by RSHunter
Turning
off the lights and locking the door behind me, I left the office and
settled in for the twenty minute commute home. It had been a stressful
week with constant situations that needed my mediation. “Why can’t they
figure out calm peaceful resolutions on their own,” I would ponder as I
enter the on ramp. I guess that was part of being the boss. Without
their daily dramas, I probably wouldn’t have a job. My contemplations
usually made the short drive home much faster. A twenty minute drive
would only take moments and everything in between would magically fade
away into the realm of nothingness. Then my phone rang; a call that
would change everything, forever. Suddenly I was torn away from my
dreamful state into the world of the ugly here and now. Cars were
buzzing all around me, horns honking, speeders speeding and grandmothers
going far to slow, causing traffic to backup and tempers to flair.
“Hello,”
I answered. It was my wife. She was crying hysterically, barely able to
get her words out. “What’s the matter Honey?” I tried to ask over and
over again. “Sweetheart, you need to calm down and tell me what’s going
on,” I commanded. Finally she got the few words out, between gasping
breath. “We, our, the money, it’s all gone!” she sobbed. “What money?
What do you mean it’s gone?” I demanded. She
couldn’t speak anymore. All I could hear was her hysterical crying and
confused bantering about money, withdrawals and credit scores. “I’ll
be home in ten minutes,” I tried to interject, without success.
Shutting off my phone and focusing on the congested traffic all around
me, I doubled my speed, swerving in and out of traffic even using the
shoulder as a lane when there were no other options. “Screw the cops,” I
kept repeating to myself. I was actually wishing one would pull me over
for speeding. I would then be able to have them provide a safe escort
for me, all the way home. Within a short period of time I was screeching
to a stop in my drive way, jumping out and running in to the house,
with only one thing on my mind; “What money?”
As
I made my way into the kitchen, my wife ran into my arms, holding on
tightly, wanting me to solve this problem, just like I do for so many
others at work. But this wasn’t going to be easy. This issue was unlike
anything I had ever experienced before. I, I mean we, were victims of
Identity Theft. Someone had the nerve to use my social security number,
my name, my identification and apparently had been doing so for some
time now. Just as I was being filled in on the details, there was a
knock at the door. Stunned and numb from the neck up, I slowly made my
way through the haze of my reality, of my circumstance. Looks like the
wife made a call to the
police before I got home. Standing there in front of me were two
detectives, with badges in hand asking if they could come in and ask a
series of questions. Like Lurch the butler, I silently stood aside,
motioning towards the living room with my out stretched hand.
Within
thirty minutes, we were all up to speed on the situation. The cops had
all the information they needed to proceed with their investigation and
the wife and I had a crash course education on Identity Theft and how
easily folks like us become targets; ripe for the picking. We spent the
next couple of days cancelling credit cards, bank accounts, and any
other financial related entity we had that was still intact. I was
getting more and more frustrated with each and every call. The anger was
building up inside of me much like the magma of a volcano about to
blow. Something had to give. I made my way into the shed at the back of
our property, closed the door behind me and after counting to ten, I let
out the loudest longest scream I could muster up. “Man oh man that felt
good,” I sighed in relief. All of the dogs in the neighborhood had
joined in on my chorus as if they knew what I felt; they understood my
pain. Then, it was back to business, as I headed back into the house to
continue making more calls, being put on hold and dealing with idiots
who had no idea; no compassion; no heart.
Three
weeks had passed now and the police were no closer to solving this case
than the day they listed my name in their database as a victim. Me, a
victim; I hated that. “How hard
could it be to do a search for my name and social security number?” I
mused. Surely the police would have all of the latest tools at their
disposal. “Have you found anything out…anything at all?” I would inquire
each and every day. “Sorry, nothing yet. But we will let you know as
soon as something comes up,” they promised as if trying to shake me off
like a piece of trash, stuck to the bottom of their shoes. Finally, I
had no choice but to take things into my own hands. At least I would
feel like something was being done; some progress was being made. Getting
my own investigation started, I had to first sit down and pull together
all of the information I had and then make a list of the information
that was still needed in order to put the pieces of this puzzle
together.
Here is what I knew as fact;
Well,
now that I had made my lists, and started thinking outside of the box, I
decided to take the first step in the investigation, without the help
or input of the police. With my internet browser opened, I started
searching; first inquiry would be my name. “Wow, there I am,” I thought
as I found several hyperlinks to places like my business and my social
accounts with Facebook and YouTube. Then I saw something odd. There was
my name in a “White Pages” listing with an address in Los Angeles. “Only
one name like mine in the entire greater Los Angeles directory. How odd
is that?” I pondered. I started printing out page after page of
information on the want-a-be me.
