DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I was in downtown Santa Rosa today at lunchtime. Returning home from a meeting, I decided on a whim to stop at a music store in the area. (I have all the music gear I could possibly need, but need is not a prerequisite for gear-shopping.)

As I crossed the parking lot, I heard a muffled thump followed by the sound of a slow-motion waterfall. I looked toward the source and listened closely because it sounded like a pipe had burst… or something. I couldn’t make sense of it. Then a woman shouted, “What are you doing there!”, not really a question so much as an accusation. And then I saw a tallish, somewhat skinny guy with a shaved head running across the parking lot, clutching a black duffel bag to his chest.

The sound then made sense: safety glass breaking. I’d just witnessed a smash-and-grab.

So I did something I can’t really explain: I chased the guy. I was wearing a bulky leather coat, and I had my laptop in a nylon briefcase in my right hand. I was not equipped for high-speed pursuit.

Fortunately, the “alleged” criminal wasn’t running very fast. I believe he didn’t realize I was following him. We crossed the parking lot and rounded a building. I was pacing him, thinking I’d follow as far as I could. I think I had the idea that I’d get a license number if he had a vehicle waiting. And I remember hoping we’d happen to cross the path of a cop. In any event I was along for the ride, even if I was unsure of the destination, following maybe 20 feet behind.

He turned at that point and saw me lumbering along behind with my briefcase in my hand. I guess I didn’t look very threatening, for he didn’t do what I thought I deserved, which would be to yell in fear and sprint ahead, certain he was seconds from being tackled and brought forcefully to justice. No, instead he dropped the stolen bag and jogged nonchalantly away. He looked back to make sure I stopped, which I did, figuring he was a cheap hoodlum not worth the risk of physical confrontation. I was disappointed the guy wasn’t more afraid of me, but on balance pleased by his tacit agreement with my judgement of his worth.

But then I didn’t know what to do. The bag lay on the ground, amid some bits of the passenger-side window from the owner’s truck. Also a bonus: the crook had dropped the screwdriver he’d used to bash in the window.

Every Hollywood detective story came to mind. Could I touch the evidence? What about fingerprints? As if the local cops had nothing better to do than trace prints for a simple break-in.

I awkwardly picked up the screwdriver without actually touching it. I felt dumb. I’d seen the crook wearing thick black gloves, so I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any prints on the screwdriver, but I realized I sure didn’t want to put my prints on there. In the stress of the moment — believe me, just seeing a crime is stressful — maybe someone would think I was the guy who broke the window.

Waiting a minute to think and look around, I decided the sensible thing would be to return the bag to the truck, and maybe leave a note for the owner. I carried the bag back in that direction. A few people had gathered; one woman was across the street on the phone with the police. She waved me over and gave me the phone.

I reported my side of the story, embarrassed at the little detail about the thief’s appearance I could provide. Once I’d seen the shaved head, a little box of stereotypes in my brain opened up and said “skinhead.” I perceived nothing more. Sure, I saw tattoos and piercings, but I couldn’t be sure those details hadn’t been provided by my imagination. The only things I was sure of: Caucasian, trim build, buzzcut, short-sleeve shirt, black gloves. Not much to go on. Could I pick the guy out of a lineup of skinheads? Erm, no.

We stood around to wait for the police to arrive. Finally the woman invited me inside for a free lunch — we were standing in front of her husband’s restaurant. It’s fair to say I was feeling some civic pride at this point. The food was great.

The truck’s owner turned up after a while. He was grateful, but a bit shaken (understandably), and bitter that he’d be out a few hundred dollars to replace the broken window. Insurance isn’t what it used to be. We traded contact info because it seemed like the right thing to do. I consider it serendipitous that he is the local sales rep for the company that made my drum kit.

The cops finally arrived and confirmed that they wouldn’t be able to find fingerprints on a plastic-handled screwdriver. Keep that in mind if you decide for a career change and start breaking into parked cars. He was surprised to learn that I’d already recovered the stolen bag; apparently he’d been driving around for 25 minutes looking for a skinhead with a black duffle. Nice.