If we were stupid enough to risk jail or prison by breaking into a business and stealing something, we’d go for something big, and we’d take every precaution to cover our tracks. But we’re not that stupid. That’s why we’re writing a book and a certain man in Wisconsin is writing his wife.
It had snowed off and on for most of the day. There wasn’t a lot of moisture in the air, but there was enough to keep the snow from being blown away by the gusty winter wind.
Toward evening, the police received a call on a 2-11, a burglary. When they arrived at Bernie’s Barbershop, they saw that the window had been broken out in the front of the small free-standing building. There really wasn’t that much in there to steal. It was a modest two-chair shop.
Bernie the barber was called down to the shop to meet with the officers and take a look at the damage.
“Can you tell us what’s missing from your shop, sir?” a young uniformed officer asked the man.
“What’s the matter with people today?” the barber mused disgustedly. “I’m a working stiff. What’s some jerk doing stealing from a working man?
“Sure, I can tell you what’s missing, Officer,” Bernie steamed. “My brand new portable color television set that I haven’t had long enough to even have to dust yet— that’s what’s missing! I’d just like to know where the bum that took it is right now!”
It didn’t take the officers long to find the answer.
While Bernie talked with the officers, one of the detectives on the scene had discovered something. Footprints. Not the footprints of the officers and Bernie; they were all mixed together in front of the store. No, these footprints led away from the others. Around the corner, past the row of dilapidated houses that lined the block, and down the snowy sidewalk.
Pedestrian traffic had been light that evening, so this particular set of prints was easy to follow. They continued across the street and down the opposite sidewalk. The detective followed them. The uniformed cop followed the detective. Bernie followed the officer.
The prints led to an apartment complex, then to a door, and disappeared behind it. The detective rapped sharply on the door. After a short wait, a nervous woman appeared.
“Yes?” her voice quavered. The detective was looking down. A set of wet footprints still covered the carpet and led right to a large sofa where an even larger man sat watching a hockey game on Bernie’s TV.
The reception on Bernie’s stolen television was perfect. The only snow was on the man’s shoes, the only fuzziness was between his ears. And before the game was over, the larcenous hockey fan was looking at a different station . . . the police station’s penalty box.