Whether it was the lack of a father figure or just plain meanness, Doug found his natural tendencies to be toward all things criminal. If it had value, he'd steal it. Money had little to do with it. If it were there, he'd steal it just to be stealing it and if you gave him any lip, well, he had a bad temper. It was that temper that led to the most serious of his arrests at the age of sixteen as he tried to steal a purse from an elderly woman.
The woman, likely in her seventies, seemed to be an easy enough mark as he came running up from behind. He figured he might get her egg money and perhaps some cheap costume jewelry he could fence for some quick cash. However, the woman saw him coming and held tight to her purse and a tug of war ensued.
Doug, not to be outdone by an old lady, tugged hard at the purse, slinging the old lady to the sidewalk where her head hit with a thud. A crimson stain appeared atop her gray hair. A puddle of blood formed next to where she lay unconscious. Doug ran like he never had before, pausing only to rifle through the woman's purse. He found nothing but a little change, a New Testament and a wallet containing pictures - photographs he figured were of her grandchildren.
At that point, standing there in the middle of the dark alley, Doug realized he was worthless, the lowest of the low, a real bottom feeder. It was even as he was making the epiphany a police officer came up behind him, catching him with the evidence in his hands.
The juvenile judge threw the book at Doug, sentencing him to juvenile confinement until his nineteenth birthday. He came eye to eye with the woman he had mugged as he was led from the courtroom. Her eyes were still blackened from the horrible concussion she sustained from his attack. He expected her to call him a cad and to tell him he was getting what he deserved. Instead, what she said to him that day changed his life.
"I forgive you," the woman said, a sincere look - more of concern than hatred – on her face.
Her words of forgiveness hit him like a ton of bricks. It was as if a light was turned on, beckoning him from the depth of darkness where he had slipped even at such a young age.
Doug cried that night for the first time he could remember, truly repentant of what he had become. He vowed to change his ways - and he did - for a while at least.
During his time in juvenile confinement, Doug worked to help his fellow youths. His years on the street and on the wrong side of the law helped him identify with them. He likely changed many lives for the better before he was released on his nineteenth birthday. His first trip as a free man was to the woman's house to thank her for her forgiveness and tell her about the difference she made in his life. He was sad when he found she had died while he was away.
Doug’s time in confinement, away from the bad influences of the street, helped place him on the straight and narrow as he worked with youth groups before joining the police force. There, he excelled. Who better to catch a criminal than a criminal? He also helped support police youth groups, speaking to school assemblies warning them to "stay in school and keep off drugs."
His days of crime were all but a distant thought as he worked several years as a man in blue. At some point, and he was never sure just when, the itch returned. That was when the old friends returned from his youth. They were now adults and well-established street criminals, some even connected with organized crime. And, unlike before, when he and his other street urchins worked from hand to mouth, his former partners in crime were driving fancy cars and had beautiful women on their arms. Meanwhile, Doug and the honest cops worked for peanuts, protecting and serving the public for barely enough to afford a one-room loft and a used car. Did the public he worked to protect appreciate his sacrifice? As far as he could tell, most people couldn't care less, never giving him words of praise. Instead, they would criticize police, saying things like “there’s never an officer when you need one” or making donut shop cracks, demeaning the uniform with their lack of respect for the badge.
Eventually the temptation was too much and he went on the take, associating with his old friends, accepting "consulting fees" and turning his head when certain shipments were made. He would even pass on information from inside the force, his tips often saving important criminal types from arrest. His efforts were appreciated by well-placed crime figures who found him a valuable ally from within the police department.
His leaks were not appreciated by internal affairs which had systematically gone about targeting "dirty cops" around the city.
Finally, after he served seven years on the force, the round-up happened. Many of his fellow officers were indicted and fingers started pointing, some directly at him. Unlike some of his more unlucky friends on the force, there wasn't enough evidence for Doug to be charged. Instead, he was faced with a choice - resign or be fired and exposed. Doug chose to resign and leave town. The heat was too much to stay around. While he got out of town, he left the doors open, careful not to burn bridges with his powerful criminal friends. He resisted offers to turn state’s evidence against his underworld connections, opting instead to leave the department in shame. Those underworld contacts would come in handy later, even though he was moving to a small town, getting as far away from the city as possible. He was dropping out of sight, at least for a while.
Doug was confused and, at heart, a criminal who had nothing to lose. That was a dangerous combination.
Randy was a sociopath but no one else, not even his four associates, realized it. In his public life he was a reputable construction business owner, making a decent living selling land as well as building houses. He was also a loner. He was rarely, if ever, seen with a woman and devoted most of his free time to private pursuits that were no one's business but his own.
Those closest to him knew him as that “gun nut” most people have in their circle of friends, the guy that is way into firearms. He looked the part too, easily passing for a skin-head when he sat around the poker table usually stripped down to his wife-beater t-shirt, revealing his sleeve of tattoos which spanned his arm from wrist to shoulder. His cold, brown eyes always darted about, assessing the situation.
