My Writer's Cramp Pieces

The Burglar

Even the worst witness can sometimes come up with a jewel.


The main genre for this prompt is Mystery.

Write a STORY where you have to rely on the unreliable memory of a sole witness. (Note: Even the most astute person won't remember everything.)



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The Burglar

         He reached through the window, inserted his arm, pulled the lever up, and pushed in. No one was around. His body dropped down through the space like an eel slides into its underwater cavern. The only difference was that this wasn’t the man’s home.

         The man's black gloves began finger-searching behind wall pictures, rummaging through drawers, and examining various articles for value. He discovered the wall safe within minutes and inserted miscellaneous jewels into his black backpack. Leaving the heavy, iron door of the safe ajar, he glanced through papers, found and pocketed the hundred dollar bills kept there for safe keeping, and then shut the door, smiling for the first time.

         He left the house the same way he’d gone in. No one was the wiser -- no one except Jane Clement, a neighbor who often had difficulty sleeping at night. Jane was awake and staring out her window, looking up at the stars.

         The moving shadows of a man dressed in black, drew her eyes away from Mars and Saturn. She turned the binoculars to the movement and was rewarded with the sight of the thief just completing his climb through her neighbor’s window.

         “Ah!” Jane Clement cried out, and then, although she’d always thought she had a steady head for emergencies, she reached out for the telephone and suddenly fainted.

         A short time later, twelve minutes, if she was determining it correctly, she held an icepack to her head where she’d made contact with the hassock, and dialed 911. The police arrived within fifteen minutes. Jane was impressed with their speed and told them so -- several times.

         “Yes, thank you, Miss Clement, but do you think we could ask you a few questions now? As I’ve told you, the neighbors are fine, and nobody blames you for fainting, but if you could just . . .”

         “But I feel so foolish,” Miss Clement interrupted once again. It was no later than 3:30 A.M. and cold as a black witch’s conscience, but she was energetically fanning herself with a magazine.

         Sergeant Bailor sighed. “Yes, Miss Clement. We’ve been all over that. But I need to ask you some questions. Could you please tell me . . .?”

         “Are you sure there weren’t any footprints under that window? Why I was sure I saw the Herrons water that garden yesterday.”

         “Miss Clement, please.” The officer was holding his hand up like it was a stop sign. Miss Clement eyed him peculiarly, raised one eyebrow scoldingly, and with a look that would have quelled her long ago students, she shut her lips firmly. Then she put her magazine down and folded her hands, waiting.

         “That’s better now. All right.” Sergeant Bailor was a long way from the school yard, but he could still feel the power of her teacher’s glare. He cleared his throat several times, and then with a scratchy-sounding voice began his questions.

         “So you saw the burglar. How would you describe him?”

         “Why he was exactly your height, Sergeant.”

         “Good. So he was about 6’ 1”.”

         “Oh, no,” said Miss Clement. “He couldn’t have been that tall. He must have been shorter than that.”

         Sergeant Bailor shifted in impatience, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and continued. “OK. So this fellow was less than 6’ tall would you say?”

         “Oh, I don’t know. He was taller than the window.”

         “The window . . .? Ah, yes, Miss Clement, the window is about three feet from the ground. I imagine he would be taller than that. Was he a white man?”

         “Oh, yes. That I can tell you for sure. And he had blonde hair, cut short . . . no, kind of longish around the ears, but short in the back. I mean it wasn’t down to his shoulders or anything.”

         “OK." Sergeant Bailor took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "Thank you, Miss Clement. What else can you tell me? Did you see his eyes? What was he wearing? Was there anything you noticed about him?”

         “Sergeant, don’t you think that’s rather a peculiar question? The man was crawling out of my neighbor’s window! Of course, I noticed that!”

         “Of course, Miss Clement. But did you notice anything else?”

         “I noticed his shoes.”

         “His shoes?”

         “I’d know them anywhere.”

         A second policemen entered the room and said, “Sergeant, we think we have him.”

         Sergeant Bailor stood up and shook Miss Clement’s hand. “Thank you for your help,” he told her, beginning to turn away.

         “No, that’s not right. The man wasn’t blonde. I think he had dark hair, black. Yes, that’s what it was, black.”

         Sergeant Bailor carefully controlled the twitch in his eye. “Thank you, Miss Clement. You’ve been quite helpful.”

         Miss Clement knew that she’d been dismissed, but she couldn’t help following the Sergeant out to his police car. She was hiding in the shadows of the house when they brought forward the suspect. He was a small, slender man. His hair, carrot cake-orange and spiked like an unruly porcupine, looked nothing like what she'd thought the burglar had looked like. Miss Clement screwed her eyes shut and tried to remember.

         Sergeant Bailor was standing behind the officer reading the man his rights. Miss Clement flagged him.

         “You need to be inside, Miss Clement,” the Sergeant told her, allowing his touch of irritation to deliver the message with a firmness he usually didn't use with a civilian, especially not an elderly one.

         “But I need to tell you something,” she said. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

         Once more the Sergeant breathed in, held, and expelled slowly. “Now, Miss Clement. I understand that his description doesn’t match the things you say, but witnesses, especially in the dark, don’t always see everything clearly. This man..."

         “No. That's not the man. He didn’t do it.”

         Sergeant Bailor sighed heavily. He thought about his wife and how she wanted to go to the Bahamas for a week. He thought about his desk and the bottle of whiskey in the top drawer. “Why do you think that, Miss Clement?" he said when he could manage to get the words out without growling.

         “Well, I may forget the color of a man’s hair, what he was wearing, and how tall he is, but I never forget to check his shoes. You see a good teacher doesn't allow children to go about with untied shoe laces.”

         Another long sigh. “I see. So the perpetrator had untied shoe laces?”

         “No. He didn’t have untied ones. He didn’t have shoe laces. That’s just the point. Don’t you see?”

         Sergeant Bailor vowed that very moment to take his wife on the vacation. It was time to get away. Again, he sighed deeply, then said, “No, Miss Clement, I don’t see.”

         "The burglar didn’t have shoe strings. This man is wearing tennis shoes. He can’t be the one who did it!”

         A voice interrupted their talk. They turned to see a police officer striding towards them. “Sergeant, we caught another one.”

         Sergeant Bailor stared at the second suspect now being brought toward them. Immediately the Sergeant's eyes dropped to the man’s shoes. No shoe laces.

         “All right, read him his rights,” the Sergeant called out, and then he smiled at Miss Clement, who was was nodding her head as she stared at the shoes of the second suspect.


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