I was filling out a deposit slip at the bank just off Connecticut Ave., making my first deposit ever in an ATM. In some ways I have avoided many of the trappings of modern life. For example, I use a bank that hasn't really embraced the newfangled concept of ATMs, and so every now and then I'm obliged to ride my bike downtown and hand over my checks in person at what is called the "cashier's window." I recently opened a separate account at a more 20th century institution just to see how the other 9/10 lives.

While I filled out my slip, I noticed the distictive ambient drone of a radio-voice, and assumed that the bored security gaurd was chatting with friends in other nearby banks, or listening in on the police band. But in fact, the radio was held in the fist of an older gent in shorts who carried a shopping bag from a nearby store in the other hand. He looked like the consumate tourist, lingering in the air-conditioned bank lobby, resting as he watched the bustle of the street... until I began to catch snippets of what he was saying into the small radio.

"He's on the corner now, red shorts, white shirt, black hat. On the corner now in front of Starbucks."

There was an indistict audio blur of a response.

"Taking off his hat now. Package in right hand."

No one else in the bank seemed to be paying any attention to the man, despite the fact that he clearly appeared to be some kind of law-enforcement officer eyeing a perp. I pretended to read my deposit slip and circled around until I was behind a pillar, hidden from the radio man but able to see out the window where he was looking. Indeed, there was a small man in red shorts across the street, carrying a small black package. Slumped and undeniably dweeby, he did not look like your stereotypical hardened criminal. I thought he presented as the type to meet a young lass on the Web and try to entice her into his van.

"He's shifting the package to his left hand."

Indeed he was. It looked like a fanny pack with the straps hanging loose -- a perfect dorky fashion accessory for this fellow. He was loitering on the corner, waiting for something, but less nervous or agitated than he might have been if he knew they he had several people watcing his every move. Then he stepped behind a parked car and out of my view.

"He's going. He's going. Let's go," the man barked into his radio, he exited the bank at a surprising clip. I considered following him, but held back. Other than morbid curiousity, I couldn't think of a great reason why I needed to be hanging around in the midst of a bust. When I exited the bank a few minutes later, the characters had all vanished and the scene was utterly normal.