by Frank Zafiro
“Adam-221, on scene,” Officer Mark Ridgeway spoke into the radio mike as he rolled to a stop in front of 1927 West Swanson.
“Adam-221, copy.”
Ridgeway put the patrol vehicle into park and got out. The crisp winter air bit into his lungs immediately. He hunched his shoulders and trudged up the neatly shoveled walkway. A simple wreath hung from the door, encircling the tiny brass knocker.
He knocked.
The woman who answered reminded him immediately of Alice, his ex-wife. Most of the time, that was a bad thing. A very bad thing. It conjured up images and emotions and descriptive adjectives that Mark Ridgeway preferred not to deal with anymore.
But it was only a few days before Christmas.
So he smiled.
“Thank you for coming,” the woman said, pushing open the screen door and inviting him in.
Ridgeway stomped the snow off of his boots. When he stepped inside, the delicious odor of baking cookies filled his nostrils.
The woman shut the door and smiled. “Well, merry Christmas. If you celebrate,” she added.
“Thanks,” Ridgeway said. “You, too.”
They stood awkwardly for a moment. The woman wore a waitress uniform for one of the chain restaurants—Denny’s or Perkins. Ridgeway couldn’t recall which one the color pattern belonged to. The nametag on her chest read, “Hello, I’m Joetta.”
Ridgeway scratched his jaw. “You called in a burglary?”
She nodded. Sadness crept into her features. He noticed the tiredness in her eyes and the deep lines than ran from them. “Someone stole all the Christmas presents.”
Ridgeway glanced over at the tree in the corner. Twisted strands of lights hung in the boughs, along with ornaments that Ridgeway guessed were hand-made by grade-schoolers. The area beneath the tree was empty.
“They got the Santa ones I hid under my bed, too,” Joetta said.
A curse rose to Ridgeway’s lips, but he suppressed it. Instead, he gritted his teeth, sighed, and muttered, “Stealing from kids.”
“It’s not like the thieves got much,” Joetta said, her voice hollow. “Heck, half the presents were from the Buck Bonanza. You know, the store up on 29th where everything is a dollar?”
Ridgeway nodded.
“Anyway,” she said. “I get paid tomorrow. I can replace a few of the presents. But not the ones from their father.”
“Where’s he?” Ridgeway asked.
“Phoenix. We’ve been split up for about nine months.” Joetta smiled bitterly through the sadness in her face. “The guy was a terrible husband and not much better as a father, but they love him. He’s only seen them twice since he left, so those presents he sent…”
She broke off and looked away.
“They’re important,” Ridgeway finished.
Joetta nodded and brushed away a lone tear from the corner of her eye. “More important than Santa.”
Ridgeway forced a wry grin. “Aw, nothing is more important than Santa.”
Joetta smiled at him. “I suppose not.”
Ridgeway found himself smiling back. When he realized it, he stopped it and asked, “Do you know how they got into your house?”
Joetta led him through the kitchen, where the smell of baking cookies was overpowering. A stray memory from his childhood involving his mother and cookies struck Ridgeway. He realized he was smiling again.
“They broke my door,” Joetta said, pointing.
Ridgeway tugged on the back door without twisting the knob. The door opened easily. He spotted the damage to the doorjamb and the lock mechanism immediately.
“Was the door still open when you came home?” Ridgeway asked.
“Yes.”
“Any other doors or windows?”
“No.”
Ridgeway nodded. The burglar had most likely used the back door for entry and exit. He bent and examined the damage to the doorjamb. It wasn’t excessive, and Ridgeway recognized the surgical nature as a professional job. He swung it open further to examine the outside of the door for footprints. He didn’t expect to find any and didn’t.
“This was a pro,” he told Joetta. "Whoever did this has done it before.”
Ridgeway glanced down the rear walkway, hoping for footprints in the snow. The walkway had been shoveled clean all the way to the alley, where it merged with a morass of tire ruts.
“So he might come back?” Joetta asked him.
