I don't own a car. I know that sounds strange, and I suppose it is, but after my last car was beyond repair I discovered that I didn't really need one and never bothered to replace it. That was three years ago.
It seems to me that the two primary uses for a car are to commute to work and to run daily shopping errands. Neither apply to me; I live about two blocks from the small room I rent for office space, and I am not much of a shopper.
Using my usual mode of transportation, I took the bus the afternoon of Saturday, July 15th. After transferring near the Aquarium, I took another bus to the 52000 block of Michigan Avenue. I was still groggy from lack of sleep the night before when I stepped off the bus. I consulted the scrap of paper upon which I had scrawled the address. It was a small piece of paper, torn off the corner of a larger sheet, with only the number written on it. I had scribbled it down as I listened to the president of First Chicago Trust speaking on the phone to a member of the FBI. The FBI agent, a man who identified himself as Mr. Carter, had informed the bank president that Lisa Cryer, a customer of the bank, was the prime suspect in the July 11th ``incident''. It was Lisa Cryer I was now on my way to meet. My arrival at her doorstep would be unannounced and uninvited. After hearing the phone conversation between Mr. Carter and the president of First Chicago Trust, I came to realize that Lisa Cryer would bear the burden of a problem that I had helped create.
I hadn't heard all of that particular conversation, as it took me longer to set up the wire-tap that day than it usually does (the trunk line I usually use was down for maintenance). Nonetheless I had heard enough of the phone call to learn about an appointment between Lisa Cryer and the bank security officer. After spending very nearly all of Thursday night trying to unravel the mysterious events of the previous Tuesday, and making no progress, I had arranged to be at the bank at 9:00 AM Friday. I was standing in the lobby when Lisa Melinda Cryer kept her appointment. She appeared to be in her late twenties. An African-American with light-brown complexion, perhaps her most striking feature was her hair. It was extremely short, little more than a smooth fuzz that covered her head. It was just long enough to curl a bit, lending some texture. After her hair, her next most striking feature was her gate and general bearing. Her legs were long and shapely, and she walked with a slight bounce or hop in her step. Her walk was care-free and confident, with a slight hint of a skip. Her whole manner exuded self-confidence and good humor. And this was on her way to a meeting with bank security to discuss irregularities in her account transactions. Hers was the sort of face that breaks into a smile at the slightest provocation. She was not overly athletic; she was physically fit yet still shapely in all the right places.
Now, a little over 24 hours after watching her at the bank, I was on my way to her apartment. I had been unable to gather much information from that meeting, as I had no way of knowing what transpired in the meeting itself. However, simply by being in the bank lobby at 9:00 when Lisa Cryer kept the appointment allowed me to put a face with the person being blamed for my tinkering. As the bus coughed and wheezed away from the curb behind me, I checked the paper again. Number 49812, apartment 2E. I looked up. The first number I noticed, on the building just across the street, was 51081. I was on the correct side of the street at least, but it looked like I had a bit of walking to do.
It was a pleasant day, probably about 78 degrees, and sunny. It was the nicest day we had had in two weeks, with a cool breeze to keep me comfortable as I began walking south, noting the street numbers as I went. This was a residential area; the majority of the buildings were high-rise apartments. Still, there were occasional smaller buildings mixed in, particularly near the street corners.
After I passed number 50008 I began to pay close attention to my surroundings. I had suspicions that Ms. Cryer might be under surveillance.
There were several pedestrians on the sidewalks, and of course a steady stream of cars filled the street. There were also cars parked along the curb at metered spots, with very few empty spaces. I checked each parked car on both sides of the street as I walked. So far they were all empty. I had no idea what an undercover cop might look like but I dutifully studied each pedestrian I passed on the sidewalk. I wondered if the guy in the white T-shirt loitering in the door-frame of the party store across the street was a spook. More than likely he was the proprietor, lamenting the lack of business. What about the woman with the over-sized sunglasses walking down the sidewalk towards me? She seemed to be walking too fast to be conducting surveillance, unless she was one of several people and only had to cover a limited area in her immediate vicinity. I doubted there would be too many undercover cops on this assignment. More likely it would be less than three people (and quite probably zero). The woman approaching me wore a tight yellow skirt with a matching jacket (or blouse, she was still too far away to tell which). Her hair was about shoulder length, brunette.
