(It's troubling to point out here that between the time I realized there was a policeman at my door and the time I found out why he was there, I didn't have a solitary worst-case-scenario enter my head. All that came was, "Ooh, how exciting! Police!" So bummer. I guess I'm not a fully matured woman yet.)
"Does Gary Henrie live here?"
"Yes, but he's at work." OR DEAD?!?! (is what I should have been thinking)
"I just wanted to let you know that some of your mail was stolen." The police officer handed me a crumpled, torn, was-wet-but-now-it's-dry envelope with my handwriting on it. It was a from the check I had sent out two days earlier.
"Wow, thank you," I replied, thoroughly surprised (and rather impressed). "How did you...?"
"A city worker found a box of 10 or so stolen envelopes in a box outside."
He gave me a pamphlet about identity theft, I thanked him, and he left. I wasn't terribly miffed about the check: it was for a minor amount, plus I phoned up Wells Fargo and put a stop-payment on it. But, as my mother's voice in my head pointed out, my account number is out there, deviously scheming ruin to my life. Don't worry, Mom, I'm on it. But to be honest, I'm not terribly convinced of the wily fiendishness of the thief:
1) really? leaving the remains of your crime in some box outside? *raised eyebrow*
2) he clearly has no idea how to open an envelope properly (see photo evidence)
3) YOU WASTED A PERFECTLY GOOD STAMP! If you're going to steal from us, please, make use of the goods. Yeesh.