“Not likely,” Ridgeway said. “But you’ll want to get this door repaired right away. Have a deadbolt installed, too.”
“That’s expensive, isn’t it?”
Ridgeway shrugged. “It can be.” He removed his notepad and jotted down a number. “Here’s a guy who does good work. Tell him I sent you. He’ll give you a good deal.”
He held out the paper and Joetta took it. Her slight fingertips brushed his. Her hand was warm.
Ridgeway cleared his throat and asked to be shown around the rest of the house. Aside from the presents under the tree and a light ransacking of Joetta’s bedroom, nothing seemed amiss.
“He definitely targeted the Christmas presents,” Ridgeway said. He stood in the kitchen while Joetta removed the sugar cookies from the oven and scooped them onto wax paper.
Joetta scowled. “Whoever it was, they’re scum.”
Ridgeway nodded in agreement. He removed his pocket notebook again and asked Joetta her personal information. “For my report,” he explained.
She gave it to him.
When he’d gathered the information, he got the description and estimated value of the stolen items and the timeframe of the burglary. Once finished, he snapped the notebook shut and replaced it in his breast pocket. “I’m really sorry this happened to you,” he said.
“So am I,” Joetta said ruefully. “I’m not looking forward to when the kids get home from school today.”
Ridgeway didn’t know how to answer that. He imagined her warm features painted with an underlying sadness as she tried to explain something like this to a couple of kids.
Instead, he asked, “Any insurance?”
Joetta shook her head. “Yeah, but the deductible would probably be more than the value of the stolen presents.”
“Maybe not if you include the damage to the door.”
Joetta smiled. “There’s always that, I suppose.” She reached for the cookies on the counter. “Would you like one?”
Ridgeway almost refused out of professional habit. But something in her tone caught his ear, so he said, “Sure.”
She handed him the warm cookie and he bit into it. The chewy texture gave way easily. It tasted like home to him. “They’re good,” he said.
“My mother’s recipe.” Another tear appeared in the corner of her eye. She brushed it away as it welled up and prepared to fall. “It isn’t quite Christmas without her cookies, you know?”
Ridgeway didn’t answer. Christmas was a very different experience for him these days, but it’s not like he could tell her that. Strangely, though, he felt like he could. Not that he could do it—he knew that was impossible—but like she’d listen, at least. Maybe she’d even understand.
He took another bite and said nothing.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance we’ll get those presents back?” Joetta asked in a quavering voice.
Ridgeway swallowed. He wanted to tell her that he’d go find those presents himself. That he’d bring back every one of them. The bad guy would apologize and go to jail. This report wouldn’t languish unassigned in the detective sergeant’s box before being filed away as unsolvable. Or it would be assigned to a detective who would work tirelessly to track down the burglar. That enough evidence existed to make that possible.
Joetta read his silence and sighed. “I didn’t think so.”
“I’m sorry,” Ridgeway said. “I’ll call out a corporal, just in case. He can check for some fingerprints. And maybe we’ll spot a footprint in the alley and get a good picture.”
“Thanks,” she r
eplied. “But it won’t make a difference, will it?”
“It might,” Ridgeway said, but his voice betrayed the truth of the matter.
Joetta sighed again. She rubbed her upper arms. “I wish I hadn’t quit smoking. Now would be a good time for a cigarette.”
Ridgeway raised his half-eaten cookie in salute. “Have a cookie instead.”
Joetta laughed. She picked up a cookie from the wax paper and raised it. “Merry Christmas, officer.”
“It’s Mark,” Ridgeway said. “Call me Mark.”
“Okay. And I’m Joetta,” she replied.
Ridgway smiled his first honest smile in a long time. “Well, merry Christmas, Joetta.”
Second Day
Detective Katie MacLeod removed two new case files from her box near the sergeant’s desk. A quick glance at the tabs told her that one was a burglary and the other an assault.
Merry Christmas, she thought cynically.
