The Interrogation

It's Wednesday night. We celebrate Rambler's birthday at my parents' house. Meatballs. Ice cream cake. Smiles all around. We get in the car and drive home. We walk in the back door and hear a knock on the front door.

I open the door to find a detective looking for me. I ask him to come in. He stands in the entryway. I invite him to the dining room table. He stays in the entryway. He shows me a stack of mail addressed to me, but sent to another house address. He asks why my mail is going to that house. I don't know. He asks if it's mail I would receive. It is. Have I been receiving my usual mail? I have. Have I recently purchased airline tickets to South America? No. Have I been to South America? No. Have I purchased airline tickets on (some airline I've never heard of)? No.

The story goes that someone had their credit card stolen, used to purchase tickets to South America. This same person has been receiving my mail. Odd coincidence, but I assure you all, a coincidence indeed. I was partially accused -- each facial tic and mannerism very much under scrutiny of said detective -- and partially warned that perhaps someone has stolen my identity.

Detective informs me that he has an IP address and he would know instantly if my computer was used to purchase these tickets. He can see my computer from my entryway, but I don't want to volunteer access. Maybe it's all those CSI's and cop shows I've seen, but I want him to have a warrant. He tells me to check my credit report and all my accounts.

I checked everything yesterday and there's absolutely nothing to be found. I call the detective to tell him this and he's a bit warmer toward me. He said that it was an odd thing that my mail is going to his victims' house. I agreed. He said he was glad that my accounts appear safe and I'm probably in the clear. He will continue his investigation and thanks for calling.