I needed no infusion of coffee the other morning for my trip over to the Norris Cotton Cancer Research Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Regional Medical Center.
Cool, crisp, sweet Green Mountain air did the trick to clear my head and excite my senses.
The night before, my brother, bless him, tried to load me up with a zillion questions for my first Prayer Session with Dr. Liz and Dr. Trevor. But whatever advice and concern he expressed through his line of reasoning got lost somewhere in the 40 minutes that it took me to drive from my place in Rochester, VT to Hanover, NH.
You'll have to forgive me, Bill, but I just became too entranced by the magic show offered to me on this particular morning.
In Vermont, that cool, crisp, clean mountain air I mentioned earlier creeps down from the summits in the pre-dawn hours and settles as dense fog, like an expertly-applied egg-white layer of chiffon, into the entire length of the White River Valley.
The Sun's first infusion of warmth kisses the fog's uppermost layer and then and only then, like the thinnest and purest and whitest of warming gossamer, layers upon layers slink back into the mountains, like a cat.
This spectacular revealed itself, before me as I drove through the Valley, as if it were a gift created just for me--and for me alone. If I had just one more day to live, this would be its High Point.
Two other points, if I may: I had all the major roads and highways virtually to myself on this particular morning until a couple of white-tailed deer slowed me down outside of Bethel. I also had to put on the brakes north of Harford to let a moose cross the interstate.
What compelled me to get on the road at so early an hour? The answer is simple: experience.
I learned the Hard Way, during my War against Non-Hotchkins Lymphoma -- and from my experiences with schedules for consultations and treatments in Florida -- that, if you book an appointment in the PM hours, you'll be twiddling your thumbs for an hour or three while the doctors scramble to catch up with their appointments.
Tip the the Rookies: best to book the first available appointment of the practitioner's day -- the earlier, the better.
And so it happened that Dr. Liz and Dr. Trevor had an 8 AM slot open on my appointed day, and I gladly took it. The available literature asserts that Liz is one of the leading medical specialists in the USA who knows how to treat (a) lymphoma, and (b) chemo-caused blood disorders.
Trevor is a Fellow at Norris Cotton who waited several years for the opportunity to study with Liz. He put his own internal medical practice on ice for three years for the honor and privilege of working with her and the rest of her extremely talented team.
In short, Liz and Trevor are exactly the people I need in my life at this particular point in time.
(My 7 AM arrival meant I would have to present myself to "The Vampires" at that un-Godly hour for the prerequisite Blood work, but I had no problem with that because Liz and Trevor would undoubtedly have my lab results in their hands by the time we hooked up.)
Before I continue on-and-on about my new medical team, I am reminded of the fact that my fellow metaphysicians would ban me from practice for life if I failed to mention something about the Dartmouth-Hitchcock campus.
In 20 words or less, the hospital / medical school complex is designed to make you feel better even before you walk through its doors.
The openness and airiness of the atria gave me the sense that I had entered an ultra-modern library, or art museum. I also sensed that the architects and the builders went far, far out of their way to create a 1.8 million square foot, un-hospital-like complex which they deftly designed to be hidden -- unobtrusiveness would probably be a better concept to describe it -- within the rocky and rolling and oak-laden foothills of the White Mountains.
Now that I have satisfied my fellow Metaphysicians, let's get back to the Medical Physicians...
Dr. Liz and Dr. Trevor had a complete mastery of my medical condition, plus she had an ability to explain what is happening to me, on the lymphatic front, in both highly-scientific terms, and in ways a nine-year old would easily comprehend.
We spent over an hour together in a casual but focused conversation, getting to know one another and going over lab results, biopsies, medical notes from my Florida oncologist, and filling in some gaps in my records. Then, the time arrived for them to do most of the talking.
Let's start with the Boss:
Yes, Liz said, the lymphoma was under control -- but to get there, the chemo crashed my body's ability to make other components of my blood. Yes, she added, matters were serious, and no, my condition wasn't life-threatening -- yet.
