Big Surprises in Small Packages

BIG SURPRISES IN SMALL PACKAGES

The doorbell rang, and of course, the dog lost her bananas. Bark, bark, bark, twirl, twirl, twirl, bark, bark, bark, jump, jump jump, bark, bark bark … you get the idea.

I love my dog, don’t get me wrong. But man, she’s, what eight now? How many times has the doorbell rung? A million? And each and every time she loses her mind. Why? I have no idea. The majority of recent doorbell rings have been either friends or deliveries. Nothing heinous. Just pals or packages.  

“Shh! Mona! Quietly!” I gave her the hand sign for quietly. Like that ever worked.

Bark, bark, bark!

Mona is a white Chihuahua/Jack Russell mix. She’s small but mighty, and I’m sure she truly believes that she is my protector. I thank her for that, but wish she could show her bravery quietly.

I checked my doorbell cam on my phone. A package had been left at the door. Now, that’s a bit of an enigma. I don’t think that I ordered anything recently. But, to be honest, I can’t be sure. This wouldn’t have been the first time that I ordered something online after a couple of glasses of Merlot.  What’s that old adage — wine and online shopping don’t mix? Very true. Just ask Mona — she’s the proud owner of way too many cutesy dog coats, and outfits, and booties, and fancy leashes, and rhinestone studded collars. Never mind the fact that we never go anywhere fancy enough to wear rhinestones. And add to that the fact that Mona really, really dislikes wearing “outfits.” When I try and dress her up in her new wine-inspired accoutrements, she is not a happy girl. If it’s possible, I believe that she’s embarrassed.  

So, I walked towards the door, with Mona jumping up and down beside me, like the floor was a trampoline, barking, spinning, and wagging her tail. I opened the door, picked up the package, and looked at it. It was rectangular, not too big, about the size of a shoe box. There was no name on it. In fact, there was nothing on the package at all — no shipping label, no company name. Nothing. It was just a rectangle covered in plain brown wrapping paper sealed with packing tape.

Colour me curious, I picked it up, and examined it closely. I admit I did put it to my ear to make sure that it wasn’t ticking, so colour me cautious, too.

Mona had insisted on snuffling the package before I brought it in the house. I have no idea what she was looking for — dog treats, probably. I have been known to order those from Amazon, as well. Mona likes those packages far more than the ones with outfits in them.

But before I could open the package, all hell broke loose on the street. I stepped inside and put the package on the stairs, then went back out on the porch to watch. (Of course I did — FOMO is a demanding task-master). Police sirens wailed, and three police cars careened up the street screeching to a stop in front of my next-door neighbour Bernie’s house. Then two SWAT trucks slid across the road, effectively blocking access from both ends of the street. The rear doors of each SWAT truck opened, spilling half a dozen fully kitted-out officers from each vehicle. They ran in formation up the street towards my next-door neighbour’s house. I swear my jaw was hanging open. Mona was again losing her bananas, barking and running back and forth across the porch. One of the kevlar-covered officers rushed up onto my porch. Mona darted and hid behind my legs, though still barking fiercely.

“Ma’am. Go back in your house now. Lock the doors.”

I stood there, staring. I have seen the television show SWAT — I loves me some Shemar Moore — but this was not TV. This was real life.

“Ma’am, get inside! Now!”

His gun was soooo big. I was stupefied.

“Ma’am! Can you understand me? Do you speak English. Get. In. The. House! NOW!”

I continued to stare. Mona continued to bark.

Then he nudged my shoulder. That knocked me out of paralysis.  

“In! Now!” He looked at me, then at Mona. “And take the dog with you.”

I grabbed Mona, and backed into the house, shutting the door once we were inside. 

What did the police want with Bernie? Sure, he was weird. But I’m sure he says the same thing about me. He’s quiet, cuts his lawn regularly, and puts out his recycling on garbage day. What more could a neighbour want? Apparently the police were not aware of Bernie’s good neighbour status, and were interested in him for something far more nefarious than mixing paper and plastic in his recycling bin.

I stood at the front window and watched the scene unfold in front of me.

A police officer hiding behind his cruiser raised a megaphone. “Bernard Kendrick. This is the police. Come out with your hands up.”

No response.

“Bernard Kendrick. We know you are in there. Come out with your hands up.”

Still no response.

“Bernard Kendrick. We have a search warrant. You have until the count of three, then we enter your premises.”

Nothing.

“One …

Five SWAT guys ran towards the front porch. The lead guy was carrying one of those mini battering rams.

“Two …”

They ran up the front stairs.

“Three.”

CRASH!

I heard the front door splinter, and the SWAT guys disappeared into the house. There was yelling, and thumping, and banging. It was mayhem!  

Bernie and I share a wall. We each own half of a semi-detached home (well, me and the bank own my half; I don’t know about Bernie). But I could hear the SWAT guys crashing through Bernie’s house, yelling, and smashing things, and thudding up and down the stairs.  

