Fugitives Abound

On Monday, I had another run-in with the police. I say “another” even though my other two run-ins (which should really be “run-ins”) are spread over the past three years. Nonetheless, three “run-ins”—two of which involved fugitives who’d given my address as their residence—seems notable.

Anyway, when the police buzzed our apartment on Monday, I was certain it was going to be another fugitive, and then I was really going to have to start questioning my husband. This time, however, the detectives, as they called themselves, were seeking information about our downstairs neighbor, who’d just moved out two weeks ago. I barely knew her or the boyfriend that was always hanging around, and I don’t know where they moved, but I tried my best to remember what kind of car she drove and provided a detailed description of the boyfriend—“A skater-type.” They showed me surveillance camera pictures of a man I did not recognize, and a picture of the girl. “Can I ask what this is about?” I said.

“It might be just a misunderstanding,” one detective said. “Like if he”—pointing at the other detective—“stole my pencil, and I misunderstood it.”

Interesting. Fugitives abound.