Yes, she said, the team at Norris Cotton could help me -- and Trevor would be my Main Man in the quest to restore my health to full vitality.
I noticed that Trevor absorbed every one of Liz' words as though he was listening to the Dalai Lama. And for her part, Liz left it all up to Trevor to translate her Common Man explanation to me, regarding what was going to happen next, into some form of medical-ese.
This exercise proved to be Dr. Trevor's strong suit. Except for a snippet here and there, the clinical explanations he offered me soared way over my head. So he downshifted intellectually to terms a high school senior might grasp.
Yes, he explained, there were new and improved forms of chemotherapy that could goose my overall blood counts -- mentioning IVIG as the chief ingredient. (Don't ask me what IVIG is: I have a hard time understanding that Rituxin, the main line of treatment for lymphoma, is made out of Rat Spleen.)
Fact is: I trust these folks, believe in them, and have faith in their recommendations.
Gentleman and metaphysician that I am, I would never inquire about a woman's age. But snoop that I am, and if I had to guess, I'd say she's in her mid-to-late 40s. As the medical director of Norris Cotton, she is clearly at or near the summit of her profession.
She graduated from Ohio State University. I have the distinct impression that, while 106,000 other Buckeyes and their faithful crammed the football stadium, Liz was in the lab, studying and learning the mysteries and secrets and the wonders of bone marrow.
I also have a feeling that she wore red platforms and pink anklets with lace fringes even back then.
Trevor got his sheepskin from Williams College -- nicknamed "The Ephs" for some obscure reason ( I think it has something to do with a "cow") and continues the preppy tradition of wearing cotton tattersall button down shirts, sailboat ties, penny loafers, and Docker slacks.
If he hadn't gone off to medical school, I have this distinct impression he might have hooked up with either the CIA or a Think Tank, to research, develop and then guide, using a joystick, a robotic Fly, carrying several ounces of Plastique, up the nostril of an Islamic terrorist.
Either that, or he would have been off to the World of Investment Banking.
Anyway, Dr. Liz and Dr. Trevor, from Dartmouth-Hitchcock's Norris Cotton Cancer Center, are on my Team now.
And I feel as though I am One Lucky Duck.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Stunned Dismayed, and Violated
On a recent late Saturday afternoon, I placed a temporary "good-bye & farewell" kiss on my wonderful wife, Carol's smackers, and bid her a safe flight back to Florida from the Burlington International Airport.
Before "The Kiss," I helped her with the luggage and then we lingered, watching the big jet as it taxied up to the departure gate. Time together was running very, very short, so we tabled the pro-forma generalities and spoke from our hearts and our mutual love, and our hope that my time and labor in establishing our Vermont Farm would progress safely and steadily despite her absence.
We also shared this article of faith: that I would procure rapid improvement in my health, over at the Norris Cotton Cancer Center at Dartmouth, under the wisdom, the arts, the skills and the watchful eyes of Doctor Liz and Doctor Trevor.
Within the intimacy of these precious moments, neither Carol nor I could possibly have been able to foresee, or comprehend, the Nightmare that awaited us both upon her return to our house in Cape Coral, Florida.
Before I wade into the substance of what's to follow, allow me to state for the record that our Florida hacienda reposes, like an oasis, within a setting framed by Ericha palms, Sea Grape, bamboo, mango and avocado, shell-packed walkways, and numerous floral nooks that suggest, in a landscaping sense, what one would expect to find in Coconut Grove.
Our landscaping scheme contained three goals: (a) to provide the property with privacy; (b) to create as much shade as possible and, thus, gain relief from the Florida heat; and (c) reduce yard maintenance to its minimum.
What I completely failed to calculate, however, was this:
In securing our privacy from passersby on the street, and from snoopy neighbors, I created the perfect burglar's screen. Anyone with an intent to invade our property could pull off their crime with minimal chance of being caught by someone observing their activities from the street.
