Police & News Crew

Flood Neighborhood!

Potential Compressor Piracy Initiates Blockade.

by

Wally Lee Parker

—  first published in The Bogwen Report, October 30, 2010 —

© Wallace Lee Parker

 

With our neighborhood shrouded beneath the damp overcast so typical of Spokane’s late October, little stood out to suggest the tense excitement destined to grip this northwestern subdivision by late-afternoon.  Most of Thursday morning’s commuters had left — abandoning the streets and driveways to the scant smattering of remaining cars.  The sodden candy wrappers littering the otherwise barren intersection at Stevens and Wedgewood suggested that District 81’s school bus had already made its pickup of youngsters — youngsters doubtlessly anticipating Sunday’s opportunity to enjoy Trick-or-Treat.

Nowadays — at least for teenagers — Trick-or-Treat seems a much-needed interruption in Halloween’s endless stream of televised slasher movies, as well as a backhanded and self-defeating opportunity to promote anti-obesity exercise by bribing the little hobgoblins to go out and extort candy from the neighbors.  For that intrusion, we’d stocked ample supplies.

With traditionalist values to the forefront, the wife — Patricia — and I, both retired, began our morning by comparing our home’s ratio of decoration to the other houses in the neighborhood.  We’d recently added two strings of illuminated plastic pumpkins along our sidewalk — more to prevent evening Trick-or-Treaters from plunging off the edge of the somewhat elevate sidewalk than anything else.  (Besides which, in Celtic lore pumpkin is a well-known lawyer-repellent.)  Since our sidewalk — the somewhat elevated part at least — is more than two pumpkin-strings long, we decided just after 9 o’clock to drive to Fred Meyer’s and pick up two more strings.  About an hour later we were in the front yard untangling our new plastic pumpkins.

Illuminated plastic pumpkins garnish the entryway to writer’s home.

As per the suggestion on the package, each string of seven small orange pumpkin-shaped orbs was plug into the last string, and then the entire multiple-string was plugged into our outside ground-fault-interrupter outlet.  By time we were done, we were satisfied that we had reached neighborhood parity as far as the displaying of illuminated Chinese plastic was concerned.

While cleaning up the area, I noticed another local resident — this a swing-shift worker who doesn’t leave until afternoon — talking to a rather substantial young fellow standing near a large truck resembling a waste management compactor truck except that this vehicle was painted yellow and lettered with the logo of a local recycling company.  When that conversation seemed over, Patricia yelled at “swing-shift” — telling him he should come over and checkout our new string of pumpkins.

Although it’s true that retirees are always looking for free entertainment, in this instance our plastic pumpkins were just an excuse to gossip with one of our community’s leading social commentators.

“So, what are you having done,” I asked.

Swing-shift, looked back at the truck, replied, “Me?  Nothing.”  As he stepped up on the curb on our side of the street he added, “But something’s likely to happen any minute now.”

He had our attention.

“You see, one of the guys working for the recycling company recently had his pickup and trailer stolen.  There was this huge air compressor on the trailer.  Well, yesterday — or maybe this morning — the owner of the stolen stuff — who happens to be the working partner of the guy I was just talking to — found his truck a few blocks from his house.  Some of the stuff had been stripped from inside the truck — including a toolbox.  The trailer with its compressor was gone.  But there were some black plastic bags full of trash in the back of the pickup, and one of those bags contained paystubs belonging to (a certain neighbor of ours).  The recycling guys drove their company's compactor truck to the address on the sub — that for our (certain) neighbor over there — walked around a bit and spotted the missing toolbox in the alley behind his house.  The guy I was talking to is watching the front of the house, while his partner — the owner of the stolen truck, trailer, and compressor — is watching from the alley.  At least that’s pretty close to what I recall being told.”

Actually, considering our neighborhood's history of break-ins and such, little of this was that much of a surprise — except maybe the really stupid part about the paystubs.

“So, what’s the exciting part,” I asked?

“They’ve called the cops!”

Patricia has an 11:30 appointment with her hairdresser.  Still, that leaves a good hour for the cops to arrive and kick in the door just like they do on television.  Well, maybe not exactly like that since no one appears to be home over there.

An hour seems enough — or not.  We wait until 11:15, then, reluctantly, go — expecting it to all be over by time we get back.

The wife is in the chair getting her hair clipped and toned, and I’m in the waiting area reading a science fiction novel.  It doesn’t take long for me to become self-conscious.  This is a fairly large beauty parlor — lots of women coming and going.  I’m sure all the incoming patrons are asking what the guy — who obviously has few concerns about his own hair other than an occasional trim around the remaining fringe — is doing sitting in the waiting area reading a SiFi novel by an openly lesbian writer.

I decide to wait in the car.

Seat reclined, shrouded under a blanket.  Two hours later the wife wakes me up tapping on the window.

First Costco, then Perkins, then home.

It’s just after 4 o’clock when we drive through the intersection and see a KHQ news-van parked in front of the Stevens Street side of our corner lot.  Just down the street we see two police cars — one a Sheriff’s patrol, the other unmarked but obvious.

