Last night, around 9:15, our neighbors started plodding into the night from the relative safety of their homes. One jumped into his car and raced off. He was in pursuit of a large, white, American sedan of Malaise vintage that had, just moments before, slammed into the back of my wife’s silver Toyota Matrix parked on the street in front of our house. No glancing blow, the wagon had been shoved approximately a foot forward due to the large car’s impact into the rear driver’s side quarter panel which disfigured the sheet metal, pounded the plastics and tore the rear wheel from its suspension bits. The car then swerved around my little Miata and completely side swiped the Crown Vic parked at the head of our automotive conga line.
The police were called and arrived quickly. Having been involved with the Indiana Highway Patrol, State Troopers and the Long Beach Police Department, I didn’t expect much to come from the report. Usually, they take the information and say that the perpetrator is long-gone, but they’ll do what they can. This was exactly what a State Trooper told the driver of another hit-and-run I was involved in just a couple of months earlier. My hopes were low.
Based only on the description of “a white 80’s Caprice”, the officer asked a follow-up of, “Did it sound like it had a cowbell attached?”
I thought this was a curious question, but the officer went on to explain that there was a car in a nearby neighborhood that had a problem with the brakes that the owner never got around to fixing. This owner was also well-known in the badge-wearing community as a bit of an imbiber.
I would imagine that cops with a large jurisdiction don’t have this kind of granularity. The police picked up the guy and got a confession within two hours.
There are benefits of living in a small town.