September 25-October 1, 2003

pretzel logic

Auto Erratic

by Howard Altman

When the phone rings at 4 a.m. it is almost always bad news, but in this case I am not sure so early on a Monday.

My first clue as to the nature of this call is when my wife shrieks into the receiver.

"You found it?" she shouts. "Where?"

I bolt up immediately.

No need to ask what my wife is talking about.

The "it," I can tell, is my car, which has been missing since Sept. 15, the second time in six days it was stolen from in front of my Mt. Airy home.

As my wife notes the details, I stumble out of bed in a bit of a daze, having just fallen into a deep sleep after being awoken three hours earlier. There was another domestic dispute on the street. This time, a man screamed that he was going to blow a woman's head off and the women responded with a torrent of invective.

Oh, the fun in Philadelphia never ceases.

My wife dials 911, yet again, and, on the way downstairs to get my keys and my cell phone before walking around the corner to retrieve my oft-violated minivan, I wonder whether the police department has a frequent-caller bonus program. After all, in between stealing the car twice, the perps broke into it on Sept. 10, and, unable to steal it thanks to the Club, instead ruined the Club, broke the windshield and damaged the front seat.

I walk out the door and, up the block, see my neighbor, Mike, who just moments before ended my REM sleep with the joyful news.

"I was just getting off of work and pulled into my garage spot," says Mike. "I was walking back and saw a van. I noticed the tape on the window and that's when I realized it was yours."

Thank goodness for the tape, which was put there to hold the replacement windshield until the epoxy dried.

Together, we walk across Germantown Avenue, behind the Elfant Wissahickon real estate office and there it is, my blue '97 Oldsmobile Silhouette, at first glance only slightly worse for wear but a hell of a lot better than what I could have gotten with the replacement pittance likely offered by the insurance company.

Awaiting the police, I peer through the windows.

The driver's seat is reclined the way the young bucks like to drive, and so are the middle seats.

I slip my key into the lock, open the door and fire up the engine.

Still hums. I move over to the front passenger seat to inspect the graffiti etched into my dashboard -- a phone number and the words "NEEDS GAS!!!" -- and notice my Philadelphia Police Department press sticker has been peeled off the windshield.

I walk around the back of the car and find assorted garbage left behind. Then I get out and inspect the outside. There are many new scratches and gouges and dents. Clearly, the van was mistreated.

When Officer Miranda arrives, I explain again the saga. Stolen on the ninth. Recovered in about an hour. Vandalized the next day. Stolen five days later. Somehow, someone managed to get my wife's keys, I tell him. We had to change all the house locks. We are definitely being targeted.

Officer Miranda is polite and helpful, but not overly hopeful.

I repeat my point that the first time around, someone should have fingerprinted the car. Because I will wager cash money that whoever did this is no stranger to the system.

But there is not much more Miranda can do, so he drives off and so do I.

The car feels a bit funny. Insult to injury.

Tuesday morning, I am on the phone with a fine detective named Darnell Hobbs of Northwest Detectives.

I am speaking with Hobbs at the suggestion of officer Sheila Smith, a grand addition to the department's public relations machine. Smith explained to me that, unlike what the folks at the 14th District told my wife, available detectives can fingerprint a recovered stolen vehicle even if it wasn't used in the commission of a felony.

Hobbs and I go 'round and 'round for a bit. He says the crime scene team only dusts recovered vehicles used in the commission of crimes. I tell him what Smith said.

I ask for his name.

"Hobbs."

I ask for his first name.

"Detective."

"OK, Detective Detective," I say and we both crack up laughing.

Long and sordid story short, Detective Detective Darnell Hobbs agrees that, regardless of who's right, the fact that someone has gone to such great lengths to go after my car raises the stakes. A few hours later, he shows up, another extremely polite and professional cop. He spends about an hour dusting for fingerprints, finding four or five that might be useful.

The good news is that this might lead to the perps. The bad news is that, in addition to the blood-and-semen-looking stains my wife has to scrub out of the car, she also has to get rid of the black fingerprinting dust residue.

And now I get to spend hundreds to change the car locks.

Just another value-added tax on the privilege of living in Philly.