A police officer greeted me on the front stairs. A unit owner on the second floor was reported missing by her adult daughter. The officer was asking when we last saw her, trying to glean information that she may have dementia. After all, it's legal for an adult to go off by herself and not tell anyone, so the police tend not to get involved for at least 24 hours. What the cop was trying to establish was that this particular lady had dementia, as her daughter claimed. If she had a health problem that jeopardized her safety, the police could start looking for her. The whole thing was very sad.
Then, after I fed my cats, I heard a terrible commotion in the hall. Police were banging on Pervy Walt's door. Again. The same thing happened on New Year's Day. It went on for quite a while. Then I heard the sound of electric tools. Paramedics came rushing off the elevator. After the noise died down, I checked and the hall was filled with wood and debris. The police had sawed a hole in door and removed the lock. They took Walt away. Whether to the hospital or the morgue, I don't know.
It was all very scary. No one likes to see police cars in front of her home. Being questioned by a cop, even informally, is intimidating. The noise was disruptive. And it stirred up all those fears I have about my own vulnerability as I age.
