One Very Long Day: October 2003 - Part II

Everything listed in this post occurred during one particularly long and stressful day. I had several days like that during the Summer of 2003. I was working twelve-hour shifts in a local factory at the time, and many of the activities here directly caused me to be late or miss days at work. This had a detrimental effect on both my immediate income as well as my job performance reviews. This particular post, multiplied by several similar days, explains why I began to refer to 2003 as “My summer of hell.” At the time, I had no idea that only three years later I would have to change this to “My first summer of hell.”

Wednesday, October 15 (3:00 A.M.) I was returning home from a very late night out when I noticed a bicycle standing on the sidewalk by my back yard. It is not uncommon to find a bicycle (or other oddities) setting around unclaimed, but I was curious so I walked towards the bike. It was pitch black outside, so it was not until I got closer that I realized it was my own bicycle that was setting there on the sidewalk.

As I reached the bicycle, I saw that my back door was standing partially opened. As I neared the door, I saw that my television, computer, microwave and several tools were stacked to the side of the doorsteps. There were bags and boxes filled with items also, so I really had no idea what all was there. There was an aluminum extension ladder propped up to a second floor window that was wide open.

I did not have my cell phone with me, and I certainly did not want to drive away from the area with all my belongings setting there in the yard, so I laid the ladder down on the ground and had my gun drawn as I entered through the back door. I was operating under the assumption that there were still people in the house as I made my way to the telephone on the second floor. My house has too many loose floor boards to even hope that I had any element of surprise, so if someone was inside they probably knew I was there as well.

Negotiating the corners of the stairway was the most troublesome. Not only was I moving into a blind area, but my footing was unstable as well. If someone was there, coming at me then would have been the most opportune moment for them to challenge me. Both times, as I approached the corners, I announced loudly to whoever might be there “You need to speak up now, and come out slowly where I can see you. Otherwise you’re probably going to end up dead.” Then I slid the rack on my gun and paused for a moment. I have a large clip, and if the remaining bullets weren’t enough to do the job then I’d probably still be dead even if I had kept those two. But I know that the sound of a bullet chambering will get a person’s attention. By doing this, I hoped to cause some reaction (movement, talking) from the other side that might give away their position.

I had cleared the two main floors and picked up my phone. Confident that no one was on the second floor, I quickly replaced the partial clip with a full one. I cautiously walked back down to the kitchen and began to descend the basement stairs. Realizing that the open stairway would give a very clear advantage to anyone who might be hiding down there, I stopped at the landing and came back up. My common sense had finally caught up with my adrenaline as I called the police and stepped outside to wait for them. It only took a few minutes before Officers Stettinius and Haig arrived. I informed them that I had already checked the main floors, but not the basement or attic. They insisted that I wait outside as the house was being searched.

The only damage to the house was the frame of the air conditioner that had been shoved from the entry window was a little busted up, but it still worked. (Good lesson learned there - bolt it down!) They had left three empty or partially drank cans of pop (from my fridge) lying around. I was actually quite surprised that my house had not been totally trashed as retribution for my law-abiding activities. As the officers and I looked around outside, I realized why. Almost every item of value had been removed from my house. And everything was neatly bagged, boxed and stacked at various areas in the back yard. As we walked around my shed, we kept finding more stuff. Everything was staged for pick-up, and it was a simple matter of luck that I had returned when I did. In fact, the only things unaccounted for were my TV remote control and a jar that had about $50 worth of change in it.

The police brought their dog out and had him sniff the pop cans and the ladder. The dog circled around my shed for a minute, then quickly walked across the street and sniffed around Patrick’s house, but he kept getting distracted by a dog that was chained in the yard. I know Patrick, and I really don’t think he had anything to do with this. But the drug dealers spend a lot of time hanging around his house (usually when he’s not there - funny how that works!), so it was probably just latent crack fumes that enticed the dog.

The officers bagged the pop cans as evidence and said they would try to get a print off them. I told them about the trouble that Bernie had recently been getting into, and said that I felt he was a likely suspect for this. I pointed out to the officers that the ladder was not mine, and asked with a smile if they were going to take it in as evidence as well. They looked at each other for a moment, probably wondering how they’d get it in their car and what to do with it after that, then suggested that perhaps I could just hold on to it for them. It’s likely that my home invaders had stolen the ladder from one of my neighbors, so I told the officers that if someone could offer reasonable proof that it was theirs I’d return it. I’ve had that ladder for almost five years now, and it was definitely worth the $50.

(9:00 A.M.) I saw two men standing in Jim’s front yard and searching through his bushes. One of them picked up something and they moved over to the side of his house. I called FWPD-Vice & Narcotics and spoke with Officer Rusk about the situation. He suggested that I should call the front desk to report this information. I told Rusk that the guys were already gone, so the front desk would see this as a non-problem. I told him that I was sure he realized how bad the drug trafficking in my neighborhood was, and I informed him of how my previous offers to help his department seemed to have been ignored.

Officer Rusk said he would look into the matter himself, but suggested that I call Officer Evarts. Rusk said that Evarts is the one who would determine whether they (FWPD) would want to use my property for surveillance of the neighborhood. I called Officer Evarts and left a brief message, including having been referred to him by vice and narcotics Officer Rusk. Officer Evarts never returned my call.

I then called Officer Bayard again and left a message asking about getting the incident report released. He immediately returned my call and said he could not release the report because it was part of an ongoing narcotics investigation. Officer Bayard said that Bernie had been printed and they were trying to match him to the gun. I asked him to convey this information to officers Haig and Stettinius, who were investigating my burglary. I told him there was a good chance that Bernie’s prints might match those found on the pop cans.

(11:00 P.M.) Bernie and four of his friends were searching Jim’s front yard with flashlights. I assumed they were looking for the drugs that had been stashed there earlier in the day. I called FWPD desk sergeant and reported this. I had to leave the house for a moment, but hurried back to see what was going on.

(11:30 P.M.) I returned home and saw that four police officers were on the scene. They had the five guys all lined up in front of Abby’s house and were questioning them. The police handcuffed one of these guys and put him in the back of their car. I approached the officers and explained why I had called them. Bernie and his friends did not have very pleasant looks on their faces as I did this.

All five of these guys were probably under drinking age, and the one they arrested was found carrying beer. One of the officers turned to the group and said either they could spend ten minutes picking up trash (pointing to an empty lot) or their friend would be arrested for P.I. Officer Webster then turned towards me and asked if I had a trash bag they could use. I gave him four bags, and watched with amusement as Bernie and friends worked to get their friend out of an arrest.

Officer Webster apologized for not being able to do more. I thanked him and said that was the best results I’d seen so far. These guys don’t mind wasting their time just standing on the corner all day long. A lot of them even laugh about jail time, referring to it as “going on vacation.” But they sure the hell don’t want to be picking up trash! Officer Webster was now my personal hero.
I asked Officer Webster if Officer Marshall had spoken to him about my situation here and he said no. I told him that the police are welcome on my property anytime. He said that would be useful to know as he patrolled my neighborhood. Although I thought it was quite strange that Officer Marshall failed to inform his fellow officers of my cooperative efforts, I didn’t want to explain all this to Officer Webster. Instead, I simply asked that he try to convey this information to other officers.