He served with the military at the beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom, stationed in Iraq when things were hot shortly after the invasion. He specialized in explosives detection and disposal, a regular hurt locker, learning his craft well during his time in the line of fire. His expertise in explosives, however, preceded Iraq as he had worked with his father's demolition business a few towns away from Centertown while growing up. He had learned all there was to know about demolitions and therefore was placed directly into bomb disposal when he joined the service during a confused time in his life.
It was while he was away serving his country that his wife left him. The marriage of three years, very often stormy, was never meant to work out. Randy wasn't the marrying kind and had likely tied the knot just to make himself feel a little more normal. She fled town while he was overseas, never to be seen again. Some said she fled out of fear, leaving town while she could, afraid of what Randy would do if she ever tried to leave him while he was stateside.
Randy came back a changed man after his hitch in the military. He was discharged under mysterious circumstances. Not even his closest friends knew what was behind his departure from the military after two years, most of that time spent in combat. He never spoke about it, even refusing an interview with the local newspaper who wanted to turn him into some kind of "hometown hero" for his service in the war.
After his time in the military, Randy consumed himself with work, jumping with both feet into the construction business with money loaned to him by his father. The loan soon paying dividends as Randy hit it big. His business was booming until the housing market crashed. That's when his financial situation collapsed. He lost it all as quick as he made it.
Not wanting to crawl home to his father like the Prodigal Son, Randy continued trying to claw his way back but was rejected at every turn. He resented the financial institutions in Centertown, feeling betrayed by their rejection when it came to his bailout.
> Everyone else was getting a bailout during the recession. Where was his? He risked his life for his country yet he couldn’t get a break anywhere. Where was the patriotism? The business leaders of Centertown wanted to fly their flags and proclaim their love of America but when it came to helping out someone who risked life and limb to protect their freedom, they were nowhere to be found.
Randy was broke and frustrated, plus he was a sociopath. That was, obviously, a dangerous combination.
Harold was born to lead. He had a silver tongue and a personality people just liked. He, as one of his cohorts once said, could sell ice to Eskimos, and, in Harold's mind, he figured he could get top dollar for that ice. To Harold, nothing was impossible, especially when he could get someone else to do it for him.
He had the look too. He was always clean shaven, his light brown hair always in perfect order. Some of his friends referred to him as Jimmy Johnson after the old Dallas Cowboy coach known for always having his hair perfectly in place no matter the situation. His clothes were just as immaculate. He had obviously never heard of buying anything off the rack. His suits were tailor made, his cuff links gold and his ties always perfectly coordinated with his ensemble. He even smelled good, and not that Aqua Velva smell. No, only the imports were good enough for Harold.
Of the five, he was the only one to really achieve any sustained success. He had a wife and good paying job. Marrying later in life, Harold hadn't gotten around to having kids, and, at this point, he doubted he would. Kids were just too much trouble, plus that would just be one more expense to go on top of his wife, who had expensive tastes. That expensive taste kept Harold constantly seeing his money going from his hand to hers. Other than her being the beauty queen in their graduating class, the only daughter of the most important family in town and great in bed, he didn't know why he had married her.
Much like his wife, Harold had a taste for a life that, in a small town like Centertown, was way beyond his means even with his decent paying job. After all, he had appearances to keep up. They couldn't roll up in front of the Baptist Church on Sunday morning in just any car. No, it had to be a Cadillac with those seats that warm your butt at the push of a button. He couldn't have his butt being cold during the winter and his wife sure wouldn't stand for having a cold butt.
Harold had always seen himself as much more successful than he was, success that could not be found in Centertown. He was, quite frankly, becoming increasingly dissatisfied with small town life. He wanted something more. But, he found himself held in the small town, unable to leave. How could he leave his good job, his gorgeous wife and her important family? He needed starting money, a stake, so to speak, to parlay into the fortune he knew was his destiny.
It was his need to live above his means that left him in a delicate situation as he had been "borrowing" money from his job to help fund his lifestyle. The problem was he had been "borrowing" the cash for some time and not paying it back. Now, questions were being asked. He knew it was only a matter of time until the fingers began pointing at him. And what then? There would be exposure, humiliation and jail. Harold knew he wouldn’t do well in jail.
Harold was desperate and he was a con-man who knew how to bend others to his will. That was a dangerous combination.
CRIMINAL INTENT
Harold had always fantasized about robbing Centertown City Bank, figuring out how he would do it down to the smallest detail. Well, robbing is technically the wrong word since robbing means to take the goods of another by force or coercion. Harold's plan was more of a burglary, a breaking and entering.