She carried the files back to her desk, stopping off at the coffee pot for a refill on her cup. At her desk, she settled in and opened the assault file first. She removed one of her log sheets from a drawer and inserted into the file, scrawling the date she received the case as the first entry.
The assault report was straightforward enough. She read the responding officer’s report while sipping the strong brew and wishing she’d remembered creamer.
The case was another bar fight. A little Christmas cheer that turned to Christmas jeer and pretty soon someone was mad enough to throw punches. Katie always marveled at how people somehow thought a date on the calendar might cause anything beyond a brief, surface change in human behavior. Fourteen years of law enforcement had disabused her of that notion, but she noticed that many people still clung to it.
The patrol officers had conducted a good investigation, she noticed. There were two witnesses who had bugged out before the police had arrived, but other than that, the investigation was quite complete. She glanced down at the bottom of the report. Officer Jack Willow’s name and badge number stared up at her. It figured. Willow was a solid veteran officer.
Katie jotted a note on a sticky pad to interview the two missing witnesses. Unless they had something different to say than the witnesses Willow had interviewed, she could prepare the charging paperwork and ship the chase to the prosecutor, clearing the case. All in all, the case was a ground ball.
She sipped some more coffee and opened the burglary file. After inserting the log sheet and noting the date, she looked at the report.
Mark Ridgeway’s bold script leapt up at her. She read the details. Forced entry at the back door with an undetermined but common pry tool. Moderate ransacking of the master bedroom. Only items missing were Christmas presents, both from under the tree and some hidden in the bedroom. It was a run-of-the-mill burglary, probably committed by a journeyman criminal.
Katie read further. Ridgeway had called out a corporal, who dusted for fingerprints and submitted a couple of smeared partials to the Crime Scene Forensics Unit for processing. Additionally, the corporal photographed the damage to the door and the mess of snowy footprints and tire tracks in the alley.
The detective sergeant had jotted a note inside the file. I know there’s nothing you can do with this, it read, but hang onto the file in case CSFU gets a hit on the prints.
“Fat chance,” Katie muttered, looking at the smeared partial prints. Still, it was no skin off of her nose to keep the case for a couple of weeks, just in case. She closed the folder and filed it at the back of her drawer.
She took another sip of coffee. Her stomach grumbled. A quick glance at her watch told her it was almost time for lunch. She wasn’t too keen on eating alone, but she hadn’t remembered to pack a lunch today, so she didn’t have much choice. She looked down at the caseload in her drawer and sighed.
A quick burger at Zip’s, she thought. And then she’d track down those missing witnesses on the assault.
Third day
“What the hell?” Officer Jack Willow muttered. He watched the man trudge down the sidewalk with a black garbage bag slung over his shoulder. It didn’t look quite right to him. Sure, the guy could be coming back from the Laundromat. In this neighborhood, he could even be moving. But it was still suspicious.
Willow reached for the radio mike. “Adam-226, I’ll be out with a suspicious person at Nettleton and Mallon.”
“Adam-226, copy.”
Willow rolled up behind the walking man and tapped his air horn. The man jumped, looking over his shoulder. His eyes widened momentarily.
“Oh, this guy is wrong,” Willow said aloud to himself. He put the patrol car into park and stepped out. “Hold up a second,” he said to the man.
The man ran his hand through his long, greasy brown hair. “Is there a problem, officer?”
Willow stepped over the accumulated snow at the edge of the road and onto the shoveled sidewalk. “Where are you headed?” he asked, ignoring the man’s question.
“Home.”
“Where’s that?”
The man pointed. “Up there a ways.”
“What’s the address?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you hassling me?”
Willow resisted the urge to let out a tired sigh. He felt like he was living the same movie over and over again. The script never seemed to change.
“What’s in the bag?” he asked the man.
“Stuff.” The man stroked his scraggly growth of beard. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“What question is that?”
“I asked why you’re hassling me.”
“Put the bag down,” Willow said.
“On the ground?” the man whined. “It’s snowy out here.”
