’s how you handle the drunks and druggies and the ones who are mentally not right. Let them vent and hope they don’t get crazy.
Q: Been there, done that. Go on.
***
I forced my voice to stay calm. “What do you mean ‘pretty sure’?”
He looked as petrified as I felt, his eyes constantly scanning an empty street in the Old Fourth Ward. “You can’t tell nobody, right?” he said, almost begging. “I’m tellin’ you so you’ll know I’m okay. I’m not some stone killer.”
“All right,” I said. “What happened?”
He sat still, his hands clasped above his knees and eyes wide. “This dude was comin’ to my house to buy weed. I didn’t have it because my guy, my supplier, didn’t show up. I texted the other dude but he came anyway in an Uber. You’re lucky it wasn’t you, he’s a piece of work – I mean was.”
Now I was sweating. He continued, “When I told him I ain’t got the weed he got mad and yelled, ‘I paid for that ride for nothin’!’ We started fightin’ and I kicked his ass pretty good and threw him out the door. You with me?” I nodded quickly.
“He’s still yellin’ and poundin’ on the door. I was afraid he was gonna break it down. Wouldn’t you be?” Before I could answer, he said, “So I got this knife I had and went out and cut him.”
Suddenly I was gripping the wheel so hard it hurt. “I hit him with it here and here,” Kinzer said, touching his side and shoulder, then covering his face with his hands. “He screamed. Jesus, he screamed fuckin’ loud. He fell down. He was bleedin’ pretty bad.”
“What – what happened after that?”
“I dragged him out to the woods behind the street and left him,” he said, breathing hard, as if he was fighting a wave in the ocean. “I didn’t go home for three days and when I did, he was gone. But there was still fuckin’ blood on the ground.”
***
Q: You’re doing great, Amanda. Do you need a break?
A: No, I’m all right. (Pause) I want to get through this.
Q: Did he say anything about who this man was, maybe mention a name?
A: No, and I didn’t ask.
Q: Good decision. What else did he say?
***
I looked in the mirror, half-expecting blue lights and cops pointing guns. “Have the police been around?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t know if anybody saw it or he’s got a wife lookin’ for him, I don’t know nothing.”
“When was all this?”
“A week or so. Christ, I can hardly remember. I swear I didn’t mean it. I was scared, you know? Really goddamn scared!”
I managed to say, “I understand,” but was so rattled I drifted through a stop sign and just missed another car. My heart was pounding when I pulled up to a rundown house, waited, and he didn’t get out. “Listen, I might need a lift sometime off the books – you know, not in the computer,” he said in a low voice. “Could you do that?”
“No, I can’t. There’s no way to reach me outside the app, and—”
“Sure there is,” he said, digging his wallet out of his back pocket. “This was on the floor.” He held up one of the business cards I keep in the car for potential clients of my one-woman graphic design firm. My phone number was staring me in the face.
The instant he walked away I raced home, couldn’t wait for the elevator, and ran up the stairs. Once I was behind the triple-locked door of my apartment, I grabbed my roommate’s vodka and gulped it until my throat rebelled and I collapsed, coughing and crying.
***
Q: Has he contacted you since?
A: No, thank God. I don’t know if he’s used any other drivers. I didn’t know if I should tell them.
Q: You did the right thing. We’ll take it from here. If he calls or you happen to spot him, call me immediately. Do you understand?
A: Yes.
Q: This interview is ending at 4:44 p.m.
***
I never saw him but sensed him everywhere. In a packed Five Points bar as I waited, trembling, for my passenger. Crouched down, knife in hand, in the parked car in front of the passenger’s house. Behind a pillar in a high-rise lobby on Sunday morning. Somewhere in a suburban mall, eating noodles and shopping, all while looking for me.
Because I was broke, I kept driving. I couldn’t sleep at night and stayed awake on tall coffees, which meant coming home both exhausted and wired. Then a text from the detective: I have more questions. Please call.
***
Q: Thanks for coming in again. First off, have you heard from Kinzer?
A: No, not at all.
Q: Well, he’s no stranger around here. He’s got nine arrests, mostly drug-related, and he’s been in jail a few times. He’s your basic small-time dealer.
A: Then you know where to find him, right? And—
Q: Whoa, whoa. I’m not worried about him yet. So far, we haven’t located a victim. Nobody’s found a body or reported a guy missing or come into a hospital with stab wounds. I’m not questioning what you said the other day. I’m telling you we’ve got no evidence to confirm it.
A: But – but why would he make it up? Can’t you interview him?
Q: About what? Amanda, we’re not sure anything happened unless maybe it was in some other jurisdiction. We’ll keep our eyes open but unless I tell you otherwise, you weren’t driving a homicide suspect.
***
She probably thought I’d be relieved. Instead, I walked out of the police station feeling lost and completely helpless. Though I’d hated driving at first, the job had given me both a financial cushion and a routine, a place to be. Now it was a surreal landscape beyond my grasp and control.
The next day I dragged myself into the car and was inching through traffic at dusk when my phone hummed. It’s me. Can you pick me up at the same place? I ignored it, hoping the nice fiftyish woman in the back didn’t see the look on my face. A few minutes later he texted again: I really need a favor. Worth your while.
Afraid to trust my own instincts, I debated calling Detective Parker, then decided that wouldn’t make sense if there was no crime. So after dropping my passenger I headed for Juniper Street, where someone named Phil wanted to go to the mall at Atlantic Station.
My frayed, tired brain forgot Juniper was a short walk from Starbucks. I wasn’t there five seconds before “Phil” stepped out of the twilight wearing a Falcons cap and dark glasses. My heart leaped into my throat and I jabbed at the lock button but Kinzer was already inside.