“Clear!” 

Smash.  

Crash.  

Thud. 

“Clear!”

What the heck was going on next door? Man, what I wouldn’t have given to be a fly on that wall. Yes, I was listening. Yes, my ear was firmly placed against the wall. And yes, if I thought it would work, I would have put a glass against the wall so that I could hear better. But, FOMO, right? How could I not listen?

I could tell the police were clearing the house. I had seen the size of some of those guys. Poor Bernie when they found him.  

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The noise in the house died down. I returned to the front window. I saw two SWAT guys walk out, cradling their big-ass guns. The one in the lead shook his head.  

I, of course, had to open the front window so that I could hear them better.  

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, ‘Nothing?’” said another SWAT guy. I guessed he was the boss, because he was pissed off.

“He’s not in the house,” said the officer who had just exited the house.

Well, isn’t Bernie one lucky SOB, I thought. He picked the right day to not be home.

I pictured how pissed he’d be when he did get home and saw the disaster that was his house. But in terms of the scene next door, that was probably the least of his worries right now.

“Sarge!” yelled another SWAT guy who was running out of the house. “We found a tunnel!”

Whaaat? A tunnel?  

I opened the front door, and crept out onto my porch so that I could hear better.

“Where does it go?” asked Sergeant SWAT guy.

“Out behind the garage.”

Bernie, you sly dog! An escape tunnel!

Then it occurred to me to wonder why would Bernie need an escape tunnel. I didn’t need an escape tunnel. Then again, the police weren’t crashing around my house.

Our houses had been built before World War II and each had a detached garage set back from the rear of the house. The driveways were too narrow to accommodate today’s larger vehicles, so I used mine as storage. Apparently, Bernie used his as an emergency escape route. Who knew?

I started to walk to the back of the house, to see if I could check out what was going on outside in Bernie’s backyard. Before I reached the back of the house someone was banging on my door with their fist.

I turned around and walked back to the front door, Mona again, losing her bananas. I picked her up before I opened the door.

There stood two SWAT guys, all big and kevlar-clad.  

“Ma’am, do you speak English?” It was the guy from the porch.

“Yes,” I said, giving him a confused look.

“We believe that Bernard Kendrick may be hiding on your property. We need to search your house and garage.”

I snorted. My “property” was a one-thousand square foot house, and postage stamp-sized lot. Seriously, the garage takes up most of the real estate in the backyard. There’s not much there.

“Uh, okay,” I said. “I guess. But if Bernie was here, Mona would let me know.” I looked down at the dog in my arms. She was wiggling, squirming to get out of my arms, yipping.

“We’d still like to check it out.”

“Are you going to be more careful than you were next door?” I asked. “No smashing and breaking?”

“Yes Ma’am. We will be careful. Now, please go with the officer,” he pointed to a uniformed officer I hadn’t noticed before because he was eclipsed by the two giant SWAT officers. “And, take your dog, please.”

I nodded and grabbed Mona’s leash. The uniformed officer lead me to a cruiser and sat me in the back seat. With the door open. I’m not a member of law enforcement, but leaving the back door open was a good sign that I wasn’t in any trouble.

About ten minutes later my property was SWAT-free once the officers inside the house and the ones in the backyard decamped. I was allowed to return to my home, with instructions to keep all my doors and windows locked, and to call the police if I had any contact with Bernie. As well, I was told, someone would be back to interview me.

Wow! What a morning. Mona and I walked into the house. I took a quick scan — upstairs, main floor, basement — all looked to be in order and hadn’t been too badly trampled by tactical boots. 

I spied the package I had left on the stairs and picked it up. I had almost forgotten about it. I carried it into the kitchen.  

But first, a cup of tea. Once it had been made, I sat down at the kitchen table, my tea to the left, the package and a pair of scissors in front. I examined the package again. It was about the size of a shoe box. I picked it up and shook it. Nothing rattled, nothing moved. I squeezed it. Nope, solid as a brick. And weighty. I set it down on the table, and started to cut the plain brown wrapper. Once I was able to grab a corner, I ripped off the paper. It was, in fact, a shoe box, secured with more packing tape. I snipped the tape, and flipped open the lid.

What the …

I turned the box over, and emptied the contents onto the table.

Money. Lots and lots of money. I looked closer — they were all one hundred dollar bills bundled together with mustard-coloured bands, each stamped with “$100,000” on the band. I used to work in a bank and I knew what I was looking at — a shit load of money.

I just sat there, dumbfounded. Wow! I pictured my bed covered in money, me rolling in it, gangsta style.

But more importantly, why — why had someone left it on my front porch?

I checked the money, and the box for a note — nada. 

I had just started to pack the money back into the box when there was a knock on my front door.  I looked to see two people outlined through the bevelled glass. Mona lost her bananas. 

