by Diane Kelly
Outside, the day was nothing short of gorgeous. Sunny, with temperatures in the low seventies, nothing like yesterday’s gloom. I might even get a sunburn if I stayed out here too long.
As I proceeded down the sidewalk, I noticed Agent Holloway approaching, probably on her way to the food court to grab lunch. Her gaze landed on my face for a brief moment, her eyes narrowing as she took in the intent look on my face. I lifted my chin to indicate the boys walking thirty feet ahead of me. She glanced back at them, then returned her attention to me, a knowing look on her face as she raised her brows in acknowledgment.
The boy in the leather jacket finished drinking his extra-large soda, noisily slurped the last of the drink through the straw, and lobbed the empty cup toward a trash can. He missed by a good two feet but didn’t bother to stop and pick up his trash. If ever I’d seen a spoiled brat, this boy was it.
The three stopped in front of a video game store, engaged in a final game of elbow jabs, then ventured inside without once looking back to see who might be watching.
Amateurs.
The mall’s trackless choo-choo train came around the corner at the end of the row of stores and began heading our way. The train’s engineer, a portly man in a blue and white striped conductor’s hat, reached out to ring the bell mounted on his miniature engine. Clang-clang! Brigit perked up her ears at the sound.
Agent Holloway casually slipped up next to me. “I’ve got your back, Officer Luz.”
“Thanks.” I appreciated her help.
Tara cut her twinkling eyes my way. “There’s three of them and two of us. Hardly seems like a fair fight.” She grinned. “For them.”
I wished I could share her confidence and enthusiasm. I was ashamed to admit it, but sometimes working as a cop scared the hell out of me. I wouldn’t shirk the duties I’d taken an oath to uphold, but I certainly wasn’t the type of cop who thrived on adrenaline and was always spoiling for a fight. My plan was to lie as low as possible until I made detective. Tara, on the other hand, seemed like the type of law enforcement officer who went looking for trouble.
The two of us waited just outside the store, standing next to a life-sized nutcracker while Brigit sniffed the soldier’s wooden feet. We didn’t have to wait long.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!
The store’s alarm activated as all three boys ran out the door in immediate succession. Had a monitor been hooked up to my heart, it would have beeped like crazy, too.
Tara chuckled. “Watch this.”
Before I could react, Agent Holloway had stepped into the walkway, stuck out a leg, and hooked the first boy by the ankle, tripping him and sending him into a face-first skid across the pavement. Nice move, that. She was obviously a woman who could think on her feet. I could learn a few things from her.
One of the other boys ran around his downed friend while the one in the leather jacket hurdled him, landing short and crushing the prone boy’s hand with the heel of his sneaker. Ooh! That had to hurt.
Tara put a foot on the downed boy’s back. “Don’t move!”
With the first suspect in Tara’s custody, I raised my whistle to my lips and gave a sharp TWEET!
“Police!” I shouted as I took off after the other two with Brigit bounding alongside me. “Stop right where you are!”
One boy obeyed, clop-clop-clopping to a stop, putting his hands up, and glancing back at me with fear in his eyes.
“Wait there!” I ordered as I ran toward him.
The train pulled up. “I’ve got him!” called the engineer, cutting his wheel to the left and holding it there until the train formed a moving circle, trapping the boy inside.
Two down, one to go.
I ran after the third boy, the one in the leather jacket, whipping out my telescoping baton on the way and extending it with a crisp SNAP! Not that I had any right to beat this boy over a shoplifting charge, but holding the baton made me feel like a runner in a relay race. Gave me confidence, too. I’d been a damn good twirler back in high school, the only one on our squad who could handle three batons at once. Flaming ones, no less. I’d also once used my twirling baton to let a linebacker know, in no uncertain terms, that his repeated attempts to slide his sweaty hands under my uniform were unwelcome. One quick swing to the groin, and the team’s star was benched.
