Free Suspects by Thomas Berger Page B

That’s not shoplifting.”
    â€œIt’s been a long time now that a shoplifter doesn’t have to actually leave the store. If he picks up something and heads for the door without showing any intention of paying, then the presumption is theft. You ought to know that. What’s your name?”
    The suspect hesitated. “Uh, Bob. Bob Masters.”
    The first name might have been the real one, but the last was obviously false.
    Marevitch drew the manager aside and murmured, “Is that toy worth the trouble? You’ll have to come down and testify. How about if he pays for the merchandise, and we promise if we see him again, it’s an instant bust?”
    Sawyer made a scowling pout. “I’m getting sick of this stuff, Officer. It’s happened once too often, for my money.”
    â€œWith this same individual?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t catch everybody. I got missing inventory you wouldn’t believe. I want to get the word out that if you shoplift here, you go to jail.”
    â€œWell,” said Marevitch, “see, that’s up to the judge, Mr. Sawyer, and take my word, this kid won’t do time unless he’s got a sheet already, and I just doubt he has if a rubber duck is all he grabbed, when you got those calculators and radios and all.”
    Marevitch went back to the suspect, who was flanked by the security guard and McCall, who were talking sports. McCall was six feet and weighed one-ninety; Merryweather was as much larger than he as Art was larger than the so-called Masters.
    Marevitch shook the toy animal at the youth. “You might offer to pay for it, and then we’ll see what happens.”
    The young man shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I don’t have the money.”
    â€œWell, now, that puts a different complexion on it,” Marevitch said gravely. “Turn your face that way again. How’d you get that scratch?”
    â€œShaving.” The youth was getting more sullen by the moment.
    â€œNobody touched him here!” Sawyer cried. “He can’t get away with that.”
    McCall grinned at the big security guard. “He wouldn’t of just been scratched if he took Winston on. He would of got his head handed to him.”
    The ex-linebacker shrugged but retained his heavy-eyelidded, impassive expression. He had habitually worn it on the field, and some people even called it sleepy—admiringly, for he could strike with the speed of a panther when need be.
    â€œYou got some ID, Mister Masters?” After all these years, Marevitch still could not stomach calling lawbreakers Mister, but that had now for years been regulation, and included junkies rolling in their own wastes, those who raped children, and someone who had just shot a cop in cold blood: they were all to be addressed, at least in public, as gentlemen.
    The suspect shook his head silently. McCall read him his rights and, having taken him to the nearest wall, had him lean forward, two hands against it, while he searched him. He found something immediately and asked, “What’s this?”
    The youth turned his head to the side to look at what the officer held over his shoulder. “A box cutter. I use it at my job.”
    â€œWhich is what and where?”
    â€œThe Valmarket.”
    â€œThe one on Seventeen East?”
    â€œYeah.”
    McCall had finished the search without finding anything else but a few squares of toilet paper folded into a pad, probably a makeshift handkerchief. He turned “Masters” around. “What’s this for?”
    â€œWiping my nose.”
    â€œGot a problem there? Been putting something up it?”
    The youth shook his head.
    â€œYou’re right about having no money. Why’s that?” He returned the toilet paper to its owner but held on to the knife.
    â€œI got fired.”
    â€œWhich explains why you’re here, stealing this man’s