The Hooker and the Car Keys

I’ve only told this story a couple of times, once to @gavsmom1999 in about 10 DM’s. Rachel thought it was so funny that she occasionally brings it up in conversation - on Twitter. The problem is that when she does she distills it to a single tweet and it invariably comes out as something like: “…remember that time you were with that hooker and lost your keys?” GAAAA! Totally out of context and not worth 10 tweets to the world to explain. Anyway, I have, on occasion, felt the need to set the record straight, so here’s the rest of the story:

As I've alluded to from time to time my work orientation here is somewhat of a hybrid. I came up through the organization in Investigations and for years supervised the arson/bomb unit. I still manage that group but have oversight of the entire Division now and don’t carry as many cases as I used to. It’s called promoting the fun out of a job. Anyway, I don’t bring it up very often in Twitter; tends to get me unfollowed. But Rachel knows and one day asked if I ever had funny things happen.

I think a lot of jobs are like this: The moments that stand out are the ones that are the saddest, most frightening, or as is often the case:hilarious. This particular case gave me both some of the saddest- I won’t go into it here - and at the same time some of the funniest; weird the way that works. Anyway, to make a short story long, my suspect, a neo-Nazi biker drug dealer, attempted to murder his girlfriend, a prostitute, with a suitcase bomb (I know, I know: Why? cause she was seeing other men?). Anyway, the bomb functioned but didn’t kill or even injure her very badly, a good thing because she’s a working girl and has to pay the rent.

In any event,at the time I was close to having enough for both a search and arrest warrant to hit this guy’s place and I absolutely need to talk to her one more time. She agreed and my partner and I arrived at her house at about 10 AM. The door was answered by another of their ilk, the “homeowner”, a biker gang member who fell into the place when his father died. He tells me that she’s expecting us and we should just go on into her room. Now, I don’t open doors without a warrant so I politely knock. We both hear furtive, no frantic,scrambling around inside the room and just as I’m beginning to think we might have to shoot our way out a voice says “come in”. I carefully open the door and as soon as my eyes adjust to the lack of light I realize that she is in her water bed (yeah, a water bed), naked under the covers. How do I know that she was naked? She was only patially under the covers and I know naked when I see it: I’m a trained observer.

She informed me that the interview is taking place as-is or not at all. The furtive noises have moved to a nearby closet and I figured we’d just let the John sweat it out in there for the moment. My partner, who blocks the sun on an average day, is jammed in the doorway, taking up the remaining light and positioned for a hasty exit. I figured: “let’s get this over with” so I moved to the side of the bed and just as I did, my car keys slid off the notebook and into the substantial space between the waterbed frame and bag,about four inches from my naked witness.

But I’m cool, right? I’ll just get the keys and…they’re gone. And to make matters worse, a water bed in a frame is like digging in sand: Push it away in one spot, it collapses on another. I realize that this could turn out to be a project but think: maybe nobody noticed. I had worked with Marty for years and he notices when a shadow changes position so I wasn’t surprised to see him convulsing in the doorway. Judging by her expression I was getting no assistance from that quarter either. I spent the rest of the interview alternately fishing around and asking questions with my partner barely able to control his laughter. At one point he said: ”Ya know Joe I think I’ll just wait outside”, to which I gave him a look that made it clear I would pepper spray him if he even moved. More convulsing.

The interview lasted for ten years, or so it seemed. It’s hot, I’m sweating, she can’t seem to bring herself to invest in a decent light bulb and my flashlight is in the locked car that I no longer have the keys to. And my partner thinks that it is just about the funniest thing that he has ever witnessed. I have no idea what I’m sticking my hands into and I’m more than a little concerned about a needle stick, or God knows what else. Finally I said: “listen…I uh, dropped my keys.” To which she said “Yeah, I know.” And then: “I’m sure you can find them if you look hard enough. I suppose you want me to get out of bed.”

No, no I don’t.

It took some time but I finally managed to get one finger on the ring, ending the amusement of my partner and his now co-conspirator. I told her she should let her friend out of the closet before he suffocated. As we walked out of the house I turned to Marty and said: “Thanks a lot for your for your help back there”. That, of course, caused the dam to burst and he doubled over on the sidewalk, LHAO.

So if Rachel ever Twitters about the time I lost my keys in a prostitute’s bed, that's the story. I’m not anywhere near that interesting…