Mistaken Identity

Sometimes, mistaken identity is funny, like when Mike was a kid and ran into a guy that looked just like Willie Nelson, red bandanna, long hair, and smelled funny, and asked for an autograph. His dad, watching from a few feet away, laughed when a deep, resonating bass voice grumbled, “I ain’t no Willie, kid,” and the guy walked away. Sometimes, it’s embarrassing. Years later, Mike was at Macy’s one afternoon, shopping for his wife’s birthday. He asked a woman - whom he assumed to be the sales associate - about a bath robe, only to find out that she was actually the local news anchor doing a story about high-end shoplifting. She laughed at his sudden redness in the cheeks, and then he, too, laughed. 

Sometimes a mistaken identity is funny.

Sometimes, mistaken identity will get you arrested.

Wednesday started out like any other day of the week. Mike got up early and made coffee, letting it brew while he took the dog for a walk. At 6:30, a small group of kids were at the corner, waiting for the bus. One boy slurped an energy drink and another yawned loudly. Mike was used to seeing them most days, so he stopped and chatted with them for a minute while Shadow, his Doberman-mix, got the usual morning attention from girls. A tall, skinny boy who needed a shave grumbled about it being finals week, so they didn’t get the usual Wednesday morning late-start. “It’s finals, dude…we need all the sleep we can get.” Mike shrugged and, catching the eye of one of the girls petting shadow, winked and said, “Whatcha gonna do?” 

When Mike got home, he poured a cup of coffee, turned on his laptop and sat at the kitchen table to check emails and scroll through the news. He was happy to see an email from his sister. Pictures were attached of her daughter, so he clicked “Download” and, waiting for the photos to download, he got his second cup of coffee. Sitting back down, he clicked through the pictures of the young family playing, laughing, and giving the toddler a bath, blowing bubbles around the bathtub like they did when they were kids. 

He heard footsteps, looked up from the computer, and saw his wife, Mandy, dressed in a silk robe he got her for her birthday. Her hair was up, a little color on her cheeks, and her black-framed glasses perched on her nose. His breath caught, like it always did when he saw her in the morning. He watched as she came a little closer, a gentle, sexy sway to her hips and body. 

“Happy birthday, Mike,” she said, looking over the top of the glasses. The smokey, sultriness of her voice made his heart race and something “clicked’ inside his chest. “I have a special birthday present for you.” She touched the robe’s belt, tied into a bow. With a smirk, she kissed his forehead, traced her fingertips down the back of his hand, and purred, “Let’s go unwrap it.” The cup of coffee was forgotten as he followed his wife to their bedroom, where he was glad the company policy was on your birthday, you got a paid, two-hour late start. 

About quarter to nine, he walked out of the front door of the house with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step, and whistled “Happy birthday” as he hit the fob to unlock his Silverado pickup. He tossed his leather briefcase into the passenger seat, put his to-go cup of coffee into the center cup holder, and climbed into cab, fired it up, and chose a jazz station for his 10 minute drive to work. 

As he made his way through the neighborhood, Mike saw a girl sitting by herself on a concrete culvert pipe wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Her backpack was at her feet and she was reading a book. He had seen her before, sitting there, waiting for the bus along with the other kids. This morning, she was by herself. Mike remembered the kids that morning, saying there was no late start today because of finals. She had missed the bus. Wanting to help, he pulled over against the curb, rolled down his window, and waved at her. She closed the book with one hand marking the spot where she stopped. He told her that it was finals and she had missed the early bus. The expression on her face changed. Mike interpreted it as being worried that she missed the bus; maybe she would get in trouble. Reaching into the outside pocket of his briefcase, he grabbed his iPhone and, leaning out the window, he said, “You can use my phone if you need to call someone.” He was a little surprised as she jumped up off the culvert, grabbed her bag, and scampered toward a house down the street. 

“Oh, well,” he said to the radio host as he rolled up the window. “Guess she’ll call her folks from home.” Putting the phone into the slot next to his cup, he picked up the coffee and took a sip, returned it to the cupholder, and, checking his mirrors, he pulled back into the street and headed to work. He checked his watch: it was 9:47. He would be at work just in time. 