I turned my attention to the cars running along Michigan Avenue. Would I be able to tell if the same car went by more than once? Not likely. I did try to make a mental note of the cars as they went by, but there were far too many to really remember any of them. At that moment one car in particular caught my attention. This car was different only because it was moving slowly enough that it was interfering with the otherwise unimpeded flow. Traffic was heavy, but not heavy enough to cause congestion. The average speed appeared to be comfortably over the posted limit of 45 mph. But this particular car, a black Caprice with two men seated in the front, was moving considerably slower than the other cars. The result was that a long queue had formed behind it. A couple of the cars directly behind it were weaving left and right to catch a glimpse around it and honking occasionally. The two passengers in the Caprice were probably in their early forties and well dressed. Hmmm... FBI?
The Caprice traveled down the street for two blocks and then turned right. I decided to walk a bit more slowly to give them time to circle around... if that was in fact what they were up to.
As I slowly plodded along I was passed from behind by a man trotting at a light pace. He was not running for exercise but rather was in a hurry to get someplace. He was wearing a dark-blue work uniform; probably a plumber or repairman of some sort.
I stole a glance at the woman wearing the yellow skirt and the sunglasses as she swished past me. It was hard to determine where her eyes were directed, but she certainly didn't have the air of somebody paying much attention to her surroundings (and she showed no interest in me whatsoever (too bad too because she was quite attractive)).
I was down to number 49874. Number 49870 was a flower shop. There was a small table in front of the store with an elderly woman standing behind it unhurriedly cutting and arranging flowers. She smiled as I walked by.
I looked at my watch (3:30). I glanced at the street. Aha! The Caprice was back. There was no question that it was the same car. And it was behaving in the same way (the people stuck behind it this time were no happier about it than the last pack had been). I watched it as it once again crawled along and turned right at the same corner.
This time I reacted by quickening my pace. I wanted to be inside building 49812 before they came by again. Darn! Why hadn't I thought to time the interval? Then I would know how much time I had before they showed up again. I really should have timed them... why didn't I? I answered my own question: because I really had not expected them to circle around; I had been looking for undercover cops as a diversion to pass the time and amuse myself. I was quite surprised (and pleased with myself) to learn that my caution had paid off.
Not happy with my rate of progress, I broke into a trot. I was getting closer: 49860, 49856, 49854. Why are street addresses so unevenly distributed? 49852, 49848, 49840,... I quickened my pace. 49832, 49818. Huh? I did a double-take and then checked the next number carefully, slowing down to do so. It was 49816. Good, almost there.
I barely broke stride when I got to 49812. I made a quick left and ran up the steps. There was a set of outer glass doors, which I quickly entered.
``You are not out of view of the street yet,'' I thought to myself. I quickly scanned the street but saw no sign of the Caprice. Then, on impulse, I quickly looked up and down both sidewalks but did not notice any pedestrians watching the building. I suddenly realized that if anybody had been watching, or if anybody was sitting in a parked car and watching me now, that my arrival had not been the most circumspect, racing up to the door-way as I had. Too late; I'd just have to hope that the Caprice was the full detail for this assignment.
There was a panel of buzzer buttons on the wall, with the apartment number associated with each button indicated by little strips of tape beside each one. I quickly scanned down the list of apartment numbers, absently noting that some numbers were missing. Did this mean that those apartments were empty or what? I went ahead and pushed 2E, still not sure exactly what I would say.
``Yeah?'', came the curt, almost bored, reply.
``Hello, Ms. Cryer?''
``Yes, who is it?''
``My name is Carl Raymond. You don't know me but I would very much like to speak to you. If you are uncomfortable ringing me in, could you at least come down and speak to me for a moment. This concerns the confusion at First Chicago.''
