by Mark Johnson
But they weren’t stealing air conditioners at Theodore Aggregate. They had found the mother lode: the fire-hose-thick power cables, almost entirely composed of thick braids of copper, which provide the juice to the elaborate, enormous network of conveyors by which industrial sands, gravels, macadam, and stones are moved from huge piles to waiting barges and tankers moored nearby in the industrial canal, ultimately to be shipped to construction sites worldwide, “to build the roads, sidewalks, and foundations on which we live,” according to site manager Roy Mullins, quoting from the company website as he gave me a brief walking tour of his operation.
A beehive of activity where everything is large, loud, and covered in dust, Theodore Aggregate employs a crew of a dozen or so men who are dwarfed by the company’s mountainous piles of product and the machinery used to move it. Giant front-end loaders, with tires taller than me and buckets big enough to park a Toyota in, dump thundering multiton loads of crushed granite, sandstone, and limestone onto towering conveyors, longer than football fields, all clanking steel and hydraulics, themselves wheeled and powered by remotely activated engines in order to lumber from pile to pile fulfilling orders for the barges in the canal.
“With the cables cut, we can’t move product. We’re shet down,” Roy said. “We’ve already spent over $50,000 to replace and splice the damage so far, just to keep at least one belt runnin’ so’s to keep my men workin’, but this has got to stop.” He spat a brown stream of Red Man into the dust. “We all got families to feed. I ain’t gonna let some thieving sumbitches come in here and shet us down just to feed their dope habits.”
It was the Monday morning after the third theft. Each had occurred over the weekend, when nobody was working, allowing the thieves the luxury of time and obscurity for a job requiring much hard labor and heavy lifting. The ten-foot lengths of cable, each weighing more than a hundred pounds, had probably taken nearly an hour each to cut by hand from the elevated conveyors. (Broken and dulled hacksaw blades had been found at the scene.) Then the cut cable had to be dragged at least a quarter mile out of the yard into the surrounding woods to be loaded into a pickup. The woods is a maze of old logging roads and two-tracks, providing multiple points of entry from Rangeline Road to the west, Hamilton Boulevard to the north, and a railroad right of way slicing diagonally across the northwest corner. After the first and second thefts, Mullins’s crew had blocked off most of the roads into the woods with concrete barriers like the ones used around highway construction zones, but there remain a few overgrown two-tracks still passable and unblocked, and they lack the legal right to seal off the railroad tracks. The thefts continued. Mullins had begun to wonder if they were hauling off his cable on a boat from the canal and considered asking the Marine Police or the Coast Guard to get involved.
“I had half a mind to post up myself out here overnight, me and a couple of my men, with shotguns. But I decided I’d better let y’all handle it.”
“That’s the right decision, Mr. Mullins. This is a police matter. But your instincts, your tactics, are right on. It’s gonna take somebody posted out here to catch ’em in the act. We’ve been checking the scrap yards, but by the time they take your cable there, it’s just number 3 copper. We got no way to tie it back here. They strip it down, chop it up into smaller lengths, sell it all around so the weight doesn’t give them away at any one yard. These guys know what they’re doing.”
“They damn sure do, and I can’t help but wonder if somehow it’s an inside job, Detective. Not many people even know we’re back here, what we do, know anything about the cables on our conveyors. But I know my men, and I can’t see a one of ’em doin’ sech a thing as this.”
“People will surprise you. The same thought occurred to me, but we’re not likely to get a confession out of anybody by hauling each of your crew down to the precinct one by one. Besides, that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as catching the bastards red-handed out here, would it?”
Roy grinned, nodded, spat another stream of Red Man. “Reckon I’ll leave it to you professionals,” he said. “But I’ll suggest this. If it was to be me out here overnight, I’d make sure to post some eyes up there in the tower. A feller can see the whole yard up there, but that tinted glass won’t let anybody on the ground see inside. And the best thing: it’s air conditioned. Though a thief might think it’s strange if he hears the AC on in the tower at night when they ain’t nobody here. If nothin’ else, it’ll keep you from bein’ carried off by the skeeters.” It was August, and hard to say which was worse: the heat, the humidity, or the mosquitoes.