And so it happened, after the cabbie dropped Carol off at the foot of the driveway just after midnight, that she opened the front door to discover that our home had, indeed, been burglarized and ransacked.
Panic-driven to hysterical instincts, Carol hit the magic numbers of "911." A pair of police cruisers screamed out their arrival in a matter of minutes. Another patrol car pulled into the driveway -- this one driven by a sergeant-on-duty who immediately radioed ahead for the fingerprint and forensic team.
Using flashlights for some inexplicable reason, the cops "swept" the interior before allowing Carol to enter our house. When she turned on the lights, she was confronted, after her long and arduous travel day, by the Mother-Of-All Home Trashings.
It was precisely at that moment in time when she called me to deliver the top-side, Bird's Eye Low-Down regarding what had happened to us.
She felt as though she had been raped: I, too, felt violated to that extent. I also felt a wave of anger surging within me -- contemporaneous with feelings of utter helplessness due to the absolute fact that about 1,700 miles now stood between us. There was just little, if anything, I could do to comfort her or to support her except, in some small, insignificant measure, to commiserate about our mutual sense of violation and imminent loss.
The duty sergeant asked Carol to cut our conversation short. He had some questions ...
Meanwhile, as Carol and I were to discover, every drawer was yanked open and then dumped onto the tiles and carpets in the perps' mission to steal any and all articles of value.
Jewelry boxes were rifled through, and then smashed to the floor. The burglars walked off with just about every piece of gold, diamond, and silver that we prized -- much of which had been heirlooms, passed down from her parents and mine.
Carol especially treasured three pieces of her jewelry: her Sterling silver charm bracelet she had worn since she was a teen, a 14-carat gold snowflake necklace I had given her as an anniversary gift some years ago, and a faux silver necklace of an alpaca's head which she bought at an Alpaca Breeders' Show in North Carolina.
The perps even took their sweet time converting our meticulously neat, walk-in closet into a rag bin. They found our Hurricane Evacuation Safe and jimmied the lock. They then walked away with a very substantial amount of Greenbacks.
(I have to thank them, however, for not pissing on the deeds, the birth certificates, Social Security Cards, insurance policies, wills, and other important documents when they left those items strewn all over the closet floor.)
The cops and the forensic team departed after spending two over hours doing their thing in the house. By then, Carol called me back to say that she was on Page Four of her hand-written list of missing inventory.
Despite all of the forensic and investigative tools available to modern Law Enforcement, the duty sergeant and the zone corporal mentioned that the odds of regaining our heisted possessions were, in all probability, less than 10,000 to 1. The most valuable stuff, made of gold and silver, was probably melted down already in either Tampa or in Miami.
More probably than not, the thieves are part of an out-of-town ring who thrive on breaking into seasonal residences. One tell-tale clue: the perps who broke into our hacienda successfully bypassed a security system without triggering any alarms.
On the remote possibility this crime was committed by a local cat burglar / junkie in need of a fix, the sergeant suggested Carol might want to cruise past the glass display cases residing within a few of the city's Pawn Shops. Maybe a few of our items had been hocked ...
As to the matter of who committed this particular crime, the police said they'd check out the Usual Suspects, and perhaps ask a few of their informants in-town if they heard anything.
It goes without saying that, to a violated woman such as Carol, and to an angry and frustrated alpaca-herding metaphysician such as I -- one who is lymphoma-ridden and who has blood counts so low that even the mosquitoes ignore me -- these were not the kind of statements from the police that we wanted to hear, under the circumstances.
In a matter of days, Carol calmed down a bit. She informed me that she has acquired the skill of sleeping with an eye open, with a baseball bat next to the bed stand to up the ante for any future burglar.
I, contemporaneously, have been developing a theory concerning the perp or perps who committed this crime.
