From journalist to crime fighter

In My Opinion column by Dan Hilborn
Published Nov. 23, 2005


I am a middle-aged vigilante. It happened just as I picked up the weekend edition of the Burnaby NOW newspaper from one of the city's libraries and crossed the busy street back to my waiting car.

That's when a somebody ran past me at full tilt, carrying two small bottles of what appeared to be a rather good quality Tennessee sipping whiskey - one bottle clutched in each of his trembling hands.

I stared in amazement as the thin little man dashed across a busy arterial highway, plunged through a row of bushes and then disappeared into the above-ground parking lot of a nearby residential highrise.

Then I saw the panicked clerk come bursting out of the shopping complex and stare blankly across the street. It was not just any clerk, it was a longtime acquaintance, whose name I won't reveal to protect his job.

That's when a third witness, standing on the other side of the road, cried out: "Hey, the guy's hiding in the parking lot."

"You can still get him," he said.

The decision took less than a second. I turned to my friend, the clerk, shrugged my shoulders and suggested, "Yeah, let's get him."

We ran across the street at high speed and arrived on opposite sides of the parking lot, where we began looking around for clues to where the thief was hidden. His two spindly legs were visible underneath a pick-up truck.

The clerk and I stood on opposite sides of the vehicle, blocking any chance of escape for the now-shaking thief, who was breathing in short and excited gasps of air.

"You might as well give it up. We've got you," said the clerk.

Out came the liquor bottles, one after the other, placed gently into my waiting hands. Finally, after another minute or two, the thief himself emerged from under the vehicle.

He was an male of Asian background, probably 25 years old or a little older. He lay prone on the ground, cowering and covering his head, probably afraid of a well-deserved beating.

"Get up. You're going back to the liquor store," announced the clerk.

The thief just lay there, shaking. "No, no," was the full extent of his vocabulary.

"Come on, take my hand," I said in as reassuring a voice as I could muster.

No dice. The thief just lay there. I looked at the clerk, and he looked at me. "Do we call the cops, or just leave him?" I asked.

"I've got the bottles back," he said.

I looked back down at the obviously destitute man on the ground and realized he probably had enough troubles in his life. His attempt at thievery was thwarted and the clerk from the store had already warned him his face would be recognized and his thieving ways would not be allowed back in the outlet again.

My guess is the thief wasn't even an alcoholic. Judging by his thin arms and the profuse amount of sweat over his face, he was probably a injection drug user, just trying to steal something that he could resell for his next $15 fix.

The clerk took the two bottles and walked back to work.

I got back into my car and drove away.

The thief was still lying on the ground when I last saw him. All in all, a rather eventful afternoon for somebody who would rather write the stories than be part of them.