When he got to the office, he parked, got out, and, when he went inside to his office, he was met with handshakes and more than a few greetings of “Happy Birthday!” In his office, he woke up his computer and got busy. 

A few minutes before noon, Mike was thinking about ordering a Jersey Mike Italian Beef sandwich when the intercom chimed and Annette, at the front desk, said he had visitors at the front desk; could he come to the front, please? Mike didn’t get visitors at work, so, curious, he walked down the hall, through the security door, and into the front lobby where a man and a woman stood, both with badges clipped to their belts. “Mr. Andersen?” the woman began. “I’m Detective Andi Jackson and this is my partner, Detective Jorge Gonzales. We’re with the county sheriff’s department. Could you come with us, please? We need some help. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Mike stood, confused, looking back and forth between the two detectives. Fear pinched his throat; his pulse thumped behind his eyeballs. “What’s this about?” he asked. “Is my wife ok?” Detective Jackson gently said, “As far as we know, your wife is fine. It would be better, though, if we talked down at the station, to get something cleared up.” Mike could feel his breath, deep and quick. His hands were clammy. Licking his lips, putting his hands in his pockets to wipe them dry, Mike nodded at a very confused Annette, and said he would be back in a little bit, to let Jack, his business partner, know what was happening, and cancel his afternoon appointments. Flanked by the two detectives, Mike walked outside. When he chirped the door to his truck with his fob, Jackson said, “Tell you what, why don’t you ride with us. It’s the least we can do since you’re helping us. Your tax dollars at work, and all.” Mike climbed in and they rode to the station, the pair chatting while Mike sat silently in the back seat. 

When they got to the sheriff’s station, the trio went into a small room. No sooner had they all sat at the table, Gonzales flipped open a notebook and began asking questions. “You own a late-model silver Chevy pickup?” he asked. Mike nodded. “You saw it at the office; yeah, it’s a couple months old.” Reading off an address, the detective asked, “And, that is your address?” Again, Mike nodded. He tried to keep his hands relaxed, one on the table, one on his thigh. In the corner of his vision, he could see Jackson staring at him. “What’s going on,” Mike asked, repeating the question, “Is my wife OK?” 

“Your wife is fine,” Jackson said. Her voice had changed, the warm had been replaced by the hard, edgy voice of a cop. “We had a report of an attempted child abduction in your neighborhood. The child said a dark-haired man approached her this morning and tried to get her to approach his silver truck. We got security camera footage from a neighbor showing your truck stopped, you leaning out the window, and talking to the gir a little before 10l. Want to tell us about that, Mike?”

Mike’s cellphone started ringing with his wife’s ringtone. He made a move to answer it, but Detective Gonzales told him to leave it alone; they weren’t done talking, yet. 

Mike was having a hard time hearing because of the thundering in his ears. He felt light-headed. He was seeing spots. He was sweating but he felt cold. He wanted to get up, to walk away, to get out of the room and put distance between what was being implied and what was true, but he didn’t trust his legs. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he began, his mouth and throat suddenly dry. Mike tried to explain how he saw the kids this morning at the bus stop, but Jackson stopped him. “Got a thing for teenagers, Mike?” Mike’s head snapped towards her. “What? No!” He realized he was almost yelling. He took a fast breath, tried to suck in as much air as he could and slow his heartbeat. “No,” he started again, “not like what you are implying.” 

“What am I implying?” Jackson asked. “All I did was ask a question if you like kids. Go on…keep talking. Tell us about your morning.” Just then Gonzales’ phone chirped. He flipped it over, read a message on the screen, and looked at Jackson. He pointed his chin toward the door. Picking up their notebooks, the two detectives stood and walked out the door. Gonzales leaned back in the door. “Be right back,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Mike watched the door close and heard the latch snap. He waited a beat, then picked up his own phone. A text from his wife said, “CALL ME NOW!!!” A few seconds later, Mandy’s voice was on the phone, filled with panic. “There are cops in the house,” she yelled. “They had a search warrant and are digging through drawers and they took your computer. I asked one detective and she said to ask you. What is going on, Mike?”

