I was busily getting some stuff done around the house before work when the doorbell rang. I answered it, and there were two very official-looking men in suits, flashing their detective credentials. Bwuh?
Apparently, there had been an arrest of a mid-level drug dealer in a neighboring town, and in order to cut himself a deal, he decided to name names and give locations of drug manufacturing labs.
Trouble is, the guy proved himself as “full of shit” when he gave them my address.
I invited the detectives in, apologized for the messiness of the house (I’ve been fighting the flu for a couple of days now, so I’ve been slacking), but told them they were welcome to look around and that they could feel free to bust up any drug manufacturing operations that they came across.
After poking their heads into each room, they showed me pictures of the guy and asked if I recalled ever seeing him before. I almost laughed at the picture, because he looked exactly like someone trying out for the role of “Scary Black Guy” in a movie. But no, never seen him before, didn’t recognize the name, no idea about anything you’re asking me.
I let them know that the (deceased) son of the lady next door was a dealer, and that it’s pretty common knowledge in the neighborhood that the guy who runs the corner store also sells some products that he doesn’t keep on the shelves, but other than that, sorry, can’t help ya.
They thanked me, noted that it kind of seemed like they guy just picked an address out of thin air, but that of course they had had to follow up on it. I let them know that it was no trouble at all, but I can’t help but wonder – what the hell was this guy thinking? “Yeah, here’s an address for a meth lab. I can leave now, right?”