Another crime report, with a wrinkle on home intrusion I thought worth sharing, is on the jump. A chilling vignette.
A CORRESPONDENT WRITES:
Date: Oct 16, 2007
Subject: Found a man walking through my house last night.
I live in the Heights, where, last night, I found an intruder walking through my house.
Black male. About 5-9. Maybe 17 or so. Exhibiting no fear whatsoever.
My girlfriend and I had come in from a late movie. A lamp maybe two were on. Driveway lamps were on. Next-door neighbor's motion-detector floods were working (they come on bright and blinding when you walk down our driveway).
It was about midnight. We'd been in the house maybe 20 minutes. I had been carrying things in from the car. We were in the back bathroom talking. Then I heard footsteps in the house.
I moved through my bedroom, eliminating any possible friends or family from my mind as I passed, grabbed a towel off the bed and wrapped it around my left hand and I came out of the room. From the hallway, I see a figure about to enter my daughter's bedroom, downstairs and across the house from me. There at the top of the stairs I flicked on the downstairs lights—and this guy just turns around and walks right back towards me, up the steps, to my side, looking at me—I didn't move—and as he passes me he says "Who you is?" as arrogantly as possible.
"I am the owner of this house," I say, and he keeps walking, into the kitchen, the fingers of his right hand spread like a cobra's head, his left hand in the pocket of his sweatshirt. I start to follow him—the kitchen door was standing open—then he stops, turns, and says, "My bad," and steps towards me, extending his right hand, his left still in his pocket.
Scanning his hands I took one step back and said, "Stop Moving—right now."
Now I sense that MY hands are flaring, my body expanding with adrenaline and fear. I looked at his pocketed hand and thought, I could die, easily, right here. He stopped moving. Kept his right hand extended. I said, "Turn around, walk back out of here, and I forget it."
But he wanted me to take his hand; moved a step closer. I said, "Man, STOP moving." He said, "You won't take my hand? I'm apologizing. It's my bad. I was in the wrong. You won't take my hand?" My mind was racing. I looked at his hand, reaching for me, dead calm, at his sweatshirted chest, his other, concealed hand, and said, very reluctantly, very slowly, "I'll touch your hand..." and, reaching out, to touch all that is opposite, brushed the tips of my fingers against the tips of his—fingerprints to fingerprints—for a fraction of a second, then pulled back and pointed back behind me and said, "There are other people here. Turn. Go. And we both forget it. OK? I FORGET it. Just go now. And we're done. It's over."
He stared at me, turned—indignant that I wouldn't shake his hand—and walked out, pulling the open door behind him.
He had come from a car that was sitting across the street, pointing towards me, lights on. Don't know if he was alone or not. I saw it as I moved to the kitchen door (it's half glass). The lights pointed to me. I couldn't make out colors in the darkness. It started and accelerated, in reverse, back up the street. I walked outside as it peeled down Kavanaugh.
My car had been rifled: every compartment opened and explored. CD's, cables, papers, flashlight: all there, strewn over the seats and floorboards. I couldn't find that anything was missing.
Except my naïveté and my balance.