With
all of my tools in tow, including a digital camera, binoculars, note
pads, pens, flashlights, cell phone and mace, not to mention dark
clothing and sunglasses, I jumped in the car and headed north, towards
the City of Angeles. I had a plan, or at least I thought I did. The
first order of business was to head over to the address that I, I mean
he had listed in the white pages. Maybe I could pretend to be a
door-to-door salesman. “Do they still have door-to-door salespeople?” I
asked myself during the tedious drive north. “Ahh, got it. I will show
up as a Jehovah’s Witness. Still plenty of them around!” I chuckled to
myself. It actually felt pretty darn good to be taking things into my
own hands. I would be at the forefront of the investigation. I had the
local authorities set up on my speed dial, so once I gathered enough
evidence, I could have him picked up and thrown into the slammer. I was
pretty sure that I would be able to hold him at bay with the threat of a
good old squirt in the eyes with this pepper spray. “But what if he was
wearing glasses?” I pondered to myself. I was beginning to second guess
my situation. “Maybe a Taser would have been more effective,” I
concluded. But there was no turning back now. I was Magnum, the P.I.,
calm, cool and handsome; I was Columbo, the relentless investigator who
knew how to dig deeply for the truth; or was I the spy? (with Maxwell
Smart being the only name that came to mind).
Finding
the address was easy. There was a row of homes, all looking very much
the same, except for slight differences in paint color or overall
condition. I purchased a large all dressed pizza from the local pizzeria
and approached the front door, as an aged pizza delivery man; a rather
well dressed pizza delivery man. Ringing the bell and waiting, I was
convinced after my third combination of ringing and knocking that there
was nobody at home. “Hmmm. What to do?” I pondered. Like any good pizza
delivery man, when someone doesn’t answer the door, it was my
responsibility to walk around the house, looking in windows and trying
to open side windows and back doors. I was going to deliver this pie, at
any costs. I was sure nobody would notice me. I was blending in, like
the chameleon. I was one with my surroundings.
Seeing
that there was no way in without actually breaking glass, I returned to
my car to decide what my next move would be. “Might as well have a bite
or two of this Cholesterol on a Crust,” I convinced myself while
weighing my options. The pizza was pretty tasty, cold but tasty. After
all, being on a stake-out, anything would have tasted great. It didn’t
take very long before the entire pie was history and I was reclined,
snoring up a storm, windows fogged and drool slowly making its way down
towards my chin. Yupp, I was feeling like a professional.
Lost
within what must have been a peaceful dream, I found myself standing on
a treadmill chasing the bad guy in front of me, who was positioned on
an exercise bike. Neither of us were going anywhere very fast. Sweat was
running down my face and into my eyes, but I wasn’t going to give up, I
turned up the speed and started running faster and faster until he did
the unthinkable. He turned around while still trying to escape on his
stationary one-wheeled bike, and was holding something in his hand. I
couldn’t see it very clearly due to the blinding sting on my own
perspiration. Wiping my eyes with my sleeve suddenly it all came into
horrifying focus. He was armed and taking aim, right at me, not ten feet
in front of me; point blank! Everything started moving in slow motion.
Before I could dive off of my treadmill, into the protective abyss that
surrounded me, I heard the shot; the shot that would surely find its
mark; me. Jumping up in fear, I smashed my head on the rear view mirror
and my ribs on the steering wheel. In a slight panic mode, I started
checking myself for the gun shot wound, expecting to feel the blood
rushing from my body. There was nothing, no blood, no wound, no pain,
just sweat, soaking my entire torso. It was all a dream; the treadmill,
the chase, the gun, all of it. The sound of a passing cars backfire was
what startled me into the here and now, only to be interpreted as a gun
shot within my dream. I was still in my car, barely able to see out side
my foggy windows, and with a slightly elevated heart rate. “I need to
stop eating spicy food before going to sleep,” I justified to myself as I
cleaned up my mess and got back on task; the task of espionage.
Then,
as if on cue, a shadowy figure made his way down the street and turned
into the walkway that led to the front door of my targets house. I
checked my watch and it was exactly 5:15pm, making a mental note, not
knowing exactly why. With keys in hand he let himself in. I could
clearly see lights inside coming on and the shape of a man walking about
behind closed blinds. That was my guy. That was the criminal. That was
the want-a-be me. “Just sit back and wait,” I reminded myself. “The time
will come when he will get his just rewards. But for now, I need to
watch, wait and pounce when the time is right!” I repeated to myself,
over and over again.
For
the next couple of days, I tailed this guy like a fly to stink. I was
actually really good at it. That theme song from Mission Impossible was
starting to annoy me. I found myself humming it out loud while ducking
behind a pillar or into a stores doorway, whenever he turned in my
direction. People passing me must have thought I was some sort of loony
and gave me a wide berth as they passed by. “Why couldn’t the police be
doing this? If a “nobody” like me could find this guy and log his every
movement, then surely trained professionals would have been able to do
the same and maybe, at the same time, get a court order to seize his
accounts, just to see how sophisticated this criminal master mind really
was,” I mumbled to myself repeatedly.
