Open Cat Case

One day, when I was in college in Florida, I received a letter from the St. Louis Police Department. You know your life is kind of fucked up when one single envelope can cause your heart rate to go up. I mean, I did not want to open that fucker, but I had to know what was inside.

Anyway, I opened the fucker. Inside was a simple, to-the-point letter asking me to call a particular detective (his business card was included in the envelope?how professional) regarding an open burglary case. I hate open cases. I mean, they really piss me off.

Now, there was no way on this spinning hunk of clay that I was actually gonna call the detective. Instead, I called my friend, Brickmaster (yeah, that's his real name). Before I even had a chance to say hello, he said to me, "You got the letter."

"Yeah, man," I responded. "What do you think it's about?"

"A burglary, near as I can tell."

It was always hard to know if Brickmaster was being sarcastic or not.

"Yeah, but which one?"

"I don't know. I'm not calling."

One by one, I dialed through a list of my more entrepreneurial friends from high school, eventually reaching my friend, Cokecase (yeah, his parents were mean, too). Cokecase told me that, at his workplace, a cop had been inquiring about a case that had been open three years. Apparently, a gentleman who had been in the business of buying and selling property had been arrested because some of the property he sold was technically stolen goods.

I tell you, you can't trust anyone.

Anyway, one piece of property they found was a black ceramic clock shaped like a cat. This was a one of a kind piece that featured jade (to represent the cat's eyes) and gold inlays. It couldn't have been worth a grand.

Cokecase told me that the cop had told him that, because the case was so old, he really didn't have much to go on. And, because there were so many other (more recently) stolen goods in the offender's possession, this was not given a high priority.

"And then," Cokecase said, chortling like a cocky teenager. "This fucker told me that there wasn't much he could do, but that if I wanted to, I could bare my soul. The fucking detective actually thought I was gonna do his work for him."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Nothing. I just laughed and asked him if he was interested in purchasing a boat."

Cokecase sells boats.

Later, another friend of mine, Fireplug (I'm telling you, these parents?) was bussing tables at a restaurant when the same detective came in and gave him the same spiel. Fireplug said that he laughed so hard that he, "accidentally spit on the cop."

"Which sucked," said Fireplug. "'Cause I had to give him my shift meal to apologize."

A few days later, I called the investigating detective (from a payphone) and left a message for him. That message: Please tell Detective [whatever?I don't remember] that I'm sorry for my sins.

I did not leave my name.

I think you know by now that if you're looking for morals, you're in the wrong place.

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