No, thank God.
“You said you called 911? Were they sending somebody over to take a look?” asked Al, one hand cocked on his hip and the other squeezing the phone to his ear. Before I could answer he held up a finger and mouthed, Wait. Then, to the phone: “Georgetown DPS here. Main campus. I got a lady here . . .”
Half an hour later I was back on Q Street. Back in front of my house, climbing out of Al’s GUPD vehicle, being handed off to a DC police detective. The big boys would take it from here. The sky was beginning to streak gray. My father was on his way. The fingerprint lady had finished out front and moved inside. Al squeezed my shoulder, told me not to worry about the jackets, I could return them anytime.
Then he was gone and a new detective stood before me. The new guy was wiry with beady eyes and a thin, rodenty nose that started too high on his forehead. He addressed me with what sounded like a stock speech: I must be exhausted, but anything I could tell them was helpful and it was important to do it now, while the details were fresh.
My front hall looked just as it always had. Every lamp blazing. A shadow moved at the top of the stairs, causing me to shrink back against the front door. But it was only the fingerprint lady, wrapping up, calling down to us, “All set.”
“Ready?” The detective turned to me. “Ready to show me exactly what happened?”
? ? ?
I TOLD MY story.
The detective listened, jotted it down in careful block letters. Ballpoint pen scratching across a carbon-copy form, filling in boxes in smeary pink-and-yellow triplicate. Hadn’t these guys ever heard of iPads?
But I sensed he wasn’t quite buying it.
He kept pressing me on what I had actually seen (nothing, I’d -actually seen nothing, I was behind a locked door the entire time) and what exact noise had awakened me (maybe glass breaking? Or a creaky floorboard?) And what exact time I had heard this alleged noise (um, 3:00 a.m.? 4:00? 5:00?) And, if I never saw him, why was I so sure the intruder was a man? (Because. Because, jackass, what woman goes around breaking into houses, charging at doors trying to bust them open with brute strength? For fuck’s sake. I never swear, but come on.)
At some point during this inquisition my father arrived, followed in short order by Martin and then Tony. We Cashions believe in traveling in packs. Martin and Dad wore jeans; Tony was incongruous in a pin-striped, dark suit and tie. I gathered this was so he could head straight to his office afterward, but the effect was imposing, as though he were ready to indict the prowler on multiple charges right then and there.
“So let’s walk through this one more time.” The detective was tapping his notes with the tip of his ballpoint. “You were asleep. Your burglar alarm never sounded because you had it switched off. . . .”
“Sis. For Christ’s sake,” muttered Tony, shooting me a how-dumb-can-you-get look.
“Not the moment, Tony.” Martin laid a supportive hand on my shoulder.
“Burglar alarm wouldn’t stop somebody determined, anyway.” The detective twitched his rodent nose at me. “But what makes you think it was? What makes you think this was more than a run-of-the-mill burglary? I mean, I get that it was scary, being home alone and a woman and everything, but what makes you think he—let’s say it was a he—that he wanted to hurt you?”
Was this guy an idiot? “He ran. At. The. Door.” My words punched out like angry fists. “Did you not see my bedroom door?” The wood had splintered around the lock; one of the hinges had been ripped loose from the frame. The sight had made my stomach heave; I had had to turn away.
“Sure, I saw. Somebody tried to bust it open all right. Probably looking for your jewelry box.”
“Oh, please. Last night was not about someone looking for gold brooches—”
“Well, now, you keep saying that. And I’m just saying, what’s the evidence? He smashed a window downstairs, to reach in and flip your basement dead lock. And he bashed the lock on that cabinet there, where it looks like you keep your booze.” The detective pointed at a mirrored cabinet in the corner of the living room, where I did indeed store liquor, and where the lock had indeed been bashed in. “We don’t appear to be dealing with a master lockpicker here. We appear to be dealing with an unskilled guy who was in a hurry. He wanted your jewelry, and he wasn’t opposed to breaking a few things to get in, get out, get the job done.”
“No. For starters, no normal burglar would charge the homeowner—”
“Burglar off his head on crack would. Trust me. People on crack do crazy shi—” He caught himself. “Crazy stuff.”
I scowled.
“Look, I can’t rule anything out. We’ll investigate every possibility. But it might actually put your mind at ease to know there were two other burglaries reported in the neighborhood this week. Both here on the west side of Wisconsin Avenue. Both involving forced entry at the back or basement door. Windows broken. You see where I’m going? Same guy, on a roll. He wasn’t after you.”
Martin looked at me. “Should you mention the . . . ?” He touched his neck. Martin was the only member of my family who knew that an Atlanta police officer had questioned me about the bullet. “Think it might be relevant?”
I steeled myself.
Yeah. I did.