Inept Investigation
People who know me well are aware of my sad delusion that I will, one day, be a grizzled and world-weary private investigator, using my profession to confirm my most cynical doubts about the world and as an excuse to never get close to anyone. That’s the life for me. That, or riding around the U.S. Highway system on a Harley, going from town to town and performing odd jobs until I have enough money to move on (and solving many mysteries along the way).
But here’s the thing about me solving anything resembling a mystery: I’m not good at it. I’m also not experienced, so if (for instance) somebody decides to tail me, I can’t outmaneuver them in eggplant-colored 1993 Chrysler Concorde. I probably couldn’t even outrun them in a gold ‘74 Firebird, no matter how well it corners.
As a result, we get the situation I had this morning. You might recall that last week my mother was laid off, and I talked her into waiting until Monday to go and stalk her coworker. If you are too lazy to read the other entry, here it is in brief: my mom was hired to do a job, a young and cute girl was hired to help out (doing the same job) despite being fairly incompetent, and my mom’s boss had a huge, not-so-secret crush/flirtation with the new girl. When they laid my mom off, they said the college girl would also be laid off, but since they’ve also proven to be huge liars, she didn’t believe it.
So we drove over there this morning, shortly after the college girl would arrive but also early enough to avoid anyone leaving for a lunchbreak, sticking to the backroads and driving my car so they wouldn’t recogize my mom and/or her car. In traditional private detective fashion, I insisted on being highly caffeinated during these proceedings (the drunkenness usually comes later, to wash away the bitter stench of failure). Unfortunately, a stop at Krispy Kreme for mochas ended in disaster. Note to Krispy Kreme employees (who I imagine read this blog because I am the fat trendsetter): mochas are not the same as hot chocolate. Thank you for the caffeine-withdrawal headache.
The primary objective was to spot the college girl’s car in the parking lot, without being seen. It’s in a business park littered with one-story buildings, some of which (like my mom’s former place of employment) face the parking lot. My mom knows they have a tendency to stare out the windows at the parking lot, so she was afraid that stopping or slowing down too much would give us away. Sort of a big issue when the secondary objective was to photograph the girl’s car in case something lawsuit-esque ever happens. (Mom seems to think there’s a case for age-discrimination; she might have someone if she can get other employees to testify in her behalf, but even then it all just seems like a lot of hearsay without any hard evidence.)
The other big problem with the primary objective? My mom has no real idea what kind of car the college girl drives. She knew the color and that it has a spoiler. That’s it. She also knew that there was another car with an identical color, but it was fancier and more than likely belonged to someone working in the law firm next door. Did she have some idea of the college girl’s license plate number? No. Make and/or model? “Well, it was sort of sporty, but not too sporty — the other one was really sleek, like a Corvette but not actually a Corvette.” That narrows it down!
I weaved my way through the parking lot, following her instructions on how to get to her particular building. As we approached, there weren’t many cars, and none of them were the “sort-of blue” color she had attempted to describe. Then, past a big minivan, there was a dark-blue car. I barely got a look at it, but what I saw looked “sleek” to me, and not in a “sporty but not too sporty” way. Like the kind of annoying sports car where the seats are practically horizontal, like a bed, because the windshield and ceiling are so low-slung.
“That’s it,” my mom said glumly. “That’s her car?”
“Are you sure?” I asked, slowing down so she could snap a —
“Don’t slow down!” she snapped. “She’s parked right in front of the windows, and they’ll see her.”
“But —”
“Just keep going!”
I kept going, circling around to the other side of the building and exiting to go home, and then we got into an argument about it. I thought, based on the descriptions of the two similar cars, that she had identified the wrong one. I wanted to swing back around for a second pass, but she got all paranoid and told me to keep driving. Then, when we were about halfway home, she started hemming and hawing that maybe she had rushed to judgment. She didn’t want to go back again and risk being seen, though. We agreed, since she got the make and model of the car in the parking lot, that we’d look it up online and see what it looked like.
That didn’t end well. I was driving, so I didn’t get a look at the car; my mom misidentified the car model (and possibly the make) so we had no luck tracking down a car that doesn’t exist. What the hell? This is why Jim Rockford always tried to avoid his clients getting too involved with the investigation.
In my quest to use real investigative tactics, I’d stake the place out on Thursday (the college girl’s next scheduled work date). I’d show up 20-30 minutes before she was supposed to start and watch; that way, the car doesn’t matter. I see her, in the flesh, walking from her car into the building. Thanks to the magic of Facebook stalking, I already know exactly what she looks like. The way the business park is laid out, there are several vantage points where I could watch the building and its little sub-parking lot and not be seen.
Also, if I did need to figure out the make and model of the car, or snap a photo, I wouldn’t care about stopping. They would have no idea who I am, assuming they could even see me inside the car (I think they could see the car slow or stop, but based on the angle, I doubt they could see inside).
So, new plan and new story!
Posted by Stan on April 30, 2007 3:12 PM | Permalink | Family: The Horror… | Digg It
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