noon?
‘Sure,’ I said.
And he hung up.
Which is how I ended up at the Dover police department after leaving the Grunge. It was a deceptively cheerful-looking little building constructed out of red brick in an almost Colonial style. Despite its classic appearance, it had been built only a decade earlier thanks to a property tax increase that most of the citizens of Dover still complained about. They wanted the police to do their jobs – they just didn’t want to have to pay for it or give them any additional space.
An officer greeted me at the front desk, then buzzed back to tell the detectives I was here to see them. Detective
Post arrived in a matter of minutes and led me down a short hallway and then through a roomful of desks where officers in uniform and plain clothes pecked away at computers and talked on phones. Post turned back to me and said, ‘We can go into the conference room. It will be quieter.’
A heavy oak table dominated the centre of the conference room, and the thick carpet and heavy drapes absorbed most of the noise. When Post closed the door behind me, it felt as if I’d been sealed in an airtight chamber. We were the only ones in the room. Detective Richland was nowhere in sight, and I asked about him.
‘He’s out on another call,’ Post said. ‘We’re covering a lot of cases, so we divide the labour.’
I didn’t say it out loud, but I didn’t miss him.
Post pointed to a small table in the corner of the room. ‘There’s coffee,’ she said. ‘Or I could get you a soda.’
‘I’m good,’ I said.
We both sat down near the end of the table closest to the door. Post carried a manila folder, which she placed in front of her but didn’t open. Post wasn’t wearing a jacket, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows as if she was about to do some serious work.
‘I hope things have been going okay for you,’ Post said.
‘Aside from my mother dying and my apartment being broken into, things are fine. Oh, I forgot that my brother is the prime suspect in the murder of my mother.’
‘What about your apartment?’ Post asked.
‘It was broken into last night,’ I said. ‘I thought that’s what I was here to talk about.’
Post looked puzzled. ‘Tell me about this.’
‘Two
of your officers responded to my apartment,’ I said. ‘I told them about Mom’s death, and that you and Richland were investigating.’
Post took a deep breath. I could tell she was trying to project calm and professional cool. She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a little notebook.
‘I’ll deal with the communication issues later,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me about this break-in?’
‘They really didn’t tell you?’ I asked.
‘I mostly work with men,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
So I told her about coming home, the still, quiet night. I told her about passing the man on the stairs, the one in a hurry who apparently wasn’t coming from any of the other apartments. I told her about the shattered lock and the ransacked apartment, including the violated medicine cabinet.
‘The cops who were there chalked it up to meth heads or something like that,’ I said. ‘But none of my electronics were missing. Granted, they might be worth up to three or four dollars on the open market.’
‘Junkies don’t make those distinctions,’ Post said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Still, we’ve had a lot of these break-ins lately, especially around campus. The meth heads and even just your garden-variety burglar think college kids have a lot of money and are careless with their things. They tend to leave doors and windows open and their toys just lying around. And a lot of that is true.’
‘I’m a grad student,’ I said. ‘I’m poor.’
‘They also don’t understand that distinction,’ she said.
She scribbled in her book. I waited. She kept scribbling,
so I said, ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that my mother is murdered and then all of a sudden someone is breaking into my
‘Sure,’ I said.
And he hung up.
Which is how I ended up at the Dover police department after leaving the Grunge. It was a deceptively cheerful-looking little building constructed out of red brick in an almost Colonial style. Despite its classic appearance, it had been built only a decade earlier thanks to a property tax increase that most of the citizens of Dover still complained about. They wanted the police to do their jobs – they just didn’t want to have to pay for it or give them any additional space.
An officer greeted me at the front desk, then buzzed back to tell the detectives I was here to see them. Detective
Post arrived in a matter of minutes and led me down a short hallway and then through a roomful of desks where officers in uniform and plain clothes pecked away at computers and talked on phones. Post turned back to me and said, ‘We can go into the conference room. It will be quieter.’
A heavy oak table dominated the centre of the conference room, and the thick carpet and heavy drapes absorbed most of the noise. When Post closed the door behind me, it felt as if I’d been sealed in an airtight chamber. We were the only ones in the room. Detective Richland was nowhere in sight, and I asked about him.
‘He’s out on another call,’ Post said. ‘We’re covering a lot of cases, so we divide the labour.’
I didn’t say it out loud, but I didn’t miss him.
Post pointed to a small table in the corner of the room. ‘There’s coffee,’ she said. ‘Or I could get you a soda.’
‘I’m good,’ I said.
We both sat down near the end of the table closest to the door. Post carried a manila folder, which she placed in front of her but didn’t open. Post wasn’t wearing a jacket, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows as if she was about to do some serious work.
‘I hope things have been going okay for you,’ Post said.
‘Aside from my mother dying and my apartment being broken into, things are fine. Oh, I forgot that my brother is the prime suspect in the murder of my mother.’
‘What about your apartment?’ Post asked.
‘It was broken into last night,’ I said. ‘I thought that’s what I was here to talk about.’
Post looked puzzled. ‘Tell me about this.’
‘Two
of your officers responded to my apartment,’ I said. ‘I told them about Mom’s death, and that you and Richland were investigating.’
Post took a deep breath. I could tell she was trying to project calm and professional cool. She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a little notebook.
‘I’ll deal with the communication issues later,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me about this break-in?’
‘They really didn’t tell you?’ I asked.
‘I mostly work with men,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
So I told her about coming home, the still, quiet night. I told her about passing the man on the stairs, the one in a hurry who apparently wasn’t coming from any of the other apartments. I told her about the shattered lock and the ransacked apartment, including the violated medicine cabinet.
‘The cops who were there chalked it up to meth heads or something like that,’ I said. ‘But none of my electronics were missing. Granted, they might be worth up to three or four dollars on the open market.’
‘Junkies don’t make those distinctions,’ Post said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Still, we’ve had a lot of these break-ins lately, especially around campus. The meth heads and even just your garden-variety burglar think college kids have a lot of money and are careless with their things. They tend to leave doors and windows open and their toys just lying around. And a lot of that is true.’
‘I’m a grad student,’ I said. ‘I’m poor.’
‘They also don’t understand that distinction,’ she said.
She scribbled in her book. I waited. She kept scribbling,
so I said, ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that my mother is murdered and then all of a sudden someone is breaking into my
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