As the only member of the five who had been born and raised in Centertown, he had grown up watching the nicely dressed bankers coming and going from the institution, imagining they were rich beyond his wildest dreams. After growing up, he realized that was not necessarily true, with the exception of the top bank executives who actually were rich. However, becoming an adult didn't change his fantasy. It only honed it to a sharper edge, the thought often running through his head when he would pass by the bank. The idea had become an even more tantalizing fantasy in recent years after he took a job in the downtown area, meaning he would see the bank every day he went to his office. He took note of the usual traffic patterns in and out of the bank. He also had many occasions to visit the bank. He even made friends with several of the employees there, sharing an occasional lunch with them at the downtown cafe where business people often gathered for their power lunches.
It was during a few of these lunches that his banker friends, quite innocently on their part, gave Harold classified information about the security measures at City Bank. The fact that they were giving away information that would someday lead to the bank being breached was the furthest thing from their minds.
Details about the safe, the alarm system and the amount of cash deposits were laid before him like a free buffet, his lunch partners having no idea the wheels were turning in his head. He would just listen and smile, holding his poker face, not letting on that he was storing away every nugget for later use.
“I don’t know why someone hasn’t robbed us blind,” Bruce Johnson, chief teller at City Bank, declared while sipping his coffee during one such conversation. “I mean, if people only knew how much cash comes and goes through the bank on an average day, that’d be quite a temptation even for a law-abiding citizen.
Harold ate the last piece of his pie, trying to hide his interest in the teller’s statement, taking mental notes like a human tape recorder of everything that was being said.
“You don’t say,” Harold responded. “A lot of money, huh?”
Looking around to make sure no one was overhearing their conversation in the small restaurant; Bruce shot him a serious look.
“How much money would you suppose we’d have in a small town bank like ours on an average day?” Bruce quizzed, his eyes still darting back and forth to make sure no ears were tuning in his confession.
“Um, I don’t know, maybe a hundred thousand?” Harold answered, baiting his banker friend. His answer made Bruce chuckle.
“Not even close,” Bruce countered. “Try about a half million.”
Harold almost choked on his last bite of the delicious apple pie, dollar signs appearing in his eyes at the revelation.
“That’s a lot of money,” Harold said calmly.
“Hey, that’s nothing,” Bruce bragged. “Just before Christmas, when all the businesses are making their deposits, we’ve had over a million in cash in our vault.”
Harold whistled. The numbers made his heart quicken.
“I never would have thought that,” Harold confessed. “Imagine that, in a small town like this.”
“Thank goodness people don’t know that,” Bruce laughed. “I mean, if the general public knew how much money we had over the holidays, they’d be lining up to rob the place."
Bruce had no idea his revelation had poured fuel on the fire which was already starting to burn in Harold’s mind.
Sure, a lot of people have likely thought of ways they would rob their local bank. There's no crime in that. However, few people had turned their passing whimsy into a near obsession like Harold. Still, this was no crime, although Harold was walking a thin line and the next step, should they take it, would be crossing that line.
In his fantasy, Harold figured he would do it by entering the building from its roof after dark so to avoid being spotted by a passersby and to circumvent the alarm system which would surely sound if he tried entering through any of the regular doors.
“It’s an old building,” Bruce noted during one of their conversations. “There are alarms on the windows and doors but otherwise they didn’t bother wiring a lot of the bank. If you ask me, the place is a cracker box.
Harold, in his plan, would then work his way down to the main floor, being careful to avoid the ground system which had light sensors crisscrossing the floor. Harold figured infrared glasses would reveal the checkerboard design on the floor, allowing him to work his way
through the labyrinth until he got to the exterior safe door.
That’s where his bank friend would come in, at least in his fantasy. He would have to figure a way to lift the keys from Bruce to disable the alarm to gain entry. He figured he could simply lift the keys by "accident,” acting as if he had taken them by mistake. He could then run them to his friend Ralph who could make copies, allowing him to return them in no time, before they were missed. Perhaps Bruce would excuse himself during one of their lunches, leaving his big wad of keys just lying there for the taking. It would be no problem to remove the key without being noticed. Harold already knew which ones were the bank keys.
It wasn’t the issue of opening the safe that stumped his fantasy every time he thought it through. The issue was what would happen next, once the vault door swung open to reveal the small fortune. Since the safe was on a timer, as most bank safes are, any opening of the money vault would sound an alarm. Police would be there in no time, although they would likely figure it was a false alarm. After all, who would break into Centertown City Bank? That was something you see in movies. No one pulls a bank job anymore.
Regardless, at the alarm center, it would show the vault sensor had gone off, meaning the bank manager would arrive with the key, entering along with the police. That’s when they would find him trying to escape the vault with a bag of money in his hands.
There simply wasn't enough time to get in and get out before authorities arrived and there was no way to disable the safe alarm even if he could neutralize the rest of the alarm system. Cutting the power would be no good since the alarm would automatically sound.
Average Joe Page 3