As I now clearly recall, I mentioned to the adolescent daughter of one of my neighbor that I was heading North, to Vermont. This innocent and casual exchange occurred while we were standing in-line at the local convenience store: she was buying a Slurpee and I was acquiring a 12-pack of beer.
I didn't provide her with any details, that is, that I was seeking the best possible medical treatments offered at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, which happens to be one of the world's best treatment centers for blood and bone marrow disorders caused by chemotherapy.
I felt then, as I do now, that such information is far and away and above and beyond a 12-year old's abilities to understand.
The girl wished me well, and said that she'd tell her dad about it. Perhaps her dad could keep an eye on things, especially if Carol travelled to Vermont to stay with me? Perhaps she could watch the cats?
As to her second question, I said that wouldn't be necessary because the cats were going to Vermont with me. As to her first question, in retrospect, I should have sworn her to secrecy.
Here's why: It ultimately occurred to me that, for several years, I had been aware that this particular dad -- let's call him Blaine -- had occasionally strolled on the other side of the street as far as the law was concerned.
It is generally well-known that Blaine -- a Hard-Luck Red Neck if there was ever one -- had been picked up for petty theft a few years ago, did some time at the County Lockup, and had been in-and-out of the Can ever since for assault on his ex-girlfriend and for failure to pay child support.
Blaine hasn't held any kind of meaningful job in seven years. A bug extermination shop let him go when the Economy went South, and before that, he lost his job with the City Public Works Dept. when he flunked a random drug test.
Blaine's hootch -- which makes Dog Patch look like Beverley Hills -- is a magnate for several of his pals, all equally shady types who come and go at every conceivable hour of the day and night.
Here's my hypothesis: the girl told her dad that Carol and I would be away for awhile, and Blaine, in turn, shared the information with one or more of his associates.
Factoid: as everyone with a pulse knows, the State of Florida is infested with more cat burglars, petty thieves, second-story men / women, con artists, pick-pockets, junkies and "fences," per square foot, than any other place on this Planet.
Ergo: If Blaine blabbed to one of his associates about my particular situation, the odds of whetting the nefarious interests of one (or more) of his crew would be astronomic in favor of a break-in at our residence.
As I mentioned, this is just a theory...
It came to pass that Carol took the duty sergeant's advice. She popped in on a pawn shop located less than a quarter-mile from our place -- and to her utter shock, she saw her faux silver alpaca necklace in the display case.
Trembling, Carol took her exit and immediately called the police department. Within five minutes, Sgt. Gil, one of the city's best detectives, arrived on the scene.
Carol remained silent while Det. Sgt. Gill asked the questions:
Gil: Where did the necklace come from?
Pawnbroker: I had this in the case for eight months!
Gil: Show me the paperwork.
Pawnbroker: I don't have it. I lost it or misplaced it!
Gil: You will lose your license if you fail to produce the paperwork.
Pawnbroker: How does she know it's hers? It could have been dropped by anybody?
Gil: She owns six alpacas, owns an alpaca fiber business, and she has an alpaca sign on the door of her car.
Turns out that Det. Sgt. Gil folded the pawnbroker at that point like a cheap suitcase. It also turned out that the perp tendered the necklace to the pawnbroker on July 6th -- not eight months ago as the pawnbroker initially stated.
While the sergeant continued to grill the pawnbroker, Carol also found our missing Konica 35 MM camera and lenses locked within another display case. No paperwork.
If the name given by the person who pawned our possessions holds up, the police have their first solid lead in the case. In any event, the pawnbroker now finds myself in a Crap-Storm for a variety of legal reasons, to wit: (a) accepting stolen property; (b) failure to keep accurate and timely records; (c) giving false and misleading statements to the police.
The pawnbroker is obviously a Fence and I am wondering how Det. Sgt. Gill will leverage all of this to our benefit?
As this tale unfolds, there are some obvious lessons that come to my mind.
First, it's never a good idea to share travel plans with anyone other than a person whom you really, really trust. As in my case, you'll never know how others will use this information.
