Officer A approaches the scene of a car collision on Broadway. He finds one wrecked car there, and reckons the other took off some time ago. He finds a wallet in a puddle in the street. Name on the license is B. B’s nowhere to be found. Officer A takes off north to see about B.
About that same time Mr. B calls 911. “My car’s been stolen,” he says. B’s calling from home. The folks on the other end are suspicious. They tell B about what happens when you file a false police report. B remains poised. “My car’s been stolen,” he says. “They’ve got my keys, my glasses, and my wallet,” he says.
That’s when Officer A and the back-up start knocking on B’s front door. B brings them in. He tells them about his car—stolen, he says. The guys all notice a set of car keys on the floor. “Those are my roommate’s,” B says. The officers tell him to cut the crap and warn him not to file a false report. B persists.
Then the cops give Mr. B everything he needs to file that police report. B fills out a bunk sheet right in front of their eyes, and is promptly arrested.
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