"Excuse me, but -"
Mr. Ciccarelli looked around nervously. "Are you talking to me?" he asked. "I'm the only person in the store...are you talking to me?" His hands slowly inched their way under the counter, but Tom didn't notice until it was too late.
"I thought you might want to know -"
"Okay, punk!" Mr. Ciccarelli excitedly shouted. "Put your hands on the counter! Now!" To make sure his point was clear, Mr. Ciccarelli took a shotgun out from under the counter and pointed it at Tom's chest. Tom put his hands on the counter.
"Now," Mr. Ciccarelli, calmer, said, "Empty your pockets."
"I don't think I'll be able to empty my pockets with my hands on the counter," Tom pointed out, reasonably, he thought.
Panic played around Mr. Ciccarelli's eyes, and his mouth started twitching in an attempt to chase it away. "Don't get smart with me!" Mr. Ciccarelli shouted. "Now, just don't get smart with me, young man. I've already killed three shoplifters and a brat whose whining was getting on my nerves, and I've wounded many more. So, you don't frighten me, boy. Not at all."
Being sure to keep his hands on the counter, Tom raised his eyes to meet Mr. Ciccarelli's fanatical gaze. "You know I'm not a criminal, Mr. Ciccarelli," Tom argued. "I'm Tom Webster. I've been coming to your store since I was 11 years old."
"Can't trust anybody these days," Mr. Ciccarelli muttered, coming out from behind the counter. He started to frisk Tom. "There's too damn much crime on the streets..."
"I have nothing to do with that!" Tom protested.
Mr. Ciccarelli twirled him around, brandishing the shotgun in a truly menacing fashion. "You arguing with me, boy?" Tom tried, in earnest but vain, to swallow his tongue. "You don't seem to be armed, but I'll be watching you closely just the same."
"But, Mr. Ciccarelli, all I wanted to tell you was -"
"Come on! Get out!"
Tom was about to get out when the first shot was fired. The next thing he knew, he was busy regaining consciousness in the emergency ward of a hospital. His head hurt. Next to his bed stood two uniformed police officers. "He's coming to," the first officer remarked.
"So he is," the second officer remarked. "Hi, there."
"Tom weakly asked, "What happened?"
"We were hoping you could tell us," the second officer told Tom.
"Dozens of people were found in and around the shops in the square," the first officer told Tom.
"Dead. Shot. You seem to be the only person who survived."
"Bullet just grazed your skull. Hardly did any damage at all."
Without much conviction, Tom stated, "I'm not a criminal."
"Of course not," the first officer said, nodding.
"We aren't accusing you of anything," the second officer said.
"After all, you didn't have a gun..."
"Or, a knife..."
"Or, even a sharp nail file. No weapon of any kind." The only people who had weapons were the storekeepers. They all had guns."
"We just need to know if you were shot by the owner of the store."
"Or, one of the other store owners. There is nothing in the Criminal Code that allows one person to kill another person to protect his property. We're not saying that you're a criminal..."
"Just the opposite, in fact. We know you were just an innocent bystander."
"Well, we're fairly certain. But, even if you were a criminal, your right to live would outweigh the store owner's right to protect his merchandise."
"Not that that would matter."
"Oh, no. Even if we charged a shopkeeper with murder, the odds are that a jury would refuse to convict him."
"Or, they might decide not to even allow him to be tried."
"Or, they might reduce the charges to manslaughter, creating a public nuisance or something equally innocuous."
"Which makes us mad, you see, because, no matter how bad crime seems to get, we're the ones who are supposed to protect society..."
"Not a bunch of homicidal store owners. No matter what you think of our justice system, you must agree that vigilantism is not justice."
"Quite right."
"Just so." The police officers paused for a breath.
"May we enquire," the second police officer asked, "what you were doing at the time of the...occurrence?"
Tom answered: "Talking to Mr. Ciccarelli."
"The store owner?" the first police officer asked.
"That's right."
"What about?"
"I just wanted to tell him that he was out of Vanilla Crunchballs..."
