Wanted by the FBI

Cooperation? On the run from!

The doorbell rang. Probably UPS doing a drop-and-run job. Thanks to my junk junkie daughter and my son the scholar, stuff and books appear regularly on our doorstep.

I was in the tub, my hair drenched in scarlet shampoo; the package could wait.

RAP! RAP! RAP! What the hell? I leapt out of the tub, flung a towel around my torso, thrust my head out the window, and yelled: “I’m in the tub! Who is it?”

As I took note of a black car beside my driveway, first one policeman, then another, retreated from the stoop and into my view. One peered up to address me.

“Detective Creed, Boston Police. Sorry to startle you, ma’am. Does Douglas Greene live here?”

My son! He worked in Boston. What’s happened to him? I shuddered to contemplate, as I steeled myself for dreadful news.

“Douglas has been identified as a victim of a beating …”

“My God! Is he — ?”

“ … back in October, at a White Supremacist rally in Providence, Rhode Island. A bunch of Nazi punks punched the crap out of several protesters. We have a cell phone recording of the event and one of the witnesses identified Doug. We’re trying to make a case against these slime balls, and we need victims to testify.”

“I’ll be right down.”

I backed away from the window, scurried into a skimpy shift, and hurried downstairs. Greeting the officers, dripping red from my head, I looked quite the victim myself.

“This happened last fall? As far as I know, Doug didn’t attend any such rally. Regardless, that victim couldn’t have been him. I’d sure have noticed if he’d come back with his face mashed. I’ll phone him for you right now so we can clear this up.”

Doug answered on the second ring. After briefing him, I passed the phone to Detective Creed. Doug affirmed that he hadn’t been at the rally.

Curious about to the chain of events that led them to Doug, as the officers retreated, I asked for a run-down.

Detective Creed flipped his phone to display a fuzzy photo, as had been obtained from freeze-framing a recording of the riot. I squinted, peered, cocked my head, straining to identify the man as my son despite my knowledge that it couldn’t have been.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

Detective Creed whipped out an 8-by-10 portrait of Doug conveniently scooped from his Facebook page.

“Remarkable resemblance, don’t you think?”

Like the beating victim, Doug was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Trying to appear diplomatic, I conceded that given somebody had already identified the man as Doug, I could understand the police focus on the similarities.

I said, “In any event, we know now that Doug had all the while been safe at home — for which I’m certainly grateful — though I feel frustrated on your behalf, given you came all the way out here in vain. I hope you do find victims to testify.”

Having thereby wished the officers luck in enabling prosecution of the thugs, I proceeded to redraw my bath — I had to rinse out the red stuff, lest I frighten the neighbors. As I relaxed into my born-again bubble bath, I mused on the tenacious policemen trying to make their case.

As far as Doug was concerned, the case was closed.

So I thought.

As I indulged in Tub Take Two, I heard the phone ring. It was Officer Creed, requesting that I ask Doug to come to the Police Station the next day. They were hopeful that Doug — as a radical socialist and frequent flier at political protests — could identify some of the victims.

I phoned Doug. He was adamant that he wouldn’t betray his comrades by “naming names,” on the grounds that the information could be used against them somehow.

I argued that his focus should be on avenging the brutality done to his friends by helping the police find them. No dice.

I called Officer Creed back and explained Doug’s position. I made it clear that I was in total disagreement with Doug’s decision and had done my best to persuade him to my point of view.

As far as Doug was concerned, the case was closed.

So I thought.

When I returned home that evening, I scrolled though my caller-ID list. There were three calls labeled Fed Bur Invest — all placed within a half hour period and within half an hour of my concluding the call with Officer Creed.

Agent Kimball left a message at his first attempt to reach me: “Officer Creed says that you may be able to help us with an investigation. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”

I called back first thing in the morning. The FBI wanted me to press on Doug to meet with them. I explained that as I’d told Officer Creed, I’d hammered Doug as hard as I could but he refused to back down.

Agent Kimball replied, “We can’t make him talk to us, but we’re going to track him down and try to make him talk to us.”

I shuddered at the prospect of FBI agents swarming Doug’s place of employment. Though I didn’t divulge it— actually couldn’t; I didn’t know — I damn well knew the FBI could find it. Indeed, Kimball was probably Googling as we spoke. I implored him not to spring such a surprise.

The anti-climax: “OK. Well, then tell Doug to call Officer Creed to confirm that he won’t cooperate. Then that’ll be the end of it.”

I did; Doug did; it was.

This happened three years ago; I never did tell Doug about the FBI.