Shit!

I started jamming the money into the box, faster. I looked around — I had to hide the money!

Where?

Oven? No, what if I turned it on?

Fridge? No room, too many take-out containers.

Cupboards? Absolutely no room.

Dishwasher? Bingo! The worst that could happen would be that I be laundering money.

Snort! Joke!

I opened the dishwasher door, and literally threw the box in, and slammed the door shut.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“Coming!” I yelled.

Mona was running back and forth from the kitchen to the front door and back. I hustled to the front door, just before my visitors were about the knock again. I opened the door. There was a man and a woman standing there.  

“Lisa Harper?”

“Yes,” I said loudly, over the ruckus from Mona, while at the same time blocking her escape route with my leg.

“Detectives Waits and Ito, Metro police,” said the woman who was closest to me. 

They showed me their badges. I remembered to look at them closely — you can never be too careful. Plus, you know, I had a dishwasher full of cash. I had to be careful about who I let into my house.

“Yes?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your next door neighbour, Bernie Kendrick.”

“Uh, I guess so. Sure.”

We stood looking at each other while Mona continued to bark. And bark. And bark.

“Can we come in?” asked Detective Ito.  

“Oh! Sorry, “ I said scooping up Mona and stepping aside. “Come in. All the excitement from today has me a bit frazzled.”  

I put Mona on the ground once I had closed the front door. She ran over to the detectives, sniffing. Detective Waits smiled down at her. Detective Ito bent over to scratch her head. Now that these two had been welcomed into my home, Mona was fine with them.

“What’s her name?” Ito asked, as we walked towards the back of the house.

“Mona.”

He looked up and smiled. “Mona and Lisa? Mona Lisa?”

“Yeah, I know, right?” I said smiling back. “She’s a rescue and came with the name.”

I lead them into the kitchen.

Not the kitchen! Dishwasher full of money! Idiot!

“Have a seat," I said pointing to the kitchen table, as I casually walked over and picked up the brown wrapping paper and scissors, moving them from the table to the counter. Best to remove the evidence.

“Can I get you something?” I asked.

“No, we’re fine,” said Waits.

I sat down picking up my tepid tea and taking a sip. I smiled, and tried not to look at the dishwasher. 

“What would you like to know?”

The interview took about twenty minutes. They wanted to know about Bernie of course — 

How long had I known him? Seven years.

How well did I know him?  Not well. Small talk, mostly. We had shared beers on my porch a couple of weeks ago, but that was about as friendly as it got.

Did I know any of his friends? No. He didn’t have many visitors.

Did I know what he did for a living? Not a clue.

Did you know about the tunnel?  No. But cool, right? They did not agree.

Finally, after they finished asking me questions, I got to ask them one.

“What did he do?”

“He robbed a bank,” said Waits.

“Bernie? Robbed a bank? Are you kidding?” I was stunned.

“No Ma’am. Two days ago. He apparently gained entrance to the bank at night, through the roof. He made off with over seven hundred thousand dollars.”

I stood there, with my mouth handing open. I couldn’t stop myself from looking at the dishwasher.

I made up my mind. I walked over and opened the door of the dishwasher and I brought out the shoebox full of money. I handed it to Waits.

“I think you’re looking for this.”

She opened it, looked at me, then showed Ito what was in the box.

I told them about the package being left at my door.

“I noticed you have a doorbell cam,” said Waits. “Have you looked at the footage?’

I mentally slapped my forehead.  

Duh!

I pulled out my phone, and scrolled back to earlier today. And there, clear as day, was Bernie, dropping off the package at my door.

Well, that solves the mystery about where the money came from.

Ito left and returned with an extra large evidence bag. I watched as they put the money in the bag, sealed it, and both of them signed and dated it.

“What now?” I asked.

*****

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Bark, bark, bark!  

I whirled around, and looked at the kitchen window.  

Bernie!

He smiled sheepishly, and waved at me. I walked to the back door and opened it for him. He came in, and Mona rushed to sniff him. He bent over and rubbed her head.

“Can I have my parcel back?” he asked, looking up at me.

“What the eff, Bernie! The police are looking for you!”

“Yeah, I know. I just need my parcel back —“

“POLICE! HANDS IN THE AIR!” Waits and Ito walked in from the front of the house, holding their weapons pointed at Bernie.

Bernie and I both threw our hands in the air. Ito walked behind Bernie, and handcuffed his hands behind his back.  

“You can put your hands down, Lisa,” said Waits.

“Oh. Right.” I lowered my hands.

By the time they were ready to transport Bernie to the police station, two more cruisers had arrived — one for Bernie, and one for the money.

“We’ll need another statement from you, Lisa.”

“Sure. No probs. But how did you know that he’d be back here?

“There’s about three-quarters of a million dollars in that shoe box,” said Waits. “Wouldn’t you come back for it?”