A generous friend of mine rode with me to the Toledo bus station to catch a 6:00 a.m. Greyhound to Cleveland. I had to take a bus because I was going to pick up a car. I needed to get there early on a Wednesday because I was also going to the Cleveland Police property unit, which is open MWF 8:30 a.m.-3:30 p.m. It was dark and raining, and the newly expanded freeway into Toledo was still unfamiliar, so I missed the Collingwood exit and had to get off and head back. We got to the station just in time for the bus. My friend drove my car back to Bowling Green.

The bus trip went quickly. The interior of the bus was shabby, but it felt mechanically solid, and the driver was friendly and competent. I had a seat to myself. Everyone else was sleeping. My friend had packed me sandwiches for breakfast. We should all have such friends. I watched the familiar, increasingly hilly landscape go by. When we got off the turnpike at Sandusky, the rain had stopped. I saw the old Sandusky train station for the first time. We got on Route 2, stopped at Elyria, a town I’d never seen except from the freeway, and drove on to the Greyhound terminal in downtown Cleveland. It has seen better days, long ago. Outside, I realized that the seedy building was actually an impressive Art Deco station, one that Coleman would have admired, and probably knew.

I ordered an Uber. The pickup was in front of the Cleveland Hofbräuhaus across from the station. The driver confirmed my destination, the Cleveland Vehicle Impound Unit. I said I wished I was staying at the Hofbräuhaus instead. We headed off to an area south of I-490 that is mostly rail yards. The roads grew more potholed, the traffic thinned out, and he dropped me off on an unpaved driveway framed by cyclone fences and laced with mud puddles.

The Impound Unit office was in an old modular building that looked permanent in a way only something meant to be temporary can. I handed the officer the car title and watched with trepidation as he added up the charges on a paper form. Luckily, it was less than I feared—only $280 for the tow, parking penalty (most of which I’d already paid online), and storage. I paid for it after I’d figured out which window the disembodied voice saying “next” was emanating from.

Now I had to go to another modular building to be guided to the car. The lot looked like a cheap off-airport parking lot, but even more post-apocalyptic. A pleasant young man started off toward a distant point where he thought the car must be, but I noticed it just one row over and three cars in: a black Passat sedan with stickers from my son’s bands on the bumper. It was parked so close to the next car that I couldn’t slide through the door. The lithe young attendant got in for me, turned the key in the ignition, and—nothing. We looked at each other. He tried it again, and the engine started. Whew. It was a new key and the electronic elements just needed to recognize each other.

The young man seemed very concerned about me, and waved cheerily as I drove away. When I got to the end of the long, muddy driveway, I noticed the oil light was on. I pulled onto a side street and the dip stick was the driest one I’d ever seen. So, my next mission was to hope I could get to one of the gas stations on Maps before the engine seized up. After putting in two quarts of synthetic oil, I drove back streets through the Flats toward police headquarters, downtown on Ontario Street.

Part II

My GPS guide took me to the street where Coleman had taken his life two weeks earlier. Luckily I was heading east from the Flats, so I didn’t have to pass the address. When I got to Ontario Street, all the nearby parking structures were full. I drove around to 3^rd Street, behind police headquarters, and found a lot that still had a few spaces. An elderly man and a middle aged man were running the lot, possibly father and son. The father asked me how long I wanted to park. I told him however long it took to pick up some property at police headquarters. He looked concerned, and then led me to a spot where I had to back in. He gave me precise directions, so I parked straight and without incident. The Passat still felt a little foreign, so I was glad for the assistance. 

I walked around the block to the main doors of the massive building at 1300 Ontario Street. Ahead of me was a security checkpoint, so I took everything out of my pockets, put it all in a tray, and walked through the sensor. The security officer looked at me encouragingly. There was a snack bar just behind security, and I was getting hungry, but first things first. I walked up some stairs to a mezzanine, looking for some kind of directory, and found a schematic drawing of the building. It was actually two connected buildings. I was in the Justice Center. Police Headquarters was next door. I went back down and asked the security man how to get to the police. He looked concerned, pointed toward the hallway, and apologized that I would have to go through another security checkpoint.  

Inside the police building, I came to a glassed-in reception desk with a sign that said “All Visitors Must Report to Reception.” Another sign said “Closed.” The “Will Return By” sign said nothing. I went looking for a directory so I could find the Property Unit. There was none on any of the massive brown-marble walls, so I returned to the security checkpoint and asked the young man where the Property Unit might be. He looked concerned and said that the elevators were down the hall to the left. The unit was on the eighth floor.

There were four elevators on each side of the lobby, but only one of them seemed to work. I rode up to the eighth floor and followed the sign down a long empty hall with a service window at the end. A police officer standing at the window was chatting animatedly and profanely with the two officers behind the counter. I stood nearby, waiting for him to finish his story. 

Finally, one of the officers behind the counter asked me how he could help me. I told him my son had committed suicide in Cleveland two weeks ago and I wanted to pick up the property that the responding officers had found with him. He looked concerned. I told him that I’d been in touch with the Third District and they had told me the property should be at the property unit at headquarters. I showed him a slip of paper with the case number. He looked it up on his computer and asked me what the items were. A backpack and a Flavortown cooler. He found out that the property wasn’t there. The guy who brings property over from the Third District was on vacation last week, so that probably explained it. I should call the Third District back and see if it was still there. But it also might be in the remote unit, where bulkier items are stored, since there was a cooler.  

Out on the front plaza, I looked up directions to the Third District. It was an eight minute drive. I didn’t have the heart to find another parking spot and go through more security, just to find out that they didn’t know where the property was either. I walked around the block, got in the Passat, which now felt more familiar, and let the GPS lady guide me to US 6 for a drive back home along the lake. 

To be continued …