In Accord with The Law

A couple mornings ago, I took my two youngest (we refer to them as “The Little Ones”, even though they both are now many inches taller than their mother) to their weekly piano lesson, I noticed there was something stuck to the hood of the car belonging to my oldest son (one of whom we refer to as “The Big Ones. Again, both of whom stand many inches taller than their mother). It had been a couple weeks since I had driven the car myself, as it is a secondary vehicle to the big Ford Expedition family car. The thing on the hood really stood out.

After dropping them off at the piano teacher’s house (a small mobile home owned by a diminutive grandmotherly type with the heart of a lion and an iron fist teaching style), I headed off to the local Barnes & Noble to get some study done for my Sunday lesson. After reaching the parking lot, I inspected the hood to determine the identity of the foreign object on the hood of the four-door go cart that resides about 28 days a month in the same footprint since its last trip to the grocery store.

At first, I thought it was a rare earth magnet. It had a ring of rust around it as though it had been there for a winter in the Rust Belt, or a week in the Pacific Northwest. I barely cloaked my irritation with whichever of my kids (Little Ones: Member #2) that put it there... until I realized that the reason I couldn’t pull it off of the hood was because it wasn’t on the hood. It was partially imbedded in the hood. It was a bullet. “Now, there’s something you don’t see every day!” I said to myself aloud...

After I got back from my kid-shuttling duties, I dropped by the Shoreline Police Department to file a report. My dad told me it was often the small tips that lead to the big arrests, and sometimes the most seemingly inconsequential piece of evidence sometimes was the key that brought a case together. Who knows? Maybe what I thought to be a late night of Cinco de Mayo afterglow was, in fact, the missing link to Al Capone’s vaults (your ability to get this is dependent upon: 1) Whether you read my blog, and 2) Your age.)

The officer who stopped by the house to fill out the report was very nice. Seattle is a great big small town, so imagine Barney Fife with a new squad car, and you will have a pretty good lead for where this is going, as well as the general theme for the story. Or is it mood? Regardless...

“You the guy whose car got shot?”

“That would be me...”

“Seriously?”

“Yep...”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure!” says I, pointing at the bullet in the hood.

“Wow. That’s pretty rude,” says Officer Fife. Crime, in Seattle, seems to be based more upon etiquette than upon actual laws... unless, of course, a salmon is involved. “Wow.” (got that the first time)

“So,” says I, trying to strike up a bit of conversation that takes us beyond three-letter exclamations, “Do you think that’s a 9mm, or a .32 caliber? It’s definitely not a .45, right?”

“Your guess is as good as mine!”

Really? Seriously? What if I guessed it as a Shoshone tomahawk* from the time of Lewis & Clark...? Would that give me a chance at a prize bigger than, “Wow!”?

*the more astute readers among you most likely jumped with immediacy upon the reference to a Shoshone tomahawk with disdain. Alright... pukamoggran, then!

“Do you mind if I take it with me?” Officer Fife asked. At this point, I wasn’t really sure if it was for himself, or for “back at the lab” where the deeper mysteries of the Shoreline Police Department were discussed. “That’s fine,” I answered.

“Got anything to get that thing out? Pair of pliers? Hammer? Vice grips?” Something was telling me about now that ballistics had no chance of seeing my hood ornament make it back to the home base. “Uh... Sure.”

After I pounded the copper projectile into an orb-like lump, Officer Fife produced a single, professional, black latex-free glove from his right breast pocket (they must be professional: The ones at Costco are blue, the ones in my physician’s office are not nearly as smooth) and gingerly took the prize from my cold, not-so-dead-hands. “Thanks!”

“I wonder how it got there?” Instead of reply with “Maybe someone used a gun?”, I suggested that a party reveler may have joyfully let loose with a skyward round, as that the bullet itself did not pass through the hood, but merely lodged in it, seemingly falling from the sky. “Got anybody who might want to hurt you?” he asked, eyes narrowing into calculating slits. Pointing at the sky, I offered a meek explanation of, “This seems to have fallen from the sky. I’m pretty sure I am safe from any malice in that department.”

“O.K.” He seemed satisfied. “We’ll be in touch if we hear anything.”

I am not planning on leaving town any time soon. One never knows. Especially now that my fingerprints are now safely locked away in somebody’s pocket... I mean, forensics lab.