Roy continued. “The light switches for the whole yard are up there, and there’s even a loudspeaker you can use to tell ’em, ‘Putcha hands up, gotcha surrounded!’”
He pulled a key ring out of his pocket. “This one here opens the lock on the front gate,” he said. “This one gets you in the office, where you can use the bathroom or the Coke machine if you want. And this one here, not to be telling you how to do your job now, but this one here opens the door to the tower. Good huntin’, Detective.”
The centralized control tower commands the entire complex and remotely controls all the conveyors. It’s tall enough to oversee the whole yard, taller than every pile of crushed stone, taller than the tops of the scrub pine choking the surrounding swamps, taller even than the bridge on Rangeline Road spanning the industrial canal. It seems like a good place to spend the night. Assuming I can get my captain to let me do this.
By Thursday I had been out to Theodore Aggregate twice, driving the rutted trails through the woods as far as the Crown Vic could take me without getting mired up to the hubcaps, and getting out and walking when necessary. I was looking for recent footprints or tire tracks, or signs of a staging or loading area. I found none but got a good sense of the lay of the land, parts of which were quite pretty. Families of wood ducks were gliding across the swamps, and a couple great blue herons stood motionless in tall grasses at the water’s edge.
Friday morning I sprung the idea on my captain. He liked my initiative but said he didn’t have the overtime in his budget to pay me for a night at the Aggregate yard. I told him I’d do it for straight time. He still balked. I told him I’d do it for nothing, unless I catch somebody, in which case I want to be paid for the time spent on the resulting paperwork. He shook his head at me, not refusing, but smiling at my stubbornness. “Make sure the shift sergeant knows exactly where you’re gonna be, and knows how to get some units to you fast when you call for backup.”
Nancy was a harder sell. Actually, I didn’t sell her on the concept at all. She was pissed about my unavailability for supper and the movies on a Friday night and would’ve been doubly annoyed at my charitable volunteerism for the department. But she conceded to taking a snapshot of me before departure—standing proud and amused, shotgun at ready-arms, covered head to toe in camo—hardly different from the little boy dressing up like the mighty warrior. For Nancy, it was worthy of an eye roll, unhappy though she was to countenance what she saw as boyish excitement for a potentially deadly hunt.
On the way to my stakeout, I stopped at Walmart for a bottle of bug dope, some cans of Red Bull, peanut butter crackers, and a headlamp so I could use both hands for the shotgun, or the handcuffs, or whatever else I might need both hands for. Then I swung by the precinct just before shift change and gave the night-shift sarge my cell number and a dozen photocopies of my hand-drawn map showing the front gate to Theodore Aggregate, just past the railroad tracks about a half mile south of Hamilton Boulevard, and a rough layout of the yard, the canal, the conveyors, the tower, the railroad tracks, and the main dirt roads through the swampy woods leading off the property, where the thieves were likely entering and exiting. He said he’d distribute the maps and go over it with his squad at roll call.
At sundown I concealed my squad car in the mechanic’s shed near the small cinder-block building that housed Roy Mullins’s office and the crew’s lockers, equipment room, and break room. From there I hiked
a quarter mile to the control tower. There was no way to be quiet about it, every step a loud crunch on the gravel underfoot. But there was no need for stealth yet; I doubted the thieves would venture onto the property much before midnight.
The sweeping view of the brightly lit yard from the tower was perfect, and the control room wasn’t too stuffy, even with the AC off. I sat in a comfortable chair at the control panel, found the loudspeaker switch and microphone, all the light switches—even a movable spotlight similar to but bigger than the one on my squad car—and settled in for the night.
Three hours passed, and the only movement I had seen was some stray dogs and feral cats trotting among the rock piles. At least I had developed a plan of sorts. I had never attempted to hold someone at gunpoint from a thirty-foot tower, and doubted it would work, not for long. Most right-minded, self-respecting thieves will bolt at the first inkling of trouble. I considered cranking open the tower windows so I could poke my shotgun out in a show of force, but the only windows that would crank open took awhile to crank, were blocked by screens, and allowed my barrel to point only north or south, whereas most of the conveyors were arrayed to my west. Pre-cranking the windows open and removing the screens in advance didn’t seem to provide sufficient tactical advantage to discourage the bad guys from flight, much less sufficient reason to expose myself to the inevitable flight of swarming mosquitoes into my post.
