Well, actually, they sleep a lot in Overland Park, Kansas. But it was dark. A cold, March night.
I was inside, in the gym, twirling my feet on the elliptical machine, listening to Tom Petty’s “Highway Companion” collection.
Outside, the two men moved fast … mighty fast. They dashed from their car and smashed the window on the driver’s side of my Beetle, the glass nuggets ricocheting within, nicking interior paint plus my seats and dashboard.
The dudes then grabbed my cell phone and L.L. Bean satchel, scooped out the change in the storage compartment under the armrest, ran back to their car and sped away.
I’m guessing it took them 20 seconds, tops, to do the deed … the same time it takes Petty to sing his first line in “Saving Grace.”
Until then, I could count on two fingers the times I’ve personally been touched by the lawless element:
- Someone stole my criminal-justice textbook in college – thievery that was ironic, sure, but oddly fitting. After all, if you choose a life of crime, especially while in college, why not steal such a book! Good practice, plus good preparatory reading for the tribunals ahead.
- A few years later, while a buddy and I were on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, someone smashed in his car’s back window and took my camera. Why I didn’t have my camera with me I can’t recall. Given the rambunctious sights on Bourbon Street, it now seems negligent on my part.
But now a third strike – smashed glass, stolen goods, permanent scars on my trusty VW. On the scale of victimhood, I’ve gotten by easy, sure. But it still made me angry.
In New Orleans, where the city really does never sleep, the cops showed no sympathy. The officer, obviously impatient, ripped a sheet off a pad and handed it to me.
“Here’s a form to fill out, send it in and we’ll send you a report for your insurance.”
It was clear he had bigger fish to fry – a Creole gunfight to check out, perhaps, or something even more sinister in the lurid streets of the Big Easy.
“Any chance of catching the guy who did this, officer?” I asked, seriously.
The cop gave me one of those withering “what-an-idiot” looks, hopped in his car and left.
It was a far different story in Overland Park. After finding my car trashed, I went back inside, borrowed the gym’s phone, then called the cops. I also called my son Zach, who I knew would be home and could come help.
(A quick side story: I guess my family must think someday I’m going to have a heart attack and die at the gym. I reached Zach, who immediately drove over. But in so doing, I left the gym’s name on our caller i.d. at home. Cindy came home, found Zach unexpectedly gone with no note, then discovered what seemed evidence of an urgent call from the gym. “Doug’s dead!!” she reasoned.)
Very much alive, but very sweaty, I waited for the police outside. The officer arrived within minutes. He trained the police car’s headlight and floodlight on the violated Beetle. The car’s police radio barked in the background. It looked and sounded everything like a crime scene.
He was professional, courteous and very much on the case. He peppered me with questions: What was in the car? What’s missing? Did you see anyone suspicious when you parked? What’s your phone number? What kind of phone was it? Who’s this? (“My son.”) What’s his name? (“Zach,” though I’m thinking: “Why’s that relevant?”)
And still more questions: What was in the L.L. Bean bag? Does the bag have your address on it? Where can I reach you? Who does your hair? (No, he didn’t ask that last one, but by that point I wouldn’t have been surprised.)
Officer Efficient then told me to back away from the car. He grabbed a forensics bag, meticulously opened it on his car’s front hood, put on white, plastic gloves, walked to my car and started dusting it for prints. Inside, outside, with utmost care.
By this time I was shivering, so I sat in Zach’s car to get warm. Then it dawned on me … Officer Efficient actually hoped to catch the culprits who did this!
After about 20 minutes of intense CSI forensics, the officer was done. He explained that there’d been other, similar break-ins nearby. These guys are efficient, he said. (He should know.) “Fast. They break in fast, get away fast.
“We’ll let you know if we learn anything.”
We thanked the officer; I drove the wounded Beetle home, the heat cranked up to offset the open window.
Yes, these guys were fast.
But also … dumb.
You see, almost immediately after stealing my phone, they began to make calls to local acquaintances. A call to Independence, one to Bonner Springs. Another to Kansas City, Kan. I could imagine what they talked about, surely laughing as they did so. “Hey, dawg, I got some free minutes, man. I busted some Beetle over in O.P. town.”
We knew the calls happened because late that evening I checked our Sprint account on-line. We had called Sprint earlier to shut down service, and I was outraged – at first – to see that whoever took my phone had used it. Of course, it then occurred to me that the cops might like those phone records.
Officer E. had efficiently left me his business card, so I called the next day and offered to fax him the Sprint records. He was elated.
“We’ll let you know if we learn anything.”
Five months later, we arrived back from vacation in Michigan. There, waiting for me on the kitchen table, were multiple letters from the Office of the District Attorney, Tenth Judicial District, State of Kansas.
They were subpoenas. I’d been told to appear on behalf of the prosecutor in the cases of two men facing multiple counts of vehicular burglary and criminal damage to property.
“They got the bastards,” I thought.
I was excited … which surprised me.
Justice served? We shall see.
Next: Shall we gather by the courthouse? Carrot-topped Viktor, the rules of law and other D.A. surprises at the hearing.
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