It was a dark and rainy night.

After a busy day of fighting office fires and trying to placate the whims of IT software developers, I was glad to pack up my laptop and head for home.

With umbrella in tow and headphones on, I started the trek towards our apartment. I usually take the inner-urban trail. It’s convenient and, usually, vehicle free. As I hummed along to Wilco’s A Shot In the Arm, I noticed a headlight on the trail ahead of me. It was coming closer. At first I wondered if it was cyclist, but as the light grew I could tell that the outline matched to that of a motorcycle. A motorcycle on the inner-urban? As it slowed down I became a little more curious / anxious.

Sure enough it was a policeman that parked a few feet in front of me and evidently he wanted to chat. I pulled the headphones off.

“Where are you heading tonight, sir,” this roundish sort of cop asked as he stepped off his bike and removed his helmet.

“Home,” I replied.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Work. Premera Blue Cross…” Why does my voice always crack so suspiciously when I’m being questioned by police?

“Premera Blue Cross, what do you do there?”

Was I speeding, officer. Don’t say that out loud.

“Umm, I work with software developers. I write requirements so they can write the code for system enhancements.” (I don’t think it came out that way, but I mumbled and stumbled my way through somehow.)

“Well, sir, the reason I’m stopping you tonight is there was a bank robbery in the area. The suspect was wearing a black coat…”

Like me

“…carrying a black bag…”

Like me

“with salt and pepper hair…”

Like me. Is he joking?

“about 50 years old…”

Not like me. Not joking, I guess. Do I really look 50? God.

“…so you match a few of those descriptions.” I fit a profile…“Do you have any ID on you? We just need to check…”

“Sure,” I hand him my driver’s license. “I can show you my work ID badge as well,” I pull out my photo badge with a much younger version of myself pictured there, hoping I look less and less like a bank robber. Look at me, officer, I’m a model citizen. I work in insurance. I am green and eco-friendly. Look, no car.

The policeman jots down some notes as he eyes my badge and driver’s license. He asks a bit about my job and claims to be a “techie” himself. I don’t remember what I said but must have convinced him that I really did work at Premera Blue Cross.

“Well, thank you very much, sir.” He’s such a polite profiler.

I wanted to say, “I hope you catch the guy,” but that’s what all the bank robbers say in the movies so I bit my tongue. Plus, I have this recurring fear of being wrongfully accused of a crime. I think that is what prompts me to say, “Would you like my phone number, too?”

Stupid thing to say, I know. “Sure,” the policeman fires back, pen ready. I give it to him. I refrain from offering to let him search my bag. Obviously I’m not 50, so I think he owes me that bit of privacy. We say our goodbyes after this and he wishes me a good night. I walk home quickly hoping that I am not stopped again for my suspicious looks and dress. I think back wondering if I saw any suspicious people prior to meeting up with the cop. There was that lady in the black trenchcoat at the landscaping place across the street.

Nah, I think she didn’t fit the profile. Which would make her the mastermind criminal, wouldn’t it? Hmmmm.