If I used the PA system to order them to freeze, but they bolted, they’d melt into the woods before I could get down the tower stairs, and there was no way to keep eyes on them as I descended. I could tell them over the PA that we had canine units coming at them already from Rangeline and Hamilton, but they’d probably know I was bluffing when they didn’t hear any barking in the woods. Best not to use the public address system at all, I decided.
Instead, I would radio for backup as soon as the thieves were visible, giving descriptions of the subjects and their direction of approach, and depending on the number of units available to respond, we’d set up a perimeter on Rangeline and Hamilton, looking for any pickup trucks parked along either highway or the railroad tracks. That way, if they heard my backing units approaching the tower and ran, I could at least keep eyes on them to know which direction they ran and alert the perimeter units. And maybe if they bolted, then I’d use the PA as a last-ditch bluff about canine units in the woods. It all depended on how busy the squad was, and how many units they could send to back me, and how far away they’d be coming from. If I can’t get at least three units here within a half hour, I figured they’d probably get away.
I sat there in the tower sucking down Red Bulls, then tiptoeing down the steps to pee out the door, until 2 a.m. I figured that if they hadn’t come by then, they probably weren’t coming, because they wouldn’t have enough time to cut much cable before sunrise around 5 a.m. I descended the tower and crept along the canal to the western edge of the yard, almost all the way to Rangeline Road, then circled north to the edge of the woods along Hamilton Boulevard, pausing to listen for voices or footsteps every dozen yards or so. Nothing. Finally, at a little after 3 a.m., I reached the mechanic’s shed, fired up the Crown Vic, and went home.
Nancy woke me up a little past 10 a.m. Saturday morning with my cell phone in her hand. “It’s a guy named Roy, from the Aggregate place. Says he really needs to talk to you.”
“Detective? Thought you’d wanna know. Guess you couldn’t get out there last night, ’cause they hit us again, but we—”
“What? You gotta be kiddin’ me! I was out there till after three!”
“Well I guess they came after that. They cut the cable on the conveyor nearest to the tower. But we found what they cut hidden in a ditch beside one of those roads through the woods, right near the junction of the three main roads. We haven’t blocked off one of those three yet, the one that comes out on Rangeline Road. That’s probably the one they’re goin’ in and comin’ out on. Guess they got tired, or got too late a start to drag ’em all out before sunup. I’ve called one of my guys in to help me block off that last road and to gather up the pile of cut pieces. We might can still use it for splicing—”
“No! Leave it there! And do not block that road. They’ll be coming back for it tonight. Are you out at the yard now?”
“Yeah, I’m waiting for my guy to help me load this stuff, but if you think I shouldn’t—”
“Leave it alone. Don’t move it, don’t even touch it. I’m on my way.”
At sundown, I’m posted up in the woods near the crossroads where the thugs had dragged last night’s load of cables and stashed them in a ditch without even bothering to cover them up with cut branches or weeds. Nine pieces of cable, each eight to ten feet long, raggedly hacked at each end exposing the braided inch-diameter copper strands encased within the rubber sheathing. They had duct-taped the cables into bundles of three to drag out of the woods and load into a vehicle. I had advised the shift sergeant that I would be setting up again tonight, but in the woods this time, over the stash at the crossroads from last night. I told him I’d most likely be calling on my cell if I needed backup, because I didn’t want to risk spooking them or giving away my position with radio chatter.
I find a comfortable vantage point about twenty yards from the crossroads and four or five paces off the unblocked two-track coming from Rangeline Road, most likely the road they’ll be taking, either on foot or possibly with a truck, to retrieve their stash from last night. I have a decent visual of the crossroads clearing from my spot while there’s still daylight, but unless they’re using flashlights or driving in on the two-track, I’ll have to rely solely on listening to know when they’re here after nightfall, especially if clouds obscure the sliver of moon. There remains just enough cover to conceal me after I cut away a few branches and bushes to allow me quick, silent access to the road, and I clear my path of sticks that might snap if I step on them.
