“Four X-ray Thirteen,” the speaker-microphone clipped to my shoulder epaulet chirped. “See the security chief at Mountain View Mall, transfer of suspect. Code one.”

“X-ray Thirteen, rolling, Mountain View Mall,” I responded, rising from the coffee shop booth. “Got a hot one, Pete, gotta run,” I said, waving two dollars at the proprietor.

“Forget it,” he said, waving my money away. We both know it’s illegal for a cop to accept free coffee and doughnuts, but I had wandered in one night just in time to defuse a situation that was developing between Pete and four hyped-up Skinheads, and since then he always comped my daily coffee and doughnut.

“Thanks,” I said, putting one dollar into his tip pail and the other in the disabled veterans collection jar on the counter. Code one meant no hurry, but all cop cars have GPS transponders, and if the car didn’t movie within a minute or so the dispatcher would call back. A transfer meant that the mall security Rent-a-Cops had nabbed a shoplifter or tagger and had decided to prosecute. Car clouts, robberies, and fights warrant a code two, or quicker response, and armed robberies and assaults are always handled ASAP, or code three. The suspect is transported downtown by a cop and is then cited and given a court date. Kids, which account for most of the activity, must be released to a parent or guardian.

“What do you have, Mary?” I asked, entering the mall security office.

“Shoplifter, juvie, third time for here.” Mary summed it up tersely and then pointed to the small metal chair where the suspect sat. Kids these days seem to be either Burger King fat or heroin-meth skinny, like this boy. He had kind of a vacant stare but didn’t seem to be high or anything, just bored with the whole process and wanting to get it all over with. He knew the drill: a short wait in receiving while his mom showed up to receive the citation, then the ride home while his Mom ragged about him getting caught, and eventually an appearance before a judge where a small fine would be imposed. The mall would also banish him but he’d sneak back in at his pleasure.

“Okay, Son, up against the wall feet spread, you know the drill.” The little pissant looked about as dangerous as a lamb, but better safe than sorry. He was dressed in a light tee shirt and baggy shorts that came midway down his calves. I quickly worked my hands up his torso, searching for weapons, and couldn’t help but notice that I could feel every rib. I wanted to get his attention, so I subtly pinched the shirt under his armpits and gave an almost invisible yank.

“Hey! Watch it!” He complained as I pulled a couple hairs loose from his pits. I checked the tops of his socks, and then worked my way up his thighs, giving one a squeeze. He flinched and squirmed, but settled down when I released the pressure. I then ran my hands up into his crotch and gave his right nut a friendly little rap with my knuckle, not so hard as to put him to the floor but definitely enough to get his attention.

“Ouch!” He said. “Fucking fag!”

“Watch your mouth, Son. I’m just doing my job.” I would have been justified in pulling his shorts down right in front of the security chief and letting her get a good look at his dingaling, and if I had suspected he were concealing a weapon or drugs I would have done so. “Okay,” I said snapping a plastic riot cuff around his right wrist, “I’m going to hook you up for the ride downtown. “Hands behind your back, nice and easy.” I snapped the other end of the plastic tie around his other wrist and led him to the door.

“Here’s the complaint form and the evidence,” Mary said, hading me an envelope and a properly labeled plastic bag containing a CD in a case. “The mall won’t back off on this, we’re determined to prosecute.” The kid responded by cutting a fart.

“See you in court, cunt,” he said, flipping her the bird behind his back as I led him from the room. He smiled at a couple of his buddies as I led him through the mall, as if getting cuffed and hauled downtown was something to really be proud of.

“Where’d you get this piece of shit?” He asked as I stuffed him into the back seat of my car. “It looks like something left over from The Blues Brothers. You must be pretty low to have to drive something like this hunk of crap.”

A normal response would have been to ask him if he sucked cock. He would be offended and deny doing so, and I’d inform him that he’d be put in a cell at Juvenile Hall with eighteen-year-old Bubba with the ten-inch hose, and that he’d either have to suck it or get it rammed up his ass. That tactic would scare most young teens but this kid had probably already heard that line and he’d had enough experience by now with the legal system to know it was horseshit. He knew all about good cop/bad cop routines, and he knew all about his rights, and he knew that he wouldn’t even set foot in Juvenile Hall.

