It was 1996. I was a pup on probation. On Christmas Eve, I worked West Nights.
I crept out of the barn an hour before Christmas and wandered into the west hills. It was cold. The rain fell, hard and harrowing. Nothing stirred. The streets were empty.
Half past midnight, the radio squawked.
“8David7.”
8David7.
Burglary in progress. 1727 Primrose. Man in dark jacket, red stocking cap, is carrying items in a sack from the house to a location behind the garage.
8David7. Copy.
The shift arrived, darked out, deployed shot guns and walked into the four corners from a block out, setting up a solid perimeter.
From cover, in the shadows, we put eyes on the house and watched and waited, and then, I saw the subject creep out the back, step down the deck, and start toward the garage.
Shot guns racked. Flashlights lit up the yard.
“Police! Show us you hands!”
The suspect stopped, looked, and said, “How wonderful? Can you help me.”
It was a woman’s voice.
Illuminated by seven mag-lites, we saw a woman, a mother, in her forties, wearing a Santa hat, a red jacket, and boots. An empty brown bag was slung over her shoulder. She smiled, waved us in.
“I am bringing in the presents from the garage,” she said in a stage whisper.
The perimeter dissolved. Shotguns were stowed. Officers laughed and began to walk away.
“Please don’t go. I need you to eat cookies and play with the toys!”
Ma’am it’s pouring. Our boots are caked in mud. We’ll ruin your carpet.
“All the better. What better proof that Santa was here?”
The downtown cars left.
The southwest hills cars stayed, ate cookies, put presents on the toy train circling the tree, and treasured the unexpected ending.
