Norris (part 3 of 3)

Norris

"When you found this toolbox what was he doing?"

Chickerston Police Officer

His eyebrows raised twice in quick succession as if they were two kids getting away with a prank. “Tell Clarence we say ‘hello’” the man said.  Norris took a large breath in and the man exited out where she had come.

She dialed 9-1-1 once the man turned around letting his foreign accent echo in her head.  What is that accent?   No dial tone! Could he have cut the power-She then realized in her haste she forgot to dial ‘3’ to get an outside line. 3 then 9-1-1, again. This time the same thin voice answered, “Chickerston Police.”

“He’s gone! He was about 6 feet tall, Caucasian male with a thick brown mustache and thin brown hair.” She had watched much court room TV and knew eye witness testimony was usually the weakest evidence if it wasn’t accurate.  She went on, “He’s wearing jeans and a loose red flannel shirt with a t-shirt underneath it.  Tell them he went out the front door.  I’m fine but he’s getting away.” 

When two squad cars arrived three minutes later.  They made no attempt in following her instructions on the direction that he ran.  Instead one officer came out from each car and they slowly walked towards her as if molded zombies from the bleak morning sky.

“How are ya?” Said the one that looked most awake.

“Fine, really. I mean he just left aren’t you going to find him?” She asked, confused at their bleak and slow demeanor.

“We’ve got people on in,” he answered.

“When you became aware of this…” The other officer began saying almost as slowly as their response in arriving here. When he found the word he said, “When you found this toolbox what was he doing?”

“Well, he was already on his way out but he was carrying my computers.” She had checked while the police had still been on their way just after the intruder left.  Her fear had been confirmed when she walked in her office and saw two giant gaps where her computers had been.

They asked her very detailed questions about the intruder, her computers, her own routine and why she was there so early.  And then when they were almost ready to leave she added, “he sounds like he’s French though. He’s got an accent.”

The rest of the day loomed ahead of her and as it stood she was far behind schedule.  Forms, discrepancies, and forms formalizing discrepancies constituted the work she did until about 9 o’cock. And since it was already nine she would skip those tasks altogether.  This was actually a good thing since she needed new computers and that work was almost entirely computer-based.  The rest of the day she would be handling complaints from clerks, confusion from para-legals, and a call or two from Adam Townsend all of which only needed a telephone.  Townsend had been a colorful young man who drank too much, smoked too much and had serious dependency issues.  He craved her attention and criticism as much as a nightly Manhattan.  He was ten years younger than her though he was taller and bigger which she liked.  He worked with the Bobcats that now moaned and sprung to life in the construction area nearby.  That and a few well timed smoke breaks was how their romance began. 

His age came with impatience and anger at work, the world, and sometimes her.  She suspected he had been in prison at one time or another due to a growing list of evidence: he had friends he never introduced to her but always talked about, he had a white supremacist tattoo, and finally he was able to rearrange the wires in a car in order to get it started without the key.  He had to do this for her one day after work when she lost her keys. 

“Thanks, you,” She had told him affectionately when the engine jumped to life.

“No problem.”  He said conclusively.  She waited for him to tell her about the skill and about how he had learned.  When he realized this he suddenly said, “I’ve been, you know, good with cars.  It’s just natural.”  Just because it’s natural doesn’t means it’s good, she had thought.  Just because you’re good with cars doesn’t mean you’ve used it for good.  The tension passed and the alien skill was never brought up again.  When she googled ‘hot wiring’ she became intrigued with her possible criminal boyfriend instead of disgusted.

Townsend had also sent the first of two flower arrangements after the stroke.  The second was from work.  She looked at the flowers, loose about her floor and trampled in the haste of the robbery.  They were weak and wilted. I guess I won’t have to change them. She looked one last time at the flowers and then at her watch.  This is going to be a long sort of day.