I watched a biker steal from my pharmacy for three straight months before I finally said something. What he told me when I confronted him made me realize I was the one who should be ashamed.
It started in January. I noticed inventory discrepancies during my weekly count. Small amounts. Insulin vials. Blood pressure medication. Inhalers. Nothing flashy like painkillers or controlled substances. Just the boring stuff that keeps people alive.
I checked the security cameras. Same guy every time.Big. Leather vest. Tattooed arms. He’d come in on Tuesday afternoons. Browse the aisles like he was shopping. Buy a bottle of aspirin or some cough drops. And while he waited at the counter, his hand would slide behind a display and pocket whatever was closest.
He was good at it. If I hadn’t been counting inventory so carefully, I never would have noticed.
The first time I almost called the cops. But something stopped me. The things he was taking didn’t make sense. Shoplifters steal things they can sell. Opioids. Adderall. Xanax. This guy was stealing blood pressure pills and insulin.
You can’t sell insulin on the street for anything worth the risk.
So I watched. Week after week. I let him take what he took and I watched.
By March, I’d documented fourteen separate thefts. Roughly $2,300 worth of medication. Enough to fire me if my district manager found out I’d let it happen.I should have called the police after the first time. I know that. But I needed to understand why.
On the fifteenth Tuesday, I was waiting for him.
He came in at 3:15 like always. Walked the aisles. Picked up a pack of antacids. Approached the counter. His left hand moved toward the display behind the register.
“Don’t,” I said.
He froze.
“I know what you’ve been doing. I’ve known for three months.”
His jaw tightened. He looked at the door. Then back at me. I could see him calculating. Fight or flight.
