I assisted the police with their inquiries last night.

If you read English mysteries, you know that’s a code phrase for sitting in jail. In my case, I mean the expression literally. A policeman asked me questions, and I answered them. Unhelpfully, but the best I could.

I noticed cops poking around a house across the street last night. I don’t generally watch what goes on in the neighborhood, because I don’t want to be one of those people. But when the police are prowling, it’s entertainment. (And, by the way, isn’t it nice to live in a country where, for most of us, the police are interesting rather than terrifying?)

One of them came over to my house and rang the bell. He showed me a picture on a police report and asked me if I’d ever seen this guy at that address. I told him I hadn’t. “Just a D.U.I. case,” he said.

Right. That’s what they wanted me to think. Probably so I wouldn’t panic, jump my mortgage and flee the local tax base in terror. I know how things work. I read thrillers.

Tomorrow I go in to the hospital for some tests. So if I never post here again, you’ll know the Mystery Psychopath tracked me down there, posed as a doctor, and tied up that loose end forever.