I make myself a comfy pile of pine needles to sit on next to the trunk of a thick pine for a backrest. I douse myself in DEET, even spraying it on my camo pants and long-sleeved shirt and watch cap. And here I sit, sweating, itching, dripping, sucking lukewarm Red Bull poured into a squeeze bottle to avoid the pop of cracking open a can, eating jerky strips and chocolate Hostess cupcakes, pre-removed from their crackling cellophane packaging and swaddled in soundless paper towels. I’m basting in my own juices, sweat soaking through my shirt and pants, waiting, and dripping, as night falls and the mosquitoes swarm and whine in my ears.
Along about midnight, I jerk awake from dozing, having no idea how long I’ve napped. I nearly panic when I realize my legs and feet have also fallen asleep. If they’re here now, or arrive anytime soon, I’m helpless. Slowly I stand and balance myself unsteadily against the tree, shaking one leg, then the other. As the blood rushes down and I begin to recover control over my rubbery legs and feet, I think I see a blink of light flash from the crossroads. My heart begins to pound and I can feel the veins in my forehead and temples throb as I strain to hear, to see. I’m shaky in the knees and feel my hands tremble as I grab the pre-racked 12 gauge leaning against the pine tree.
I remember to do “tactical breathing”: inhale through the nose three counts, hold for three counts, exhale through the mouth for three, hold for three, repeat. After the third rep I feel steady enough to creep out to the two-track, silently, straining to see any movement, any dark silhouettes in the crossroads. Nothing. I think I see another flicker of light out of the corner of my eye, behind me. I spin and crouch, holding my breath, eyes bugging out, looking all around. Silence. Darkness.
I’m suddenly gripped by a sinking feeling that they’ve come and gone while I slept, and I’m certain the same thing must have happened right under my nose last night, I must have not even realized I’d been dozing up in the tower in that comfortable chair. I rise again, wheeling 180 degrees, and sprint for the crossroads, switching on my headlamp.
A wave of relief washes over me with the discovery of the stash of bundled ca
ble in the ditch, just as I had last seen it at sundown. I breathe deeply and wonder if I’d merely glimpsed a lightning bug, or a refracted flicker of headlights through the piney woods from Rangeline Road? Dejected and puzzled, I trudge back to my hidey-hole to take up my post again after emptying my bladder in the pine straw a few steps behind my tree trunk.
Who do I think I am, I wonder. Rambo? I feel my ears burn with the recollection of the time I went turkey hunting up in Monroe County and set up next to a tree like this one, on the edge of a clearing, and dozed off, only to be awakened by a veritable flock of gobblers strutting right by me, literally within spitting distance. I had jerked upright and shouldered my rifle just in time to watch them flapping away in a wide spray and never even got one in my sights, much less squeezed off a round.
This is crazy, I think. And dangerous. At least the turkeys were unarmed. Who knows what these guys might be carrying, and how many of them there will be? I can hardly believe my captain allowed me to attempt this foolhardy stunt. And if there’s more than two guys, I’m out of handcuffs. What then? I guess I can cuff the three of ’em together using the two sets of cuffs, so they’d trip all over each other if they tried to run. And I do have my Taser in case anybody resists. And my pepper spray, too, I remember. And they won’t know I’m all by myself. I can get on the radio and they’ll hear the chatter and think there’s a bunch of us already out here in the woods closing in, and know the jig is up. I’m not alone, at least not for too long.
Yeah. I can do this, I decide. If I can just stay awake. I take a few long gulps of Red Bull, and sit still, and listen, and wait.
It’s a little after three, and I’m thinking they’re not coming back, at least not tonight. And I don’t think I can do this again on Sunday night, even if Nancy doesn’t object. I’m worn out and discouraged.
And then I hear them. Sounds like two different voices. They’re not loud enough or close enough for me to make out what they’re saying, but they’re definitely voices. Coming from the crossroads. I key the precinct cell, Sarge answers.