You must ask the right question …

The post down below brought back a mystery. Citizen Kane’s last word was “Rosebud”, as that was the answer to the mystery of the significance of his last word at death: the name of his childhood sled. My last words will be “two windows”.

I am both sloppy and meticulous, that is, my desk has never looked anything like that of a CPA, who are typically ISTJ in Jungian personality types. I am borderline I and E, introvert and extravert, on that damned test, and no matter how many times I take it, that’s what it is. Other than that I am easily and overwhelmingly NFP on the rest, “N,” Intuitive, more about ideas and concepts over details; “F,” standing for making decisions based on feelings and instincts rather than logic, and “P,” meaning Perceiving, preferring spontaneity and flexibility over structure and planning.

That’s why my desk is always a mess. That’s why I was not a good CPA, avoiding any groups, knowing but a few others in my entire life, none socially … not working for a firm, and doing the necessary work only out of due diligence and duty. But otherwise, I am methodical and structured. I know where every tool is in my garage. When I clean the kitchen, everything is clean and in its proper place. Any chore I do around here, I do it well and see it through. I cannot help myself. If you are like me, I toast you, then I will rinse the glass and dry it before putting it back in the cupboard.

In 1987 a stranger broke into our house while we slept, traumatizing all of us. I helped make his entry easy, as when I set up a swing set for the kids, I placed it by the bathroom window. That’s the only place it fit due to trees. All he had to do was walk up the slide to gain entrance except … two locked windows.

That house was our second, as the market was down and people were giving away houses, merely allowing us to take over payments. I should not have done that, but that’s an old, old mistake that I am going to let go. Our two houses were four blocks apart, and were both built in the 1940s. Consequently, they had storm windows and screens.

So twice yearly I had to change out one for the other. I generally did this chore on a Saturday in April/May, or October/November. Weather was always nice or I waited to do it, and the work was easy and pleasant. I would remove either the screen or storm, wash the windows outside and inside, and clean out the window sill. I carried with me Windex, newspaper, and a bucket of soapy water and rags, and some tools.

Once done I locked the inside windows and the outside screen or storm window. I think the outer windows had hooks for locks, but I am not certain. I just know that I secured them in place, as that was part of the chore.

To enter our house, the intruder opened the storm window and propped it with a long stick, and then lifted the inside window, a double sash, perhaps single. The point is that both were storm and sash windows were unlocked. He gained easy access.

This is the key to solving the crime … two windows were left unlocked. But how? I did not unlock them, nor leave them unlocked. I was not living in fear, but knew that with five young children, a modicum of safety was part of being a good Dad.

Police detectives came through, and I had to repaint the interior due to finger print smudges. I don’t know that they ever checked the other windows, which would have been locked. Three sets of journalists have passed through, and none wondered why those two windows were left open. I think they simply assumed I was careless … assumed … detectives and journalists doing that.

I too assumed I had been careless, leaving the bathroom sash window unlocked and the storm window unlatched. But as time went on I know a bit about my own tendencies and probability … say we had twenty windows on the house, basement, first floor and upstairs, each with an inside and outside pane. (This happened in March, so storm windows would still be up.) Assume for argument that I would normally forget to lock one or another when I did my semiannual changeout. That’s reasonable.

What are the odds that I would forget to lock one inside window, and one storm. Two in forty, you say?, That would work and the odds would be like 1/20  plus 1 /20, or 2 /40, or 5%. Say I forgot to lock four windows … the odds come down, and six … down further. But assume I am meticulous, even to the point that that if I ran across a faulty lock I would fix it that day so as not to forget. I am that way. If the police did not check on all the other windows on the house, and they have never allowed me to inspect the case file, then I will never know the answer to the puzzle.

Those odds are actually higher than one in twenty, as the two windows are next to each other, so that both had to be unlocked for the burglar to get in. They are essentially related variables, and not independent, making the odds 1/20 times 1/39, or 1/780 – too high perhaps, with one in twenty too low. The answer lies somewhere in between.

But here is my Rosebud moment: I did not leave the two windows unlocked. I am sure of that. I am too meticulous. The intruder had been in there earlier, used the bathroom, and unlocked the windows, knowing he would be back later. I was out that evening, and did not return until the house was quiet. I slept alone in the basement that night*.

There. I have no done what the detectives and journalists failed to do: Ask the right question. Why were those two windows left unlocked? The intruder had made sure. There’s more story to know, right?

__________

*This reminds me of Glen Campbell’s words in an interview with Bob Costas. He was talking about his large family – eleven brothers and sisters. He told Costas, “I didn’t know what it was like to sleep alone until I got married.”