Juvenile Hall is reserved for youngsters accused of felonies like Assault with Intent or Grand Theft Auto, and is not a nice place. This kid will most likely see it sooner or later and will probably spend some time at the State Reformatory as well, where he may very well be bunked with Bubba and suffer the indignity of rape or forced sodomy. Kids picked up for misdemeanors like shoplifting are simply held in a small room until their parents show up and even if they do have to spend the night they are treated with the utmost care. The detention cells are about like college dorm rooms, and the mandatory shower, change of clothes, and strip search is no more degrading than a typical school PE shower room experience.

“Hey Asshole,” the kid taunted. “You know why cops wear ties?” I’d heard this one a thousand times, starting at least fifteen years before this little shithead had been born. “It keeps their foreskins from popping up over their faces!” I didn’t even acknowledge the insult, so he laid another pearl of wisdom on me. “You know why else they wear ties? It keeps them from getting cum stains on their shirts!”

“Yuk it up, shit-for-brains,” I warned.

“Yeah? What are you going to do? Beat the shit out of me? Probably the only way you can get your rocks off, huh?” I let him flick me shit while I drove by the courthouse to a secluded area behind a closed down factory, then I stopped the car and got out and opened the back door.

He probably figured that this was his lucky day. It might hurt a bit but getting beat up by a cop would make him a God among his buddies and would also ensure that the shoplifting beef would go away. He could even sue the bastard for a couple of hundred grand. Instead I disappointed him by snapping another pair of plastic restraints around his ankles, then I rolled him over and folded his knees and secured his ankle restraints to those around his wrists, essentially hog tying him.

There wasn’t a trace of fear in the kid’s eyes when I rolled him over onto his back, just the same smartass smugness that he’s always had. I balled my fist and pulled back like I was going to belt him, and he still showed no fear. His look of defiance changed to puzzlement when I extracted a webbing cutter from my shirt pocket. EMTs and other rescuers commonly carry web cutters. They are essentially an open ended narrow plastic vee with a handle on one leg and a small razor edge inserted into the crotch of the vee. They will quickly slice through a seat belt to free a trapped motorist without the risk of injury posed by a knife or open blade. Divers also carry them to free themselves or other divers from entangling nets. The blade is very fine and sharp and wears quickly, so the devices are usually only used once before being discarded and replaced. I grabbed the collar of his shirt a slid the web cutter across his shoulder and down the sleeve, then did the same on the other side. A quick slice down the front allowed me to yank the shirt free and expose his bony, hairless chest.

“You fuckhead!” Now the kid was pissed. I had just willfully destroyed what was probably his favorite shirt, one that had probably cost his Mom a pretty good hunk of change and that was now a useless rag. My only response was to run the cutter down each side of his baggy pants, and just as quickly, his designer boxer shorts.

His rage turned to embarrassment as he watched me look down on the hair that he’d recently acquired and that he was so proud of, the cock that provided so much amusement during the nights, and the balls that could either feel so good or hurt so badly. He finally realized the implications and he started pleading even before I grabbed his balls.

He was young and his balls were still small, no bigger than pecans, and both fit very comfortable in my hand. His pleading became louder as I hoisted him up by what he probably considered his favorite parts of his anatomy, and reached a crescendo when I slipped the open end of the web cutter around the tender neck of his scrotum. One quick tug of the web cutter and it was all over. I tossed his useless scrotum into a nearby dumpster, cut his bonds, and drove off.

“Dispatch, Four X-ray Thirteen,” I said into the microphone.

“Four X-ray thirteen, go ahead,” Sally’s calm voice came back.

“Transfer interrupted, ambulance required, four fifty-five Industrial Way.” I announced.

I had just got back to Pete’s coffee shop when the radio sounded again. “Four X-ray Thirteen, see the chief of security, Gateway West, transfer of suspect.”