``OK, hold on a sec. I'll be down.''
So far so good. At least she was willing to talk to me. I had been worried that she would dismiss me as either a nut or a pushy salesman. If I could just have a chance to explain the situation I felt that there was a good chance that she might be understanding. I had been dreading the coming conversation for several days now. How do you tell a total stranger that you are responsible for causing her to be the prime suspect in a bank heist?
I raked my fingers through my black curly hair as I waited. I straightened out the front of my shirt. I wanted to make a good first impression. I hoped that my appearance was professional but casual. I had chosen to wear dark blue pants with black loafers. My shirt, an Oxford, was neatly pressed and light blue in color. I had considered wearing a tie but thought better of it. It would only make me uncomfortable since I never wear them. Besides, I did not want to appear to be concerned with my appearance, even if I was.
Ms. Cryer didn't keep me waiting long. I could see the elevator doors open from where I was standing. They were along the wall perpendicular to the glass doors where I was standing. She immediately turned to look in my direction upon stepping out of the elevators. She approached without hesitation, but studied me as she walked. I of course studied her in return, although I had the advantage, having already seen her at the bank. This time she was dressed more casually. She was wearing a loose-fitting grey sweatshirt with the collar stretched out, exposing more of one shoulder than the other. Quite a bit more. This was due in part to the fact that she had the tip of one sleeve pinched in her fist. She was wearing black stretch-pants and short soft-leather boots, also black. I was struck by her seemingly effortless beauty, for it was clear that she was not dressed to impress anybody.
At the door there was an almost imperceptible pause as she quickly looked me over a final time before opening the door. She wasn't overtly hostile, nor overly friendly. She stood holding the door, saying nothing. I walked in, giving her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. I was glad to be out of view from the street and the black Caprice.
``We can talk here in the lobby,'' she said. ``Go ahead and have a seat.'' There were two sofas in the center of the room, arranged in an `L'. Between the sofas was a small end table with a lamp and a small glass dish filled with mints. The room lighting was dim, with the lamp on the end-table being the primary source of illumination for that part of the room. On the floor was a nice (imitation?) oriental rug of red and green. This was a far cry nicer than my own apartment building. Not only does my building lack a lobby, but the hallway downstairs is tiled with cracked linoleum and the air is stale due to poor ventilation. The lone window at the end of the hallway does not provide adequate movement in the air to rid it of the musty odor. The light-bulb overhead has long since burned out, and while that one window does allow a sharp beam of sunlight to fill the hallway in the late afternoon, it is always a bit of a struggle to navigate from the front door to the staircase late at night. Even regular residents, who travel that route daily, stumble in the dark.
Ms. Cryer's apartment building was considerably more pleasant. As we sat down in the comfortable sofas, I tried once more to figure out where to begin. I looked into her eyes and was met with a steady gaze. Her expression remained neutral; she wasn't going to make this easy for me. Apparently she had decided that she was going to let me have my say but she wasn't going to play her hand until she saw where things were heading. What was it about her that put me off-guard? Why did I suddenly feel so helpless? Wasn't she the one that was at a disadvantage, having the bank breathing down her neck and not knowing what was going on? So why did I feel she had the upper hand?
I let out a long breath and dove in. ``I'm aware of the situation at First Chicago and I may be able to help you. I think I know what happened. Some funds have been improperly transfered out of several bank accounts at a number of banks around the country, including accounts at First Chicago. Apparently these funds have ended up in your account, which is why First Chicago has been auditing your account recently.''
Not knowing how to continue I paused there. Thankfully, she filled the silence.
``Who do you work for? Are you with First Chicago Trust?''
OK, not exactly the question I wanted just then, but fair enough.
``No. At the moment I don't work for anybody. I am a self-employed computer scientist. I do consulting work. I was in the bank yesterday afternoon and overheard part of your conversation.''
``Are you always this nosy,'' she asked. She wasn't angry, just annoyed.
``Well no. I had a special interest in this particular case... having been partly responsible.''