Second, tell your local police department when you'll be out-of-town for an extended period of time. I didn't know this, but most if not all police departments will increase their neighborhood patrols in your area if they are aware you'll be on vacation. They will do this as part of their community service component.
Third, make a list of all your possessions with a value in excess of $50 and then either photograph them individually, or make record of them on a digital or video camera. It will be of immense value if you retain and file all jewelry receipts. Make a separate list of the serial numbers of all electronic and power equipment. When compiled, place these lists in your safe deposit box.
Fourth, never rely solely on your home security system to protect you or your possessions. As we learned (the hard way) these types of systems can be bypassed and/ or defeated by perps. Back up your security by installing a sound system with sirens or horns in the eardrum-shattering 280-decibel range. A 500 decibel siren, mounted exteriorially, can alert neighbors and police as far as a half-mile away.
Fifth, never -- ever -- assign guilt to yourself in the event of a home invasion. Any perp, when motivated, will break through even the best of systems. Our job is simple: to make it very, very hard for them to succeed.
Meanwhile, Carol will continue to cruise the pawn shops and remain in touch with the police until we can resolve this very revolting development.
Here's hoping that Det. Sgt. Gil et.al. nail the thieves -- and let's see where my theory leads ...
Before "The Kiss," I helped her with the luggage and then we lingered, watching the big jet as it taxied up to the departure gate. Time together was running very, very short, so we tabled the pro-forma generalities and spoke from our hearts and our mutual love, and our hope that my time and labor in establishing our Vermont Farm would progress safely and steadily despite her absence.
We also shared this article of faith: that I would procure rapid improvement in my health, over at the Norris Cotton Cancer Center at Dartmouth, under the wisdom, the arts, the skills and the watchful eyes of Doctor Liz and Doctor Trevor.
Within the intimacy of these precious moments, neither Carol nor I could possibly have been able to foresee, or comprehend, the Nightmare that awaited us both upon her return to our house in Cape Coral, Florida.
Before I wade into the substance of what's to follow, allow me to state for the record that our Florida hacienda reposes, like an oasis, within a setting framed by Ericha palms, Sea Grape, bamboo, mango and avocado, shell-packed walkways, and numerous floral nooks that suggest, in a landscaping sense, what one would expect to find in Coconut Grove.
Our landscaping scheme contained three goals: (a) to provide the property with privacy; (b) to create as much shade as possible and, thus, gain relief from the Florida heat; and (c) reduce yard maintenance to its minimum.
What I completely failed to calculate, however, was this:
In securing our privacy from passersby on the street, and from snoopy neighbors, I created the perfect burglar's screen. Anyone with an intent to invade our property could pull off their crime with minimal chance of being caught by someone observing their activities from the street.
And so it happened, after the cabbie dropped Carol off at the foot of the driveway just after midnight, that she opened the front door to discover that our home had, indeed, been burglarized and ransacked.
Panic-driven to hysterical instincts, Carol hit the magic numbers of "911." A pair of police cruisers screamed out their arrival in a matter of minutes. Another patrol car pulled into the driveway -- this one driven by a sergeant-on-duty who immediately radioed ahead for the fingerprint and forensic team.
Using flashlights for some inexplicable reason, the cops "swept" the interior before allowing Carol to enter our house. When she turned on the lights, she was confronted, after her long and arduous travel day, by the Mother-Of-All Home Trashings.
It was precisely at that moment in time when she called me to deliver the top-side, Bird's Eye Low-Down regarding what had happened to us.
She felt as though she had been raped: I, too, felt violated to that extent. I also felt a wave of anger surging within me -- contemporaneous with feelings of utter helplessness due to the absolute fact that about 1,700 miles now stood between us. There was just little, if anything, I could do to comfort her or to support her except, in some small, insignificant measure, to commiserate about our mutual sense of violation and imminent loss.
The duty sergeant asked Carol to cut our conversation short. He had some questions ...