Back
at home base, the front seat of my car, I started putting his routine
down on paper. The title of my time-line page was “The Suspect’s
Routine’” I liked using the word suspect. It reminded me of those old
episodes of Dragnet. I was now feeling very official, even though I
didn’t have any credentials, other than being able to sit down with this
guy and maybe help him solve a problem or two. Being a problem
solver was my true specialty; my calling; my profession.
The "Suspect’s Routine" went like this;
This
was his daily routine, without exception. Tomorrow I would take my
little game of cat and mouse to the next level. It was time to get some
hard proof that this guy was the want-a-be me. Once that phase was
complete, the local authorities could be called in to bring down the
full wrath of the law upon the head of this obvious criminal mastermind.
Tomorrow would be the final
day, if it all went as planned. As I settled in for the night, I
pondered, “What was with the apartment?” “Is he so sophisticated that he
is actually living a double life? Is the apartment his hideout where he
keeps his booty or ill gotten gains? Will my wife think of me as some
sort of mighty hero? Will the police give me a Citizen of the Year award
for helping them catch this obvious dangerous menace to society?” To
me, all of these unanswered questions were better than counting sheep.
Soon, I was off into my own world of make believe. With my cell phone
alarm set for 5:45am, I quickly surrendered to my slumber, eagerly
anticipating what tomorrow might bring.
The
alarm buzzed at the predetermined time, instantly waking me up; a sense
of excitement was pulsating through out my body. I knew what had to be
done and was ready for the challenge. Patiently I waited, watching the
front door, eyes glued and staring. The only other thought that dared
enter my conscience was the strong desire for my morning java. “Oh well,
I should have plenty of time later on for coffee, if everything goes as
planned,” I moaned. Just then,
at exactly 6:00am, I saw movement inside. He was right on schedule. Only
fifteen minutes to go before he heads over to Starbucks. “Ahh
Starbucks!” I drooled. “Stay focused, stay focused,” I reminded myself
over and over again. It was now 6:15am and like clock work, the
want-a-be me was heading down the street, beginning his day; a day that I
knew all too well. I had planned on waiting fifteen minutes before
pouncing into action, just to be sure to avoid the unexpected. At
6:30am, I grabbed the old empty pizza box that had lived on my back seat
for the past three days, and again took on the persona of a pizza
delivery guy, making a delivery, and headed directly to the back of the
house, where the back door sat, waiting for my abuse. There goes that
Mission Impossible theme song again, loud and clear; or was it my heart
beat, pounding, in tune?
Looking
around, confirming that my disguise was working, I started the ball
rolling on “Operation Impossible.” Yupp, everything looked and felt as
it should. Taking off my baseball cap, I wrapped my left hand with it.
With one swift motion, I used my covered hand to break the thin glass on
the door that was between me and my goal. The sound of the breaking
glass was overshadowed by my scream. I cut my wrist as my arm passed
through the jagged remains of the window. Blood started flowing and I
needed to get inside quickly, to tend to my wound. While in the kitchen,
I took about ten squares of paper towels and wrapped my arm up nice and
snug. There was some scotch tape on the counter that I ended up using
to hold my wound dressing in place. “Now, back to business,” I mumbled.
“But first, what have we here?” I smiled while looking at the far end of
the counter. There was a fresh pot of coffee, still very hot, sitting
there calling my name. After finding the stash of mugs, I poured my self
a cup, sat back and switched the small under-counter LCD TV to CNN, to
catch up with the early day’s news. I was actually enjoying myself,
forgetting my purpose, for a short time. When CNN stated it was the top
of the hour, I looked at my watch, seeing it was 7:00am. "Let's rock and
roll," I sneered. The coffee was great and my arm’s throbbing started
to fade. I was now ready for action. “Operation Impossible” was now in
full swing.
With
digital camera in hand, I went room to room, taking pictures of
everything in sight. I was going to document this guy’s life style, and
hopefully, find some incriminating evidence at the same time. Kitchen,
done; living room, done; basement, wasn’t one; and finally it was time
to head upstairs, where I anticipating finding the mother load.
My prediction was correct. After checking the two guest bedrooms, which
were no more than storage spaces, I headed to the master bedroom. My
eyes open wide, staring, as my jaw dropped. The Mission Impossible theme
song stopped and was replaced by the Handel’s chorus Halleluiah. On the
dresser was a wad of cash, just sitting there in the open. Next to the
cash there was an opened jewelry box filled with chains, watches, rings
and tons of other shinny golden trinkets. It looked like a pirates
treasure box. “Wow,” I stammered as I picked up a Rolex Presidente gold
watch. I knew that this was a $25,000 item, half of the total value of
my assets that this want-a-be me stole. I decided to pocket the watch
and hold on to it, as a means of tangible proof that this guy was living
off of ill gotten gains. Who else would have a watch like this sitting
around, in the open? As far as the cash went, it totaled $4850.00. Together with the watch, I was now holding almost $30,000 worth of stolen bounty.
