Page 47 of Stay Awake
“How much did you drink last night?” Detective Krause asks a few minutes later when we’re in a cramped interview room and I’m sittingon the other side of a small desk facing his hulking frame. He scribbles my answers in a notebook.
“Two glasses of wine. Actually, three.” I remember that I finished the meal with a Madeira port.
“After drinking three glasses of wine, you walked home thinking that someone followed you. You didn’t see this person and you didn’t report it. In addition, you are certain there was no milk in the kitchen fridge before you went to sleep, but you found a full carton this morning when you woke. Is that what happened?”
“Yes, that’s right. That text message I received this morning telling me to enjoy my coffee suggests that whoever sent the text left the milk for me.”
“But you said there was no sign of a break-in. So how did this intruder put the milk carton in your fridge?”
“Maybe he picked the lock while I was sleeping.”
The detective stares at me, openmouthed, like I’m crazy.
“You’re telling me that someone came into your apartment, put a carton of milk in your fridge, and then left without stealing a single thing?”
“What I’m saying,” I say tersely, “is that the incident last night, in addition to what happened the other night, suggests a pattern. The officers who came to my apartment last time told me to look out for a pattern.”
“I don’t see any pattern,” Detective Krause says, dropping his pen abruptly onto the table. “The police report from the other night says there were no signs of a break-in and there’s no history of harassment. There was also nothing stolen. The officer who signed the report indicated the mess in your bedroom might have been caused by a domestic pet.”
“My cat didn’t do it. And, incidentally, my cat doesn’t generally put milk cartons in the fridge or send me text messages either. It wasn’t my cat,” I sigh with frustration. “There must be something you cando, Detective!” I’m getting upset now. “Please, surely you can find out who sent me that text? I bet it’s the same person who broke into my apartment the other night.”
“You want me,” he points to himself, “to get a federal warrant to access private phone records and use them to arrest whoever sent you this text message on suspicion that this individual broke into your apartment to put a carton of milk in your fridge? Miss Reese, no judge would sign off on a warrant based on the information you’ve given me.”
“This message is implicitly threatening.” I hold up my cell phone so he can see the text I was sent. “The person who sent it implies that he knows what I’m doing as well as my likes and dislikes. Iwasfollowed last night, Detective Krause. I’m certain of it. What more do you need in order to investigate?”
“A heck of a lot more.”
“Such as?”
“Keep a journal. If you’re being followed, write it down. When. What time. What happened. Keep any messages you get. Most importantly, never communicate with a stalker.”
“How can I communicate with a stalker if I honestly don’t know who’s stalking me?” I’m horrified at the thought that someone in my orbit might be harassing me. “Nobody I know would do something like this.”
“I’ve had cases where someone nursing a grudge acts months or even years later,” he says.
George’s bearded face flashes in my head. The veteranCulturaphotographer lost his job when I complained about him deliberately putting his hand up my thigh on a work trip. When the HR manager called me into her office to tell me he’d been fired, she made it clear that I should let her know if he caused any trouble for me. I immediately knew that I’d made an enemy by reporting him. But that was ages ago. Surely George has moved on since then. Hasn’t he?
“It could be someone from your past, or it could be, as I said earlier, simply a mistake. Maybe things have been stressful for you at work. Maybe you drank too much last night. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation.”
“Detective,” I insist, “I did not imagine it. I just don’t know who’d do this to me.”
“Okay.” He holds up his hands defensively. “Don’t assume it’s someone you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oftentimes, a stalker is completely unknown to the victim. Maybe the victim did something nice, like hold open an elevator door. The stalker creates a fantasy world about that person and becomes obsessed.”
My stomach gets queasy as I consider the possibility that it was the waiter, Kevin, who followed me home last night and put the milk in the fridge. I tell myself that’s ridiculous. I have not a scrap of evidence that Kevin has done anything other than try to call me at my office a handful of times, which is creepy but not illegal.
“What happens if I only have a hunch as to who might be doing this? No evidence, just a hunch. What do you do in that scenario, Detective?”
“Probably nothing.” He shifts his big frame in his chair. “Without evidence, we’d watch and wait until the individual crossed a line.”
“Detective, are you actually telling me you can’t do anything to help me until this person hurts me?” I ask.
His silence is pretty much my answer.
Chapter
