It was late on a Tuesday in August. I was in the process of moving out of a St. Johns rental, and burned out after a day of helping put out the Mercury. But those boxes in the basement weren't going to pack themselves—and, so, downstairs I went. Stink lines started stabbing my nostrils by the third or fourth stair. And, suddenly, I realized I had a much bigger problem than whether to pack yet another box of why-the-fuck-do-we-have-so-many-books or start in on the kitchen china.
There, coming out of the basement drain was a disgusting eruption of feces turned back by an underground clog and left with nowhere better to go than the blue-painted basement floor of our duplex. Cleaning supplies were required—normally not a problem, except that the heavy-duty stuff was all at the new house, which we'd been renovating for a month. By then, it was close to 11 pm. My body was crying out for sleep.
So on went my pants, and soon I was in the car making the two-minute drive to the new place. I parked in front like usual and went up the steps to the door, shrouded in darkness because the porch light was off. I fumbled with the key. Then I stopped.
The wind was howling. And I could hear something clanging—the side gates, normally blocking the way from the driveway to a patio alongside the house. I walked north along the front of the house. I grabbed hold of one gate and as I swung it over to its mate, I stopped again. A black pickup was on the patio. Packed with boxes. My heart started pounding, and before I could do a damned thing, I was looking right at one of the men who'd been loading it up.
And he was looking right back at me. Burglaries happen every day in Portland, in every neighborhood, and for a variety of reasons. And only in rare cases is a crook actually caught in the act or spotted by a neighbor while hauling away someone else's stolen property. Henning says the national clearance rate for burglary cases—based on arrests—is just 14 percent, and that it's been that way for decades.