With his long legs pumping, the boy in the leather jacket had quite a lead on me and probably would have made it out into the parking lot if not for my K-9 cohort’s special talents. I issued an order and a hand signal, giving Brigit her marching orders. I could tell you what the order and signal were, but then I’d have to kill you. I’m assuming you’d rather I keep that information to myself, right?
Woof! Her nails scrabbled and scraped on the cement as she bolted after the boy. Startled shoppers stepped aside, clearing a path for Brigit to follow the kid.
When the boy heard the stampeding paws behind him, he looked back, saw the hundred-pound dog hot on his trail, and shrieked, throwing up his hands instinctively to protect his face. Brigit leaped onto his back, the force knocking the boy first to his knees, then his face on the sidewalk. Ooomph!
The boy continued to shriek and squirm under the dog, who had grabbed the collar of his jacket in her teeth and whipped it back and forth. The video game, Assassins Creed IV Black Flag, slid out from under his jacket onto the sidewalk.
I sauntered up to the boy, partly to show some attitude, partly because I was winded from the sprint and didn’t have enough energy left to move quickly. Brigit had him pinned to the cold concrete, lying across his back and wagging her fluffy tail, proud of the prize she’d bagged. She’d pulled the boy’s collar back far enough to reveal the label on the jacket. Forzieri. The coat cost at least seven hundred dollars. Obviously, he could have afforded to buy the game, yet here this little shit was, stealing from others like some kind of acne-riddled Grinch.
The boy’s collar still in her mouth, Brigit looked up at me expectantly, waiting for her paycheck.
I dug in my pocket for the bag of treats, removed a liver-flavored bit, and tossed it to my partner. “Good girl!”
The dog released the boy’s jacket and snapped the treat out of the air.
I nudged the teen with my toe. “You, however, are a bad boy.” He was definitely in the doghouse now.
While Brigit continued to hold him down, I rounded up the video game and pulled the kid’s cell phone, wallet, and keys from his pockets. Once I’d finished searching him, I gestured for Brigit to get off his back.
The boy rolled over, expelled a “Fuck!” and put a hand to his split, swollen lip. His fingers came away bloody. “You’ll be sorry!” he screeched when he saw the blood. “My dad’s a lawyer! We’ll sue you for every penny you’re worth!”
Laughable, that. Given that I was upside down on my Smart car and owed fifty grand in student loans, they’d end up owing me if they sued. But I knew better than to argue with an enraged suspect, especially one fueled by an abundance of teenage testosterone and attitude. Best not to engage. He wasn’t the only one with the right to remain silent.
I punched the button on my walkie-talkie to summon mall security. “Got two male shoplifters on the northeast wing. Round ’em up.”
Once they’d all been apprehended, we herded them toward the security offices. While the others ducked their heads in shame and shuffled willingly along to the courtyard, the sprinter continued to give me a hard time, spewing obscenities and refusing to move along until I tired of his yapping and threatened him with my dog and baton.
“A bite or a bruise,” I said, pointing my baton first at Brigit, then brandishing the metal weapon at the boy. “Your choice.”
Grrrrr. Brigit’s choice was clear. She’d love nothing better than to sink her teeth into this kid’s flesh.
The boy glanced down at Brigit, noticed her exposed teeth and trembling let me at ’im! stance, and started walking. It was the first smart thing he’d done all day.
With the boy finally cooperat
ing, I used a simple thumb toss to send my baton spinning into the air over my head. All those years of performing with the high school marching band had left me with some impressive skills. When I caught the twirling baton, a crowd of shoppers who’d gathered to watch the bust broke into applause. Agent Holloway was among the crowd, a conspiratorial grin on her face. I gave my audience a bow. Agent Holloway gave me a thumbs-up. I returned the gesture and mouthed the word “thanks.”
With the video store manager following, we shuffled the trio of Grinches toward the mall security offices. I demanded the litterbug pick up his empty cup and dispose of it properly on the way. “In the trash,” I said, pointing my baton at the cup. “Now.”
As we brought the boys into the center courtyard, Santa glanced our way.
