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boccaderlupoI dreamed I was a crime scene investigator in the late '90s probing the case of a serial shooter in Newark's North Ward. I was simultaneously watching the dream, as if it were a documentary, and participating in it as the protagonist. I remember it being late night on a hillside, and we were investigating the shooting of a young African-American woman in a hilly neighborhood. I stepped past police tape onto the scene, and we recorded everything on digital tapes that were then stashed and catalogued in a haphazard manner, lengthy scribbles of details. I was sporting unconscionable sideburns and wore a greasy blue suit that was too large for me.
As a spectator, I was fully aware of how the case turned out (we caught the bad guy, but not after a spate of shootings, some fatal) and also that our poor system of categorizing evidence played a major role in not breaking the case earlier. I clucked my tongue at documentary detective me for doing such a sloppy job.
Then in another scene it was daytime, and I pulled into Newark police HQ, which in the dream had something of a Wayne mansion feeling to it, a faded castle, tribute to glories of yesteryear. I stopped in the yard and got out of my car, and began walking and talking with the groundskeeper. The man had very red skin and a yellowing mustache, and wore a faded brown outfit. We were grumbling about some issue or other in the department, when, as we turned a corner, directly ahead, maybe 50 yards in front of us, was a woman (or a person disguised as a woman). Sharp features with auburn hair, and holding aloft a handgun that was pointed right at me and my compadre.
She began shooting. A hail of terribly aimed gunfire all around. I pushed the groundskeeper to the ground, were he went sprawling. I began chasing after the woman (who I knew, as a spectator to be the shooter). She donned a blonde wig and purple sunglasses and darted into a community garden at the edge of the property. I was slow in scaling the fence, and by the time I reached the garden itself she had escaped.
As a spectator, I was fully aware of how the case turned out (we caught the bad guy, but not after a spate of shootings, some fatal) and also that our poor system of categorizing evidence played a major role in not breaking the case earlier. I clucked my tongue at documentary detective me for doing such a sloppy job.
Then in another scene it was daytime, and I pulled into Newark police HQ, which in the dream had something of a Wayne mansion feeling to it, a faded castle, tribute to glories of yesteryear. I stopped in the yard and got out of my car, and began walking and talking with the groundskeeper. The man had very red skin and a yellowing mustache, and wore a faded brown outfit. We were grumbling about some issue or other in the department, when, as we turned a corner, directly ahead, maybe 50 yards in front of us, was a woman (or a person disguised as a woman). Sharp features with auburn hair, and holding aloft a handgun that was pointed right at me and my compadre.
She began shooting. A hail of terribly aimed gunfire all around. I pushed the groundskeeper to the ground, were he went sprawling. I began chasing after the woman (who I knew, as a spectator to be the shooter). She donned a blonde wig and purple sunglasses and darted into a community garden at the edge of the property. I was slow in scaling the fence, and by the time I reached the garden itself she had escaped.
