So I just finished the last day of a 60 hour training course to become a P.I. here in the beautiful state of Virginia (Which if my dating history is any indicator is NOT for lovers, contrary to what all the t-shirts and bumper stickers profess.) I decided that I enjoy snooping around in other people’s business so much, why not make it official and get paid for it?
The class itself was very educational, as we discussed all sorts of civil and criminal law, compared surveillance techniques, and watched a great movie explaining why one should NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES talk to a cop when pulled over. (There goes that method of finding a date.) We spent a day talking about computers (Really… Someone should’ve told me that I need to defrag my hard drive more than once every four years!) and I just couldn’t stifle my chuckle when I saw that someone had mistyped the letter “c” instead of “s” in the word disk on the PowerPoint slide and in giant letters on the screen we were told to ALWAYS find time for “DICK CLEANUP”. Makes you wonder what staff meetings are like at I.B.M. Had I known such pertinent information was part of the curriculum I would have taken computer science instead of band in high school.
The crème de la crème of investigative subjects just begging for sarcastic remarks and witty repartee came under the guise of a lesson simply called “Adultery”. For starters, I learned that it is a class four misdemeanor (read: ILLEGAL) to have pre-marital sex in the state of Virginia. Uh oh. Is it pre-marital sex if I have no intention of getting married? I think I need to write my Congressman.
Next was a lesson in how to “prove” adultery based on evidence found in the hotel room where the alleged Dance of the Bumping Fuzzies took place. For starters: P.I protocol says that if a used condom is found in the man’s room, it is not adultery. However, if the liquid-love filled prophylactic is found in the woman’s room, DING DING DING! We’ve got us some cheatin’! (I assume we trust a visual only inspection of said condom for this sort of thing. And sixteen layers of latex gloves.) I guess it is to be assumed that if the protection is found in the man’s domain, he is simply a practitioner of unusually cautionary self indulgence. (Tube socks are soooo passé.) If found in the woman’s room, she is a whore and adultery is assumed.
But how, as a non-involved party (unless you’re into that sort of thing) does an Investigator get his/her hands on such evidence. Well, apparently it is good M.O. to attempt entry into said hotel room where extra-marital love doodling occurred by getting the maid to allow you in under the guise of having left something in the room. For example, “Excuse me, Molly Maid? It seems I left a baby-batter filled condom here in the room. Might I retrieve it?” And in you go. Or, if too shy for straight talk, tell the cleaning crew that you left something important in the room and need to get in. When after a thorough inspection of the love nest you walk out dangling a pubic hair between your thumb and pointer finger in a death pinch, simply exclaim, “Oh thank God! I thought I’d lost it forever!” Chances are you’ll end up on some weird sex registry after such a display, but HEY! You’ve got your evidence.
We learned many more interesting facts throughout the course, but honestly… It only goes downhill from here. Let’s just say it’s safe to assume that out in this big wide world of ours, there’s a lot of freaky shit going on. And where’s there’s freak, you’ll find me, a magnifying glass, fingerprint dust, and a briefcase full of pubic hairs.