I hiked a thumb at the teens. “Coal all around for these three, Santa!”
“Got it!” Santa picked up the oversized pen and scroll that made up part of his set and pretended to mark the boys’ names on his naughty list. Several of the kids in line began to shuffle their feet nervously, wondering if their transgressions—fighting with their siblings, feeding their meat loaf to the dog under the kitchen table, lying about brushing their teeth—warranted a “naughty” label.
When we reached the offices, I spoke briefly with the store manager. I gestured around at the boys. “Did any of these kids buy games in your store?”
He cast them a disgusted look. “Not a one.”
“Print the register tapes,” I told him. “They’ll be evidence in court.”
My words were mostly bluster. The odds of these shoplifting charges going to court were slim to none. If charges were pursued, they’d most likely be pleaded down to some minor offense for which the boys would receive a slap on the wrist. Nonetheless, it was fun to screw with the boys a little, see the fear in their eyes.
I dismissed the video store manager, letting him know I’d be back in touch if I had further questions.
The strategy of divide and conquer doesn’t work solely with armies. It applies to criminals, too. We put each of the boys in a different office. I left leather jacket to sweat under the watchful eye of a security officer, and talked things over with the other two first.
The first boy had the sense to cry, express remorse, and promise to “never-ever do anything like this again!” After a brief interrogation, I learned he was new to the area and still making friends. He hadn’t realized the other boys were no good. I ran a search on him, discovered he had no priors, and made him phone his mother. The shrieking voice coming through the phone told me he’d get his at home later. Besides, he’d already lost a layer of skin on the sidewalk and probably fractured a finger or two. I jerked my head toward the door. “Get out of here. Find new friends. Maybe join the chess club.”
“Thanks!” He dashed out the door as if afraid I’d change my mind.
The second boy shed no tears, but admitted fault immediately, apologized, and offered to pay for the game. Here’s another inside secret—a little deference can go a long way. This boy, too, would be released with a phone call to mom. An angry Southern mother could set a kid straight better than juvenile detention. No sense giving this kid a record for a stupid prank. I would, however, give him a lecture before sending him on his way.
“Grow a pair,” I told him. “Learn to s-stand up to dumb asses.”
He nodded.
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” I lied. With the number of lawbreakers in the city, I didn’t have time to follow up on this minor infraction. “Watch your step.”
After the second boy left, I moved on to the office where leather jacket had been placed. I dismissed the security guard, perched on the edge of the desk, and stared at the kid, who glowered in a cheap vinyl chair in the corner. “You make a habit of stealing?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he spat. “I know my rights.”
Okay, then. If that’s the way he wanted to handle this, it was fine with me. I stood and motioned. “Follow me.”
“Where?”
“To the station for booking.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and shot me a defiant glare. “You can’t make me get out of this chair.”
Oh, I could make him, all right. I could sic Brigit on the kid’s sugarplums and have him cooperating in no time. After the Tasering incident, though, I had to be extremely careful in my use of force.
I opened the kid’s wallet. It contained a debit card, a credit card, and ninety-eight dollars cash, more than enough to pay for the stolen game. It also contained a condom. Probably just for show, but if he was having sex, as least he was using protection and wouldn’t create another idiot like himself. I eased his driver’s license from its slot. The license indicated the kid was sixteen years old and named Colby Roover. A quick Internet search on my phone turned up a local attorney named Adam Roover. An oil and gas specialist. Probably good at drafting and negotiating mineral leases, but not likely to know much about criminal law. Then again, since he worked in oil and gas, he was probably slick. Ha!
I phoned Mr. Roover’s office only to be told that he was in a meeting.
“Is this urgent?” the receptionist asked.
I glanced over at the kid, who squirmed in his seat. Probably had something to do with that enormous soda he’d downed before shoplifting the video game. New Yorkers may have a mayor who cared enough about their health to attempt to restrict the size of sodas sold in the city, but here in Texas the elected officials considered it a person’s God-given right to stuff themselves full of as many unhealthy substances as he or she desired. Why else would we have sacrificed so many at the Battle of the Alamo?
