It was a hot day for Seattle, easily in the mid-90s, and most of the people who were coming into the grocery store where I was working on Queen Anne Hill were wearing bicycle short and t-shirts. The result was the not many people had places to conceal stolen good, and it was turning out to be a boring late afternoon shift. I had a few appropriate non-perishables in my basket when I arrived near the front of the store. There I saw a teenager walk in wearing a wool cap and a down jacket—completely wrong for the weather.

I got into a position from which I could watch him, my heart rate higher since right after I spotted him. At each stage, I dutifully noted the time. He peered over the cordon at one of the unused check stands, looking at the tobacco display. Then, he moved to the adjacent unused check stand, reached over, and plucked a pack of Camels from the display. He walked behind me and put his hands in his pockets, pulling them out as he passed to the other side on his way to the door. His hands were empty then.

I followed him as he moved toward the door, picking up speed a little and dropping off my basket on the way. A few people were watching me, probably wondering what was happening as I passed them. I felt a little giddy—light-headed from the endorphin rush. As I headed out the door, I wondered whether or not the kid was armed, and if he was, was it worth the $6/hr I was getting to confront him. Still, I rushed around to get in front of him on the sidewalk, placing my right hand on his right shoulder as I identified myself. (That allows me to push back if he tries turning left and lay him on his back in he tries turning right. The other option would be to return to the store.)

He looked at the sidewalk a few feet ahead of him and off to his left, trying to explain that he had an appointment down the street in five minute’s time. I told him that he would be late for his appointment or miss it, and that he could either walk back into the store with me or have me walk him back in handcuffs (he did not know that I could not legally handcuff a minor). After continued evasions, he relented and turned back to the store. At that moment the rush left me, and my knees almost gave out. He turned his head to say something to me just before we walked through the doors, but I forced myself to look as if I was in better control of my gait than was actually the case and motioned for him to keep moving.

While the rest was procedural crap—call for wants and warrants, get information, prepare a police report, contact family and/or police because minors cannot be released to the street—he gave me a little troubled that got the endorphins pumping again. He claimed to be blameless and demanded to know what he had stolen. Normally, we would let the perps confess, possibly showing more than we knew they had stolen, but I had tracked him from entry to exit, so I was not worried. I laid out the entire timeline, angrily and forcefully, but that broke him. When his mother, who was not going to pick him up until her husband got home, learned that the police had arrived (they had been delayed due to a shift change), she said to let the police deal with it. The tough kid started bawling like a baby when they cuffed him. I am guessing he had much the same endorphin rushes as I, though at different times and for different reasons.

Store patrons before peak: “What the hell is doing running through the store like that? The freak!”

Store patrons after peak: “Maybe I should put this candy bar back or pay for it. He’d embarrass me.

Perp at my peak: “Oh shit. No. Why’d this bastard have to get me?”

Store manager: “He got that kid? We’ve been after him for a year.” (based on the manager’s comments after the fact)