One minute the circuit clerk is talking politics, and the next he’s discussing Looney Tunes.
Yet the line of reasoning somehow makes perfect sense, given the topic Mariano Favazza is addressing: the city’s newly instated lost-and-found policy. It’s a process that has the circuit clerk grinning as he explains how a rust-colored bike came to be leaning against a wall in his office.
“Several weeks ago, a fella comes to the front desk and wants to see me because the police sent him with a little blue index card. On one side, they cited this statute from 1919,” says Favazza, who was recently notified that the police department was turning over the lost-and-found biz to his office. “I couldn’t help myself, I had this Cheshire grin on my face, and I said, ‘I’m not laughing at you, but you might find this humorous as to what you’ve gotten yourself into.’”
Favazza elaborates on the process, as outlined by the ancient state statute: If someone finds property worth more than $10, the finder must file an affidavit with the circuit clerk within 10 days. A judge appraises it, possibly summoning the help of three “disinterested householders.” If the property goes unclaimed and it’s worth $20 or more, the finder places an ad in the paper for three straight weeks. If the owner doesn’t claim the item, the finder can then keep it. “Perhaps the statutory design might need to be reviewed,” Favazza says.
“The man was as intelligent as he looked, because he didn’t want to get involved,” he adds.
Several items followed: an iPhone, an envelope with $200, and another with $5,000 in cash. Yet compared to the police’s previous inventory—27,000 items in 2007, according to the Post-Dispatch—the stream of items has slowed to a trickle.
Favazza likens it to “One Froggy Evening,” the classic Chuck Jones cartoon in which a man finds a singing frog—only to eventually put it back because it’s just not worth the hassle of trying to promote it. “Maybe, in some baby-boomer analogy to times of less political entertainment, we have our singing frog.”
