Ten minutes ago there were four police cars– three strobing violently–a police van, and an ambulance lined up outside. Now only two cars, dimmed, and the van remain.
Stepping outside my girlfriend’s suite, I approached a group of underclassmen huddled in the hallway, adjacent to the stairwell.
“You guys wouldn’t happen to know why the street outside is lit up with cops, would you?”
A balding junior I know from a few parties answers. “It’s the third floor. Cops just went up there – shit’s going down.”
“Cool. Not trying to be nosy”—I don’t live here and I sometimes worry my regular presence puts the more uptight students ill at ease—“just thought I’d see what’s up.”
Third floor. Good. A buddy of mine’s had some recent legal worries vis-à-vis his (former) narcotics purchases. University police (wrongly) suspect him of trafficking. But he lives on another floor.
“It’s safe. Don’t worry,” says A., a sweet and awkwardly nerdy Russian undergrad with glasses and short hair.
Twenty minutes have passed. A single campus cop car remains parked outside.
Looking forward to the police log entry on this one. Hope no one is hurt.