Now she was angry. Those large dark eyes were piercing into me, with a sparkle that hadn't been there moments before. Her nostrils flared and her breathing came in shorter intervals. Her lips were drawn tight. Yet she said nothing, waiting. I felt thoroughly disarmed. Was this the same woman? Was this the woman that had appeared so uncaring yesterday on the way to her interrogation at the bank? Despite my best efforts to remain collected I found myself shrugging sheepishly.
``Look, I'm sorry,'' I said, ``things didn't turn out quite the way I planned.''
``PLANNED!?'' She was on her feet now, facing me with her hands on her hips, her feet spread wide. I was still seated and this, combined with her own height, meant that her eyes bore down on me from above. ``I don't know what your plan was, but I sure as hell hope it didn't turn out quite the way you planned! What were you trying to accomplish?''
She didn't give me a chance to reply as she continued to berate me. Her hands were on her hips and she was bent forward with her chin chutting outward. ``The police say that thousands of dollars were stolen. Are you the one that was messing with the transmissions? Do you know that tampering with electronic banking is a serious federal offense?
``Did you just pick a person at random and decide you'd see if you could completely screw up her life?'' Her eyes burned into me as she now waited for a response.
``No,'' I said, ``I didn't pick a person at random. I didn't pick anybody. The fact that you were singled out is the part that I still don't understand. It wasn't my doing. Really.
``I don't even know you,'' I continued. ``I never saw you before yesterday. I came here today because I want to help you. If I'm going to help you then I need to understand why only you were affected by the bad transfers.'' I was talking fast, on the defensive, and I could see that I wasn't helping my case. Her face was twisted in utter contempt.
``So tell me again why you want to help me. If you are the one behind all of this then that hardly gives me the impression that you are the most humanitarian person around,'' she jeered. She quickly added, ``why shouldn't I call the police or the bank immediately? You can talk to them. And before you get any ideas, one scream from me and the landlord and his staff will be in here before you can get out of that seat.''
I glanced around and could not help but notice that the place was deserted. I had no intention of harming her in any way, but that last comment was clearly a bluff and I began to worry that she would cut our conversation short unless I put her at ease.
``Look'', I said. ``I'm not going to do anything. You can call the police if you like. Or the bank for that matter. I'll tell them what I know, they'll ask some more questions of you, and together we can all try to work this out. But I don't think anything will be resolved if we try that.'' I needed to placate her, and do it quickly before she gave up on me.
``The situation is actually quite complicated,'' I continued. ``I really don't know what is going on myself. One thing I do know however is that dragging First Chicago and the police into this matter at this time might not be the best way to proceed.''
``And why not?''
``Because First Chicago's role in all of this is pretty suspicious.'' I raised my hand to cut-off her reply, having already realized that I'd left myself wide open to another barb about my own suspicious behavior.
``As near as I can tell,'' I explained, ``you were singled out as a result of their actions... or at least their reactions to my actions. Yet, they are investigating you as if they don't realize this. They should know full well that you were not actively involved. This is the part that I don't understand,'' I said. She let out an exasperated sigh and shook her head, rolling her eyes slightly.
``Look,'' I said as I spread my arms wide imploringly, ``if we are going to get anywhere with this, you'll have to let me explain everything from the top. But this isn't really the best place for that.'' I glanced across the room at a middle-aged couple that stepped out of the elevators and headed for the door.
She let out a short sigh, looked at the clock on the far wall, and said, ``OK, you're right. But you're not coming up to my apartment. Do you have any suggestions? Would a restaurant be OK?''
``Perfect. I'll let you pick the place; I don't live around here.''
``There is a small restaurant down the street. They have good seafood. Why don't we go there?'' she suggested. I nodded and she continued, ``It's still too early to eat now. Come back in about two hours. That'll be 6:15,'' she said, doing my math for me.
We agreed to meet again in the lobby at that time, as I wasn't exactly sure where the restaurant was and it seemed easier to walk over together. I got up and offered to shake her hand as I prepared to leave. She shook my hand lightly and we went our separate ways --- she headed back for the elevators and I headed off to kill two hours.