Einstein : Not everything that can be counted counts. And not everything that counts can be counted.

Thursday, 26 July 2007

One of the better nights.

I'm driving around an area that has been hit hard with burglaries during the night. The crime analyst shows us that the offences are between 1900 and 0400, thats 7pm and 4am in old money. I have just moved from one series of lanes, alleyways and footpaths towards another. I narrow the times down to changeover and perceived grub times.

My radio crackles into life............"burglary in progress at number 46, occupier away on holiday, neighbour has heard smashing glass from the rear and can hear noises inside"

I stop, quickly, silently as I can despite the pile of deisel shite I'm in, kill the lights and think quietly to myself 'pinch me'. I tell comms where I am and then PR off. Even right down low it makes too much noise. Certainly too much noise for the sharp hearing senses of the intruder.

I look to the side, can't see any numbers of the houses but must be close. Me and matey are out low profiling along the walls, I see a number, its 26, christ I can't believe how close I am. Ten houses away, lucky for me, I am on the right side of the road, even luckier. Get to 46, front gate open, dim light moving inside and shadowy figure moving throught the glazed door. I'm in through the gate, along the side of the house towards the back door, matey begins to whine, he knows something is about to happen. Dogs can sense things like this.

As I get to the back door, which has been pushed closed but not shut, matey boy in sorting through stuff on the kitchen worktop. I decide I can get through the door into the kitchen and his only route out will be through the door into the hallway which is open. I consider waiting until someone is at the front. Bingo, he closes the door to get something out of a cupboard.

Now is the time for my introduction. My boot goes onto the centre rail of the door, which crashes open, matey boy tries to run but his feet seem glued to the spot, several yards seem like half a mile but he is mine. I shout, my mate shouts too, in his own way, suddenly its that look again, the one that I know. My mate is right there, in an instant. The eyes are the windows into the mind and once the realisation is clear that hospital attention is a worse alternative than a cosy small room, a few signatures and free meals I am in control. My mate hates dwelling burglars as much as I do. Compliance is the only choice, exactly. He's on the floor, safe unless he decides to try to escape or decides to have a pop. I tell him what will happen if he doesn't comply. The deterrant is only inches away, and he knows. He's on the floor until the response arrive to search him and his baggage, we've hit the jackpot. Gear from several breaks including from a mate of colleague.

Repeat dwelling burglar, breaches bail on more than one occasion and still gets the luxury of his liberty to allow him to continue to burgle peoples homes. They are not houses they are homes. He has no respect for this, he doesn't care for this, he does what he needs to do to get his sorry ass through the next day after he trades his booty for what is important to him. He has neither conscience nor remorse, they relate not to him. He is driven by other demons that he tries to justify the unjustifiable. Suddenly, to some, he appears to be the victim. Some people feel sadness for him, even sorry for him. The offender is the drug, not the person.

Not so the people who have had him inside their homes, not them, definately not them.

Something is seriously wrong for this to be the case. But later that morning I know I won't sleep well. I'm too excited to sleep. Last night will have been one of the better nights. Another night's pensionable service. This one certainly was.

1 comment:

BelfastPeeler said...

Ah its mint. I have a post already written about what I think of nights like this (I'm trying to space them out a bit, give people a chance to comment on new stuff)