“It’s a plastic bag. And the sidewalk is clear.” Willow pointed to the ground at the man’s feet.
The man sighed and dropped the bag, shaking his head in disgust. “You cops are all the same, hassling me just because I’m poor.”
Willow ignored the remark, more interested in the sound the bag made when it landed. The sound had a muffled clunk to it instead of the dull thud he would have expected from a bag full of clothing. He noticed a couple of sharp corners pushing at the black plastic of the bag.
“What’s your name?” Willow asked, moving his eyes back to the man in front of him.
The man remained silent, his face an obstinate stare.
A second patrol car appeared from the opposite direction and pulled to a stop. Officer Mark Ridgeway exited his car and joined them on the sidewalk. “Everything okay here?”
Willow nodded. “Yeah.”
Ridgeway pointed. “What’s in the bag?”
Willow shrugged.
Ridgeway tapped the man on the shoulder. “What’s in the bag?” he repeated.
“Personal stuff, okay?” the man snapped. “Can I go now?”
“No,” Willow said. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Bob Dylan.”
Ridgeway’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be a smart aleck.”
“I’m not. That’s my name.”
“Right,” Ridgeway said. “And I’m Jerry Garcia. This here is Bruce Springsteen.”
“Good for you,” Dylan snapped. “But my name really is Robert J. Dylan.”
Willow removed his notebook. “What’s your birth date?”
Dylan gave it to him.
Willow stepped a few paces away and checked the name with radio.
“So open up the bag,” Ridgeway said, turning off his own radio so that Dylan couldn’t hear Willow’s broadcast.
“No,” Dylan said.
“No?” Ridgeway cocked an eyebrow.
“Did I stutter?”
“What’s your problem?” Ridgeway asked.
“No problem,” Dylan said. “I just know my rights. You can’t search my stuff without a warrant. I didn’t even have to give you my name, but I know this’ll be over quicker if I do. You’ll run me, see I’m clear, and then I’ll be on my way.”
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“You’re quite the legal scholar,” Ridgeway said.
“I just know my rights,” Dylan said smugly. “That’s something you cops probably don’t run into very often.”
Willow returned, grinning. “You’re under arrest.”
Confusion washed over Dylan’s face. “For what?”
“You have a warrant for suspended driving,” Willow said. “Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Dylan stood still, his face full of surprise. Before he could consider running, Ridgeway stepped in and took control of one arm while Willow took the other. Willow ratcheted the handcuffs onto his wrists.
“A warrant?” Dylan sputtered. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s an amazing world, isn’t it?” Ridgeway said.
Willow searched Dylan. He removed a large screwdriver from the man’s waistband. “What’s this?”
“A screwdriver. You blind?”
“What’s it for?”
“Screwing things,” Dylan snapped.
Willow finished searching him, then seated him in the back seat of the police car. He joined Ridgeway on the sidewalk. The veteran stared down into the bag, dark anger plain on his face.
“What is it?” Willow asked him.
Ridgeway shifted the bag so that Willow could see that it was full of presents in red wrapping paper.
“Son of a…,” muttered Willow, trailing off with a shake of his head.
“I took a call two days ago where some lady had her back door jimmied,” Ridgeway said. “They took all the presents from under the tree and from her bedroom.”
“Think this is the guy, then?”
Ridgeway shrugged. “Probably. But those presents were all wrapped in green, except for a few blue ones.”
“So what do we have here? A Christmas present burglar?”
“I think so, yeah. Run him into the station and see which detective is working my case from two days ago.” He shook his head and hefted the bag of presents. “Open your trunk.”
Willow popped the trunk lid. Ridgeway placed the bag inside. “Let me know how things shake out with the Anti-Claus, all right?”
“You got it.”
Detective Katie MacLeod snatched the case file from the back of the drawer and headed to the interview room. Her mind whirred through the facts of the case. A quick glance inside the folder showed that the fingerprints had come back from CSFU as unworkable.