Here’s another interesting factoid. While sources varied on the capacity of the average human bladder, the highest number I’d seen quoted was twenty-seven ounces. The boy’s soda had been a thirty-two-ouncer. Do the math and you’ve got five ounces with nowhere to go. A few more minutes and this brat would be begging to get out of that chair.
“No need to interrupt the meeting,” I told the woman on the phone. I gave her my cell number. “Have Mr. Roover c-call me when it’s over.”
The boy openly snickered at my stutter. Little prick. I almost hoped he’d pull something stupid so I’d have an excuse to take my baton to his skinny white ass.
While the kid wriggled, scowled, and wriggled again, I checked e-mails on my cell phone and rubbed Brigit’s belly with my foot. Passive-aggressive behavior on my part, but I wasn’t about to call backup to haul this kid off to juvie until he’d suffered a little.
The boy cut his eyes from me to Brigit. “Bitches,” he muttered under this breath.
Oops. Did I say I wanted him to suffer “a little”? Make that “a lot.”
“Stay here,” I ordered.
His only response was another squirm. I left Brigit in charge of our prisoner and stepped into the employee lounge next door, where I stuck a dollar into the vending machine, punched the button to purchase a bottle of water, and snagged a paper cup from the counter next to the coffeemaker. Returning to the office, I plopped down into the chair, set the cup on the desk, and proceeded to pour the water into the cup. Glug-glug-glug-glug-glug.
The kid grimaced and writhed in his seat. I put the cup to my lips to hide my smile. I chugged the water as noisily as I could, then poured some into the pop-up dog bowl I carried for Brigit. My partner lapped the water noisily. The kid squeezed his thighs together and squinched his eyes shut. My turn to snicker now. “Problem?”
His only response was to shoot me another glare.
Ten minutes later, my cell phone rang with a return call from Roover’s office. I punched the button to accept the call. “Officer Luz, Fort Worth PD.”
As much as we’d like to think the U.S. justice system is rule of law and not of man, such is not exactly the case. Police officers have wide discretion in determining how to handle a suspect. A big part of our job is evaluating whether a perpetrator should be pulled officially into the judicia
l system or whether the person could be dealt with through less costly and often more efficient street justice. How Colby’s father reacted to his son’s infraction would tell me which way to go with this.
Roover identified himself and asked why I had called.
I swirled the water in the bottle. “I caught your son shoplifting.”
After a brief hesitation, he came back with, “There must be some mistake.”
Denial. Wrong answer. “No, sir. I witnessed him leaving a store with a video game hidden under his jacket. He set off the alarm.”
Another brief pause. “The cashier must have forgot to remove the sensor.”
Again, not the response I was looking for. One more strike and this kid was out.
“He has no receipt,” I said. “The boys with him admitted their guilt.”
“What about Colby?” the man asked. “Has he admitted anything?”
“No.”
“Good,” the man huffed. “I demand you stop questioning him until he has an attorney present.”
I looked up, silently imploring whatever deity might be on duty to reallocate the shit that He or She flung about a little more fairly. Seemed I often received more than my share.
“As you wish,” I told Mr. Roover. “Colby will be at the station.”
If only his father had met me partway, I would’ve let the kid go. But clearly this boy wasn’t going to learn right from wrong from his dad. A couple hours with the hardened teenaged thugs in juvie and this candy-ass brat would be scared straight.
I ended the call, activated my police radio, and called for a pickup. “Send Officer Mackey if he’s available.”
My former partner, the Big Dick, stood six-feet-three with shoulders as wide as a gorilla and rusty orange hair that made him appear to be on fire. Derek despised me, but he loved dealing with difficult suspects even more. This kid might be a dumb-ass, but I assumed he had enough sense not to give the Big Dick any guff.
Minutes later, Derek burst into the office without knocking, gestured to the kid in the corner, and asked, “That the little thief?”