Meanwhile, as Carol and I were to discover, every drawer was yanked open and then dumped onto the tiles and carpets in the perps' mission to steal any and all articles of value.
Jewelry boxes were rifled through, and then smashed to the floor. The burglars walked off with just about every piece of gold, diamond, and silver that we prized -- much of which had been heirlooms, passed down from her parents and mine.
Carol especially treasured three pieces of her jewelry: her Sterling silver charm bracelet she had worn since she was a teen, a 14-carat gold snowflake necklace I had given her as an anniversary gift some years ago, and a faux silver necklace of an alpaca's head which she bought at an Alpaca Breeders' Show in North Carolina.
The perps even took their sweet time converting our meticulously neat, walk-in closet into a rag bin. They found our Hurricane Evacuation Safe and jimmied the lock. They then walked away with a very substantial amount of Greenbacks.
(I have to thank them, however, for not pissing on the deeds, the birth certificates, Social Security Cards, insurance policies, wills, and other important documents when they left those items strewn all over the closet floor.)
The cops and the forensic team departed after spending two over hours doing their thing in the house. By then, Carol called me back to say that she was on Page Four of her hand-written list of missing inventory.
Despite all of the forensic and investigative tools available to modern Law Enforcement, the duty sergeant and the zone corporal mentioned that the odds of regaining our heisted possessions were, in all probability, less than 10,000 to 1. The most valuable stuff, made of gold and silver, was probably melted down already in either Tampa or in Miami.
More probably than not, the thieves are part of an out-of-town ring who thrive on breaking into seasonal residences. One tell-tale clue: the perps who broke into our hacienda successfully bypassed a security system without triggering any alarms.
On the remote possibility this crime was committed by a local cat burglar / junkie in need of a fix, the sergeant suggested Carol might want to cruise past the glass display cases residing within a few of the city's Pawn Shops. Maybe a few of our items had been hocked ...
As to the matter of who committed this particular crime, the police said they'd check out the Usual Suspects, and perhaps ask a few of their informants in-town if they heard anything.
It goes without saying that, to a violated woman such as Carol, and to an angry and frustrated alpaca-herding metaphysician such as I -- one who is lymphoma-ridden and who has blood counts so low that even the mosquitoes ignore me -- these were not the kind of statements from the police that we wanted to hear, under the circumstances.
In a matter of days, Carol calmed down a bit. She informed me that she has acquired the skill of sleeping with an eye open, with a baseball bat next to the bed stand to up the ante for any future burglar.
I, contemporaneously, have been developing a theory concerning the perp or perps who committed this crime.
As I now clearly recall, I mentioned to the adolescent daughter of one of my neighbor that I was heading North, to Vermont. This innocent and casual exchange occurred while we were standing in-line at the local convenience store: she was buying a Slurpee and I was acquiring a 12-pack of beer.
I didn't provide her with any details, that is, that I was seeking the best possible medical treatments offered at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, which happens to be one of the world's best treatment centers for blood and bone marrow disorders caused by chemotherapy.
I felt then, as I do now, that such information is far and away and above and beyond a 12-year old's abilities to understand.
The girl wished me well, and said that she'd tell her dad about it. Perhaps her dad could keep an eye on things, especially if Carol travelled to Vermont to stay with me? Perhaps she could watch the cats?
As to her second question, I said that wouldn't be necessary because the cats were going to Vermont with me. As to her first question, in retrospect, I should have sworn her to secrecy.
Here's why: It ultimately occurred to me that, for several years, I had been aware that this particular dad -- let's call him Blaine -- had occasionally strolled on the other side of the street as far as the law was concerned.
It is generally well-known that Blaine -- a Hard-Luck Red Neck if there was ever one -- had been picked up for petty theft a few years ago, did some time at the County Lockup, and had been in-and-out of the Can ever since for assault on his ex-girlfriend and for failure to pay child support.