KHQ news team stealthily monitors neighborhood events from inconspicuous location in front of our house.

“Oh crap,” I exclaim!  “It looks like we’ve missed everything!” 

We pull into our garage from the Wedgewood side, hurry through the house, and peek out the front window.  Nothing’s happening.  And none of the resident-in-question’s cars are in front of his house.  I speculate, “I don’t think anyone’s come home yet.”

The TV crew has an empty tripod standing on the sidewalk at the corner of our lot.  The crew themselves are in the van.  Not a bad idea considering that it's just over fifty degrees out there, with an occasional light drizzle to up the misery index.

A little while later a third police car pulls up.  Lots of walking around the street.  Clipboard waving.  Talking on the radio.  Standing.  More walking.

The cameraman remounts his camera on the tripod — as if something might be about to happen.

Pat whispers, “Go out and ask what’s happening.”

“Why don’t you go out and ask?”

“You’re the man of the house.  It’s your job to go ask.”

The old ‘you’re the man of the house’ ploy.

I approach the cameraman.  “Are you allowed to talk to me?”

“Sure.  I just don’t know anything.”  I’m crushed.  Seeing that, he takes pity.  “I think they’re trying to find out if they can break into the place, or if they need to wait until the resident shows up.”

The afternoon drags on.  Somewhere around 5 the resident drives up Stevens and into his driveway.  Within milliseconds the cameraman and the young girl I assumed to be the reporter are on the sidewalk.  The cops swarm.

“Did they shake hands,” I ask?  Pat says she couldn’t tell either.  “I think one of the cops shook the resident’s hand.  That’s not how they do it on television.”

A few seconds later the resident opens the garage, and the cops are in.

The cameraman takes a few minutes of video.  Then, as nothing other than a lot of walking around happens, he takes his camera off the tripod and the news crew heads back to the van.

The police are in the garage, around the yard, and in the house.  Time drags on.

After a day of overcast and drizzle, in typical Spokane fashion the sun drops below the horizon and the sky finally clears to darkening blue.  Meanwhile, the police do their investigation.  The news waits.  We wait.

Our next-door neighbor arrived home from work.  A few minutes later he walks down the street to talk to the news crew.  (Doubtless his wife used ‘the ploy’ on him.)  We nab him on the way back.

“His wife’s car was just behind me as I was coming down the street.  I was wondering what was going on — the cop cars and the TV crew.  I think she already had a pretty good idea because she just kept going straight down the road.  Didn’t stop at all.”

“He’s usually not anywhere this late getting home,” I said.  “Most likely he knew — someone let him know what was waiting for him.”

“And what’s waiting right here isn’t all,” the neighbor added.  “I passed one sheriff’s car parked up the street and could see one parked a block down each way on the other street.  If anything else were going to happen, they were ready.”

The police leave — one patrol car pulling alongside the KHQ van and talking to the crew.  A few minutes after the cops leave, the house-in-question's resident jumps back in his vehicle and leaves.  But the TV crew remains.

It’s approaching 6 o’clock.  I see the antenna array on top of the van has been erected, and a strong light is playing down the sidewalk.  We (this time Pat couldn’t restrain herself) go out to investigate.

KHQ van with antenna extended just prior to live transmission for 6 o’clock news.

The young girl says, “We’re getting ready to go live.”

We retreat.

But then I think, this would make a great Bogwen Report.  But I need some extra photos for that.  So CyberShot in hand, I sneak out the back door and approach the KHQ van from behind.  A few shots of the van, and then out into the street for a few shots of the reporter standing ready for her cue.

With the light in her eyes, I’m not sure how well she could see me, but I could tell from the way her eyes flickered she knew I was out there.  But what the hell!  I’d waited all day for some excitement, and even if I had to resort to gonzo journalism, something reportable was going to happen.

She hit her cue and as she started talking, I beat a running withdrawal, charging through the back door in time to catch most of her report.

The girl, Kaitlyn Bolduc, is a Gonzaga graduate and has been with KHQ television for just over a year.  She reported that the police informed her that they had found some objects possibly stolen from the pickup.  The resident had explained that he’d paid an unidentified person to haul away some garbage.  He believes that’s how his name ended up in the pickup belonging to the complainant, and how the possibly stolen items ended up being left on his property.  Kaitlyn reported that the police are continuing their investigation and will be talking with the individual the resident indicated was paid to remove the trash from his property.

Kaitlyn Bolduc of KHQ news preparing to report live from in front of our home.

Then the video-lights went off, the transmission antenna came down, and the KHQ van left.  After eight hours of waiting, finally punctuated by a minute or less of airtime, the neighborhood once again settled into its usual state.  The lights from our pumpkin strings outlining the hazardous side of the sidewalk.  The sky eventually turning as black a city skies ever get — and later on clouding over as it began, once again, to rain.

That was our excitement for the rest of this year — and probably next year too.

———  end  ———