Asking for Help

If you've never sought help from a law enforcement agency or a court, consider yourself lucky. This is a sign that your life is uncontaminated by predators.

Sadly, I have. The offered assistance was, to put it mildly, disappointing. I was left even more grateful afterwards than I was going in that these weren't matters of life and death.

In 2003, my wife and I lived in Rio Rancho, N.M. We had moved there from Albuquerque because of repeated conflicts with the divorced father and middle school-aged boy who lived next door.

The father was fond of playing his electric guitar on the patio at night, at least when his girlfriend and her daughter weren't spending the night. Then, I could look forward to the two children frolicking on a trampoline dad had set up in the backyard.

When they could spare the time, the Albuquerque Police Department would mozy by, usually after our neighbors had gone to bed. They clearly didn't want to deal with a noise complaint.

Late one night, I suggested that since it was nearing 12 AM on a weeknight, maybe the kids could quiet down a little. This bought me a shattered sliding glass patio door the next day, compliments of a BB gun.

That was the event that led to us firing our neighbors.

In Rio Rancho, my wife and I lived in a rental home on a well-traveled side street. But the houses were spaced far apart and there wasn't a trampoline or electric guitar in sight.

One Saturday morning we were preparing to go to the supermarket. An important phone call delayed our departure. When we finally left, the work crew clearing out the burned-out portion of our next door neighbor's home (there had been a fire several days before) apparently took notice.

When we arrived home our house had been burglarized. My wife's jewelry was missing. As was my baseball card collection and a moderate cache of coins we had amassed. My 35mm camera lay on the floor, broken. The house was ransacked. 

Thankfully, they had failed in their attempt to steal my wife's car.

Our cat was traumatized. From that point forward, she would run and hide whenever the doorbell rang. It was obvious the intruders had rung the bell to ensure the house was empty. Then they kicked the door in.

The Rio Rancho police were called and took a report. My wife and I were asked to submit detailed inventories of everything that was missing. In our naivete, we did.

Among my wife's missing jewelry were several pieces that belonged to her mother and maternal grandmother. While not extremely valuable monetarily, they were of immense sentimental value.

We were gobsmacked. No one saw a thing. No one saw people kicking our door down in broad daylight or thought the sight of men running across our front yard carrying heavy, fire-proof safes and jewelry boxes unusual.

For the next two months we spent our weekends scouring pawn shops and flea markets. Eventually, we struck gold.

At the since-demolished Louie's Flea Market in the south valley, I came across a portion of my coin collection. The dark blue, hand-labelled folders I had described in our report to the Rio Rancho police were lying on a collapsible table, plain as day.

I told the person manning the booth I was interested but pressed for time. Did he have a business card? Not surprisingly, it listed the name of the contractor who had cleared out our neighbor's home.

Excited that our diligence had finally paid off, I called the Albuquerque police.

I was met at a pay phone by an officer who listened to my story. He told me he could only recover what was on site.

In a measured voice I explained the connection between the contractor and the burned-out house and our proximity to it. I explained the profound and sentimental value of my wife's jewelry and my baseball cards and how we had spent months looking for them. I asked why, with such an obvious connection, he could only seize what was on site.

The cop stared at me from behind his mirrored aviator sunglasses and walrus mustache.

Instead of answering my question or explaining the law, he told me the sole alternative would require me to wear a wire and risk great personal injury by visiting the contractor's home as an undercover civilian detective, and how such actions were highly discouraged by APD since I was not a law enforcement professional—like him.

I was slack-jawed. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It couldn't have been clearer how angry this cop was that I had pulled him away from his free coffee and complimentary doughnut.

I took his name and badge number and filed the most-strident complaint I could muster.

Predictably, nothing came of it. When I inquired about the lack of follow-up, I was told to call non-existent phone numbers and visit empty offices. It was a big “fuck you” to a law-abiding member of the tax-paying public.

Displaying the same poor manners I had when I interrupted the responding officer's caffeine and sugar repast, I didn't even send a thank you card.

Unbelievably, the story gets better.

After relating my experience to a local TV station seeking stories of citizen's interactions with APD, I was pulled over three times in six months for suspected DWI.

One cop claimed we almost had an accident. Another claimed I was speeding. Still another accused me of “moving between the lines”. (To which I was tempted to reply “That kind of sounds like a description of driving, officer.”)

But being the tower of self-control and responsible drinking that I am, none of these stops bore fruit.

It could just be coincidence. But it's certainly an interesting one.

A few years later, the chief of the Albuquerque police department held a press conference. He announced that from this point forward, the starting salaries for Albuquerque police officers would increase 47%.

In a classic bit of PR, he claimed this would strengthen and improve the department by attracting better-qualified and more-experienced candidates. 

But when you read between the lines, it was a roundabout way of saying the ones currently on the force left something to be desired.

Who knew?