Blaine hasn't held any kind of meaningful job in seven years. A bug extermination shop let him go when the Economy went South, and before that, he lost his job with the City Public Works Dept. when he flunked a random drug test.
Blaine's hootch -- which makes Dog Patch look like Beverley Hills -- is a magnate for several of his pals, all equally shady types who come and go at every conceivable hour of the day and night.
Here's my hypothesis: the girl told her dad that Carol and I would be away for awhile, and Blaine, in turn, shared the information with one or more of his associates.
Factoid: as everyone with a pulse knows, the State of Florida is infested with more cat burglars, petty thieves, second-story men / women, con artists, pick-pockets, junkies and "fences," per square foot, than any other place on this Planet.
Ergo: If Blaine blabbed to one of his associates about my particular situation, the odds of whetting the nefarious interests of one (or more) of his crew would be astronomic in favor of a break-in at our residence.
As I mentioned, this is just a theory...
It came to pass that Carol took the duty sergeant's advice. She popped in on a pawn shop located less than a quarter-mile from our place -- and to her utter shock, she saw her faux silver alpaca necklace in the display case.
Trembling, Carol took her exit and immediately called the police department. Within five minutes, Sgt. Gil, one of the city's best detectives, arrived on the scene.
Carol remained silent while Det. Sgt. Gill asked the questions:
Gil: Where did the necklace come from?
Pawnbroker: I had this in the case for eight months!
Gil: Show me the paperwork.
Pawnbroker: I don't have it. I lost it or misplaced it!
Gil: You will lose your license if you fail to produce the paperwork.
Pawnbroker: How does she know it's hers? It could have been dropped by anybody?
Gil: She owns six alpacas, owns an alpaca fiber business, and she has an alpaca sign on the door of her car.
Turns out that Det. Sgt. Gil folded the pawnbroker at that point like a cheap suitcase. It also turned out that the perp tendered the necklace to the pawnbroker on July 6th -- not eight months ago as the pawnbroker initially stated.
While the sergeant continued to grill the pawnbroker, Carol also found our missing Konica 35 MM camera and lenses locked within another display case. No paperwork.
If the name given by the person who pawned our possessions holds up, the police have their first solid lead in the case. In any event, the pawnbroker now finds myself in a Crap-Storm for a variety of legal reasons, to wit: (a) accepting stolen property; (b) failure to keep accurate and timely records; (c) giving false and misleading statements to the police.
The pawnbroker is obviously a Fence and I am wondering how Det. Sgt. Gill will leverage all of this to our benefit?
As this tale unfolds, there are some obvious lessons that come to my mind.
First, it's never a good idea to share travel plans with anyone other than a person whom you really, really trust. As in my case, you'll never know how others will use this information.
Second, tell your local police department when you'll be out-of-town for an extended period of time. I didn't know this, but most if not all police departments will increase their neighborhood patrols in your area if they are aware you'll be on vacation. They will do this as part of their community service component.
Third, make a list of all your possessions with a value in excess of $50 and then either photograph them individually, or make record of them on a digital or video camera. It will be of immense value if you retain and file all jewelry receipts. Make a separate list of the serial numbers of all electronic and power equipment. When compiled, place these lists in your safe deposit box.
Fourth, never rely solely on your home security system to protect you or your possessions. As we learned (the hard way) these types of systems can be bypassed and/ or defeated by perps. Back up your security by installing a sound system with sirens or horns in the eardrum-shattering 280-decibel range. A 500 decibel siren, mounted exteriorially, can alert neighbors and police as far as a half-mile away.
Fifth, never -- ever -- assign guilt to yourself in the event of a home invasion. Any perp, when motivated, will break through even the best of systems. Our job is simple: to make it very, very hard for them to succeed.
Meanwhile, Carol will continue to cruise the pawn shops and remain in touch with the police until we can resolve this very revolting development.
Here's hoping that Det. Sgt. Gil et.al. nail the thieves -- and let's see where my theory leads ...
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