I was awakened this morning by a call from Michael’s mother, who said she had to relay a message. The police investigating a certain MP who shall remain nameless wanted to get in touch with me, like, yesterday. They thought I could help, she said.
“Why did they call you?” I said.
“Because they don’t know your number,” she replied.
Well, I had figured that — what I meant by “why did they call you” was in the sense of “how did they figure out that you, of all people, would know how to contact me?” But I left it at that and called the police. It turns out I was not able to help them after all.
I never got a chance to ask how they’d connected Michael’s mom to me. The only way I can figure is Facebook. On my own personal Facebook page I’m listed as “in a relationship” with Michael, and am friends with him and a bunch of his relatives. Now, he doesn’t have a land line and neither do I, but his parents do.
I think that’s some fairly impressive detective work there. But it makes me want to go and change my Facebook privacy settings.