Nothing to Steal

Nothing to Steal

         "Damn," police detective Jack Martin sighed, kneeling to examine the badly beaten corpse.

         His partner, Juan Vega, stood holding a pen poised over an open notebook. "Any I.D.?"

         Martin tugged a worn wallet from the dead man's pocket, and flipped through it, finding only a creased sheet of paper, falling apart along the folds, and a medal. "Military discharge, 'Nam era, and a Purple Heart. Name was Robert Williard Johnson," Martin said, standing, careful not to hit his head on the large cardboard box that served as the victim's home.

         "That sucks. A one-legged military veteran living in a crap refrigerator box with nothing to his name but a ratty blanket, propane hot-plate and a medal from his country in exchange for his leg. If this is living, Mr. Johnson is better off dead," Vega said. "Why the hell would somebody off this guy? He had nothing to steal."

         "Everybody has something to steal. May not be much, but more than the killer has," Martin said, kneeling again. He rolled the body over onto its back, noting the bruised face, broken nose, split lips and the scraped knuckles -- defensive wounds. "Looks like he got in a few good licks of his own. His knuckles are skinned up."

         Continuing his examination, Martin noted streaks of blood on the man's dirty pants. He patted the blanket, and his eyes searched every inch of the box. Standing again, he stripped off the disposable gloves, wadded them into a spongy ball and stuffed them in his pocket. "Let's take a walk, Vega. I have a hunch."

         Vega shrugged, but knew from experience not to question his partner's instincts. The street was crowded with the homeless, druggies and other human outcasts. Two blocks from the murder scene Martin suddenly stopped, gripped the elbow of a passing man and gave a sharp tug.

         The man, arms windmilling, lost his balance and fell onto the concrete. "What the f . . ." he began, but Martin cut him off.

         "You're under arrest for the murder of Robert Johnson," Martin told the man.

         The man's head dropped and he burst into tears. "How . . . how did you . . ."

         Martin lifted the man's pant leg to expose the artifical limb. "You were limping like someone who has never walked before. Mr. Johnson's leg isn't the right height for you. And that scab on your nose is where he popped you one in the struggle."

         Vega looked at his partner in admiration. "How . . ."

         Martin helped the killer to his feet. "Mr. Johnson had no cane or crutches in his box. And his pants were bloody where his leg was cut when our man here ripped the artificial leg off of him. It was the only thing he had worth stealing."

The End

DMM