It was Thursday in Moorestown. It was hot. I was working the day shift out of homicide. But it wasn't homicide. It was bunco. But it wasn't bunco. I was sitting in Moorestown Mall, eating an over-sized cookie and staring at people. My name is Barry. I carry a badge. But it isn't a badge. It's a stapler. That was all I could find.

I had begun patrolling Moorestown Mall a few weeks ago after I'd discovered I had suddenly become a police officer. This information had come to me through newspaper articles about Kenneth Powell, a Pennsville man who had been on trial for manslaughter recently, and might be again.

Powell hadn't actually killed anyone himself. He'd been in bed when he got a call to come to the state police station in Bridgeton and pick up his friend, Michael Pangle. Pangle had been charged with driving drunk. Police told Powell to take him home. They were not required to tell him he could face criminal and civil penalties if Pangle got behind the wheel before sobering up. And once he was in the car with what Assistant Salem County Prosecutor Michael Ostrowski called "a boisterous, obnoxious loudmouth with his stinking breath," Powell somehow found it preferable to take Pangle back to his car, following directions police gave him.

Three hours later, Pangle hit another car head-on, killing himself and two others, and injuring someone else. His blood alcohol level was even higher than when he'd been arrested, which meant he may have gone back to drinking after Powell had dropped him off.

For that, police charged Powell – not with reckless endangerment, but with the crimes police say Pangle committed: manslaughter, vehicular homicide and aggravated assault.

If Powell could be charged with something because he should have guessed it might happen, then anyone could be charged with any crime they think might be possible. He hadn't acted like a cop when he had been drafted into doing so. I wasn't about to make that same mistake.

At 3 p.m., my friend Eddie arrived.

"Hey, Barry. Why'd you want to meet me here?"

"Just checking on your whereabouts. Is there any reason why you wouldn't want to meet here?"

"No, no reason. I'm just curious."

"What makes you so curious, Mister?"

"Uh, I don't know. Listen, I've got some errands. It's been great seeing you. Really great, seriously. I've got to skedaddle."

"I can't let you do that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You double-park, Eddie. Whenever you run an errand, you block the street instead of taking two minutes to find a space. I have reason to believe you'll do that today."

"Fine. I promise I won't double-park. Does that make you feel any better?"

"I can't take that chance, Eddie. You're a two-time loser. If you go out there and double-park, I'll be just as guilty as you."

"Uh‚ and how exactly will you keep me from going to my car?"

"I think you'll respect the badge."

I showed him my stapler.

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," he said, "but a lot of us are worried about you. If you keep ordering people around and showing them stolen office equipment, someone is going to get hurt, and it's probably going to be you."

"Then you can't let me leave."

"What?"

"If I do something wrong, it's your responsibility."

"Why are you my responsibility? You called me!"

"Because it's our job, Mister – yours and mine."

"...I'm a prep cook..."

"And since you're responsible for my actions, I'm responsible for your responsibility if I let you let me do whatever we were talking about earlier, which I've now forgotten."

"OK, I'm going to get around this by saying the same thing to you or anyone else who calls: I don't want to get involved."

"Boy. It's weird how often I'm starting to hear that."