I
continued to search; under the mattress, inside of all of the drawers
and I even peeked inside of the dozen or so shoe boxes neatly stashed
upon the top shelve inside the cupboard. Nothing, just over priced
Wellingtons and Birkenstocks. Then it caught my eye, right there in the
middle of the cupboards back wall, hidden behind a tightly packed row of
dry cleaned dress shirts; it was his safe. This want-a-be me, must have
had an abundance of confidence because not only did he leave thousands
of dollars on the dresser beside the array of impressive watches and
rings, he also left the safe’s door ajar. It was ripe for the picking.
Not being a criminal, I simply took an inventory of what was inside.
There were wads of cash, wrapped up tightly with rubber bands, stacked
up nicely, like a cord of fire wood. As I started unrolling them to do a
count, I was surprise to see that they were all Ben Franklins. “Who in
their right mind would leave this kind of cash lying around?” I
whispered to myself while trying not to lose count. Each roll had a
hundred one hundred dollar bills. That meant that each wad was valued at
$10,000. There was six wads all together meaning this idiot, walked
away from $60,000 in the safe, almost $5,000 on the dresser and who know
how much in jewelry. I was pretty sure that I was looking at an easy
$100k sitting there right before my eyes.
Then
I noticed that the theme song from Mission Impossible was no longer
thumping away in the background. It was replaced with the voice of
Sméagol or Gollum from the Lord of the Rings the Two Towers. He was
whispering in my ear, “What shall we do with these beautiful treasures
My Precious? It’s your birthday present Precious, take it, it is all
mine, I mean yours,” the squeaky eerie voice kept repeating. Trying to
think through my options, I finally came to the conclusion that what was
mine should be mine and I will leave the rest to the authorities. I
would take five of the rolls, to reimburse me for what was stolen in the
first place. Then when I got home, I would call the authorities and
turn this guy in. I was convinced that once the cops arrived on the
scene, and saw what I had seen, they would have plenty of questions to
ask. Within ten minutes, I was back in my car, heading south; heading
home; heading to wards the moment when I could officially stamp this
case closed.
I
left Los Angeles at exactly 8:00am arriving back home just before
10:30am. The drive was pleasant, with awesome scenery and little to no
traffic, which was unusual for these parts. I called the wife on my cell
phone, just to let her know that I was on my way home. With her
thinking I was on a business trip, and in some ways I was, she was
awfully glad to hear I was homeward bound. She was still very much upset
and felt quite violated by the whole identity theft thing. I assured
her that all would be well. Maybe it was the upbeat positive tone in my
voice, or just knowing that I would be there soon that gave her an
overwhelming sensation of peace and calm. I suggested that she heads
over to the spa and try to unwind with a deep tissue massage. She liked
the idea of being pampered and readily agreed. The tune of Mission
Impossible and the sound of that freaky troll were now far gone from my
mind. I was now basking in the
peace and quiet of my ride. Much like driving home from work, this
commute was over before I knew it. One moment I was entering the
Interstate and the next moment I was pulling up in my driveway.
As
I bounced into the house, like an excited school boy who just finished
his last day of school before summer vacation, I was somewhat surprised
to see I was all alone. The wife was still at the spa leaving me time to
make the call I had planned, turning this criminal into the arms of the
law. As I picked up the phone, I noticed the message light flashing. By
instinct I clicked on the “Play Message” button;
…Beep … Hello, this is Detective Anderson. I just wanted to let you know that yesterday; a man was arrested during a routine traffic violation. In his possession he had multiple identifications and one had your name on it. After a little searching,
we found he was still in possession of your stolen property and we need you to come
down to the station to fill out some paperwork before we can give you your funds
back. You can call me at 619 482 2333, extention 129… Beep
“But
if they arrested him yesterday, then who was I following all day
yesterday, in Los Angeles? Who was the guy I watched leave the house
this morning?” I asked myself while reaching deep with in my pockets.
Pulling out wads of cash, I gazed down in shock, realizing what I had
done. “Oh My Gosh, I am still wearing the Rolex Presidente,” I cried in
fear. The peace and tranquility
of my “Closed Case” was quickly ripped from the core of my soul. As I
sat there, upon the floor, with my mind rushing in every direction
imaginable, a song started to play, deep within my consciousness. It was
getting louder and louder by the moment. It was that horrible theme
song from the TV show Cops;
“Bad Boys Bad Boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?”
the end . . .
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