His mouth was so dry, he could hardly form words. He swallowed once, twice, rolled his tongue around his mouth, and finally croaked out, “This is a mistake, Mandy. This has to be a mistake. I don’t understand what is happening. Something about a girl I tried to help this morning and…” 

“WHAT?” His wife’s voice was so shrill he instinctively jerked the phone from his ear. “What girl? When? Where were you? What the hell, Mike?!?” 

Mike again tried to moisten his mouth. He tried to explain the morning: the kids at the bus stop, her morning birthday surprise that now seemed a lifetime ago, then his drive to work, seeing the girl, and trying to help her call someone. “Mandy - listen to me: I did nothing wrong,” he said. “I just offered her my phone. It’s just a big misunderstanding. I’ll call you back when I get it sorted out.”

Mike glanced at the door. The detectives weren’t back, yet. He called his business partner. “Yeah, I know I just disappeared. I know…I know the project is important. It’s on track; a few hours won’t hurt much. I’ll work late the next couple nights - what the heck, he thought, since this birthday is already ruined, I might as well totally tank it - and get it all done by Monday morning. What? Nah, the cops had some questions for me. There was a misunderstanding in the neighborhood. It’ll be fine. No, I don’t want to say more than that. Hey - I need to go.”  

The detectives reappeared. Mike looked at his watch. An hour had passed in a moment’s time. As Jackson turned from the door, she had a manilla folder in their hands. She placed it in front of Gonzales’s seat as she sat down. After a moment of silent staring, she nodded at Mike’s phone, took a breath, and said, “You know we have searched your house.” It wasn’t a question. “We have your computer and we found the pictures.” 

Mike looked at her, then Gonzales, confused. He threw his hands up into the air. “What pictures?” he asked. “Is this a sick joke or something?”  

“In your email,” Gonzales said, as he flipped open the folder. There, in full eight-by-ten color, was the photo of his niece in the bathtub. “It’s not just teens, I guess. Do you always have pictures of children in the bathtub left open on your computer?” 

Mike stammered, “No…that's not…you dont…” And, suddenly, the screaming voice in Mike’s mind stopped and was perfectly calm. He remembered a line he read in a book, “take the nickel when you’re in a pickle.” Mike looked at Jackson, then Gonzales and took a breath. “I think I need a lawyer,” he said, and he was surprised at how calm he sounded. “And,” he added, “I am exercising my 5th Amendment rights to stop talking.” 

Jackson nodded. “That’s a good idea, Mike,” she said. “With this economy, lawyers are getting tired of having to drive for Uber. Some shyster will love having you for a client. This ought to be worth fifteen, twenty grand easy, wouldn't you say, Jorge? Say goodbye to that pretty Silverado, Mike. Now stand up.” 

He saw the cuffs come out from behind Gonzales’ back. “This has to be a nightmare,” Mike thought. He wanted to resist, to flex, to do something, but his muscles had lost their will. The handcuffs were terrifyingly cold as they touched his wrists, and the clicks of the locking mechanism echoed in the still room. His bowels threatened to explode. “There has to be a mistake,” Mike pleaded one more time. “All I did was try to help her…”

Jackson’s flat tone was frightening, as cold and sterile as the cuffs. “That’s what they all say, Mike. ‘Just trying to help’.” As he put his hands on Mike’s arm, Gonzales intoned words that sounded like the teacher on The Peanuts cartoons. Mike jerked his arm, but Gonzales had a firm grip. “I said, ‘Do you understand?’” 

Mike realized this was no dream; it wasn’t a TV show: Gonzales was talking to him. Mike stood still. He looked back where he had been sitting. His sweaty buttprint was still in the chair and his phone was being scooped up by Jackson and dropped into a plastic bag. “No, not really,” he said. “The words, yeah, but this…no way.” He looked at Gonzales. “This is wrong, man,” he said. “Today is my birthday…” Mike's voice faded away.

Gonzales blinked slowly, once, twice, and then guided Mike into the narrow hallway and down towards a steel door. As the automatic lock thunked open, Gonzales looked at Mike. “Oh, and Mike? On behalf of the sheriff’s office, happy birthday, man.”