Ruminations on a home invasion

Aweh dearly beloved fellow ruminants & groupies

I have 177 blog posts and they have covered a very wide range of eclectic topics reflecting an anxious, disorganised, and curious mind. Some of my blog posts are esoteric and some are deeply personal. Today I will relate a deeply personal experience with the benefit of hindsight.

Recently, I read a poignant personal narrative from someone in our extended circle of friends recounting a harrowing incident termed as a home invasion or armed robbery in South African terms. This prompted me to ponder why I’ve never shared our own story, which differs from our friend’s experience. Despite the disparity, what we share is the profound and enduring impact it had on both Nerine and me, albeit in different ways.

On Sunday, September 21st, 2003, our youngest son, Connor, was only 21 days old, and Oliver, our older child, was three. Nerine, exhausted from the demands of new motherhood, retired early around 9 p.m. Meanwhile, I lounged in the TV room at the opposite end of the house, engrossed in television and newspaper reading. Suddenly I saw someone in the adjoining kitchen, and I jumped up to see who it was. He charged toward me and put a gun to my forehead. It was incredibly quick.

Before describing what happened next it is worth reflecting that the passage of 20 years has changed my perspective and allowed me to be more rational and introspective on how I responded and what happened.

First, he got me to lie face down on the tiled floor with a gun pointed at the back of my head and explained that If I did not cooperate, he would shoot me. I cooperated and said he could take anything he wanted. He then marched me to our bedroom, where his accomplice had already awoken Nerine, holding her at gunpoint. With my own neckties, they bound us, relentless in their interrogation about a safe, cash, or firearms we didn’t possess.

Subsequently, I was sequestered in the bathroom, confined to the shower for the next three agonising hours, and periodically checked on by one of the assailants. Amidst the ordeal, I could hear Connor’s cries, learning later that they had brought him to Nerine for solace. While Nerine, ever the mediator, engaged them in conversation, gaining insights into their backgrounds, I remained silent.

Then, suddenly, the house went quiet, and I waited, and I suspected they were gone. I called out to Nerine and then rushed to the bedroom and managed to press the panic button. We were able to untie ourselves and then the security company arrived, followed by the police. Our house had been ransacked and was in a chaotic state. They had loaded what they could into both our cars and driven off in them. I phoned the vehicle tracking service which dispatched a helicopter that chased our Jeep which then crashed into a wall. The robbers escaped before the police arrived. We were then advised by the security company that it was in our best interests to immediately go to the police pound to collect any of the remaining stolen property from our car and not to wait until the next day. So it was that my father and I were at the Dobsonville police pound in Soweto at 3 in the morning recovering some of our possessions We finally got to bed just as the sun was coming up. We didn’t sleep. I was left with the clothes I was wearing. They took them all.

Things have never been quite the same. We both became paranoid about security and elements of that persist to this day. The experience was however not unifying for us though with Nerine’s compassion and understanding we got through it. Yet, reflecting on my response, I realise I succumbed to a cold, vengeful fury, neglecting empathy and support for Nerine. I went into dirty Harry mode and my single-minded mission in life was to track these criminals down. I was advised to go to therapy, and I managed one session which just served to irritate and annoy me. My therapy was to hunt them down. “Are you feeling lucky today? Punk”

I became obsessed at the expense of all those around me. And so, I set about hunting them down and our stolen cell phones were my ally. With considerable difficulty and obstruction from the cell phone providers as well as the prosecuting authorities who needed to authorise court orders, I extracted detailed call records in Excel spreadsheets of our phones and connected phones. This involved several court orders and visits to the senior executives of the cell phone companies. Apparently, the privacy of criminals is rather important. In the end, I got all the data I needed because I was not giving up. Detailed call records for thousands of calls on multiple phones. Now I was in the zone. Data analysis is what I can do, and I constructed a map and network of calls spending many hours at night poring over my computer. Then I sprung a trap and worked out what their names were and where they lived.

The police had made no progress, but they knew me well by then and when I took the information to the police Captain, he mounted an operation to arrest them that evening. They arrested two of them and one ran away before they could arrest him. Some of our stolen property was found in their houses. Then they “escaped” from the police station. I initiated articles in the press and the police Commissioner of Johannesburg phoned me and gave me his personal cell phone number. I still have it and he is now retired. He assured me that now that they knew who they were it was only a matter of time before they would catch them again. True to his word both were rearrested within six months and there was no escaping this time.

I was still not done. The data beckoned. From the data, I could work out when they had perpetrated other house robberies and what the victims’ numbers were. Several curious and awkward phone calls ensued. ‘Hi, I’m Bruce, and you don’t know me, but I want to ask you if you were robbed on 11 December at about 9 pm?’ Then an awkward silence and, ‘How do you know?’ And so, I linked several cases, and the complex and lengthy criminal process began. It took several years. Eventually, they were convicted and sentenced to lengthy jail terms.”

In her judgment, the magistrate said that I had a very unhealthy obsession with tracking the criminals down and that I should have left this to the police. I was very annoyed with her at the time. With hindsight, I know that she was right and that I did have an unhealthy obsession, and this took a big toll on those around me. Was it worth it? I’m not so sure anymore. Is obsession a good thing?

I want to express my gratitude for all the ideas and comments received. I genuinely appreciate them, and please continue to share your thoughts.

Regards

Bruce