“Sorry about this,” he said. “I got more than one account.”
“I don’t care who you are tonight. I’m not taking you anywhere.” His hand darted into his shirt and came out holding a little silver pistol. “I won’t hurt you unless I have to,” he whispered. “So don’t make me have to.”
He told me to drive to Atlantic Station and complete the trip in the app. After I did, he said, “Now take yourself off duty or whatever. You got enough gas to get to Lawrenceville?” which was at least thirty miles away.
A faint hope flashed through my mind. “I’m not sure,” I said, leaning toward the dashboard, pretending to check the gauge while trying to hide it. “It’s pretty low.” He muttered, “Fuck it. Let’s go.”
We headed north on I-85, the glass and steel towers downtown giving way to a flat, endless expanse of malls, apartments, and warehouses. Kinzer sat silently, holding the gun in his lap. I thought about speeding so I’d get pulled over, then realized I was already pushing 80 and cars were blowing past like we were standing still. It was too soon to try my other idea — if I had the guts to do it at all.
He didn’t speak until we reached the Lawrenceville exit, and all he said was, “Turn here.” My fear spiraled as we rolled down a dark, nearly deserted parkway. “Where we’re going,” I began and almost couldn’t finish, “Is it where — it happened?”
He actually grinned. “Don’t worry, you ain’t gonna see anything. Matter of fact, that story I told you? It was bullshit.”
It was all I could do not to scream. “Are you kidding me? Why?”
“You know how I make my living. Sometimes when I’m, uh, sampling the merchandise, I get crazy, do stupid shit. I hope I didn’t scare you too bad.”
“I don’t believe it, especially now,” I said. “Who’d make up a story like that?”
“I like stories like that. I used to read my old man’s books, Mickey Spillane, Raymond Chandler, that stuff. I like Elmore Leonard too. Shit, I could’ve been a writer myself.”
“So were you ‘writing’ last week?” I snapped. “Or are you doing it tonight?”
The smile faded. “Let’s say I was partly not lying before. You don’t wanna know the rest.” Which I didn’t, but was desperate to understand one thing. “Why did you tell me about it? Why?”
“I had to tell somebody,” he said. “Get it off my chest.” With a sneer, he added, “You gotta expect a few surprises in this gig. How come you’re drivin’ if you do graphic design anyway?”
“The job market is slow. I can’t support myself with design.”
“But someday you will,” he said. In the mirror, his eyes burned with contempt. “You’ll have the nice house and the husband and this’ll be like a bad dream. This is my fuckin’ life. It’s all I’m gonna get.”
He pushed his head and shoulders over the seat, his face brushing mine and his breath almost gagging me. “You think I’d survive if I played by your rules?” he snarled. “I guess they didn’t teach you this in college but the world’s a snake pit. You grab as much as you can and lie and steal and fuck people over and if you wake up the next morning you do it again.” Staring at the road, he demanded, “How much farther?”
I lied. “About ten miles.” A QT station loomed just ahead, a well-lighted plaza with a mini mart behind the pumps. I flicked the turn signal on, startling him. “Hey, what the fuck you doin’?”
“We need gas. I told you it was low.”
He pointed the gun at my head. “I’m not stupid. Stay on the damn road.”
“It’s ten more miles. It’ll be really stupid if we run out.” I’d driven him, listened to him, tried to sound sympathetic. As we pulled into the station, I prayed he’d believe me now.
He glared. “I’ll pump. You don’t fuckin’ move.” There wasn’t even time for a deep breath. I yanked the emergency brake and the car stopped hard. Kinzer’s head banged into the seat and he yelped in pain as I stumbled out and frantically ran toward the building.
I heard shouts, a shot, and a window exploding. Glancing back, I saw him frozen in the lights, the gun at his side, his face covered in blood and shock. Terrified he’d shoot again, I ducked down but he climbed into the front seat and sped out of the lot, spitting gravel. He was looking straight at me when an air horn blared and a dump truck, probably going at least 50, T-boned the driver’s side in a sickening, shattering thud. Metal and plastic and glass flew everywhere and my car spun wildly, coming to rest in the ditch with the crushed side facing me.
There was an awful silence, followed by an eruption of screams, people running, then sirens. I sank to the ground and tried not to fall apart, until a deep voice said, “Ma’am, we need to speak with you.”
I reached into my pocket and handed Preston’s card to the Lawrenceville officer. “I need to speak to her too.”
***
Q: That was some stunt. How’d you get the idea?
A: I’m — I’m not sure. Something on TV probably. I guess. Sorry, I’m really tired.
Q: That’s okay. You did the right thing.
A: So he was telling me the truth?
Q: More or less. We finally got a missing persons report yesterday after you left. The guy’s girlfriend said he bought pot in Lawrenceville and sure enough, Kinzer’s last known address was out there. You want to hear the rest?
A: Yes.
Q: Kinzer didn’t just drag him into the woods, he buried him. The doc said he was stabbed more than twice too. We found drugs and money and more guns in the house. My guess is he was going to grab the cash and disappear.
A: (Pause)
Q: Amanda, you okay?
A: So…I would have disappeared too.
Q: More than likely. He didn’t have a record of violence but he got himself into something bad and couldn’t get out.
A: Like — like I almost couldn’t.
Q: Hey, you’ll be done with this whole mess after you testify at the inquest. What are you going to do next?
A: I don’t know. (Pause) It seemed like an easy job. And I thought I was being careful. I may take the insurance money from the car and go away. Someplace I don’t even have to drive myself around for a while.
Q: That sounds like a plan.
END OF INTERVIEW
[Image Credit : Photo by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash ]
by 
Dave Swan
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