by Mary Mead
You just never knew who was going to come through the door next.
T. Tom Tanner, the lead singer for the country band T Three is a customer and an absolute joy. He is friendly, polite, and eye candy to boot. So is his wife, Tee, lest you get the wrong idea. They are really down to earth nice people, always taking time to ask after my health and taking the time to listen to the response.
Adding to the mix are the regulars, the customers you see frequently. A little kindness and a little foresight can improve your security by using their observations.
Randy is an excellent example.
He worked out of his unit for years before I took over, a blatant abuse of the rules. Storage units are for storage only – not for small businesses, manufacturing or quilting groups. No band practice.
City regulations specifically deny working in a unit. Insurance companies also frown on the practice, citing the various dangers to the premises.
The previous managers had ignored most of the rules, mainly because they did a lot of “shopping” once the gates were locked. Under the guise of introducing themselves they scoped out the contents being unloaded into the units, even offering a helping hand on large items, simultaneously gaining an inventory of the contents.
There are so many tricks in this trade the more you know the better manager you are. Believe me, the best asset for a successful storage facility is an honest manager who knows the ropes.
In Randy’s case, he had gotten away with doing what he wanted for so long, he thought he could tell me what to do.
I asked him politely, the first time, to cease working in his unit, which he referred to as “the shop.”
The second time I cautioned him he didn’t even bother to respond, just turned a meaty shoulder and went right past me.
The third time, when his code was locked, he tailgated behind another truck to sneak in unseen.
First, I saw him on the camera.
Second, tailgating is verboten for strike two.
Third, when he snuck around behind the building to avoid the cameras and access his unit, he found two bright yellow overlocks blocking any attempt to reach his own locks and open the door.
When yelling at me didn’t help, he stormed off.
The next day he tried wheedling, and then stomped off. The third day he tried bribery, bringing me a hamburger and a sweet tea.
By the fourth day he was waving the white flag, desperate to get to his stuff.
Randy’s unit was against the fence, in the far back corner of the lot, a long way from the front gate and the office. He had no family, no job, other than the work he did in his unit, and nowhere else to go. Without his unit he was completely lost.
So I made a deal with him. He could work in his unit as long as no one else knew it. If another customer was back in that section, he had to shut it down until the coast was clear.
In return, if he saw anyone acting in a suspicious manner, he called the office and told me.
It worked out well for both of us. He was instrumental in breaking up the prostitution ring and the couple attempting to live in their unit by giving me a heads up.
He regained a place to go every day. I had a spy in the back lot.
Another great customer was Marty, who helped with any electrical problems in return for earlier access to get his crew to the job sites on time.
It’s pretty much the old barter system in action.
And don’t get me wrong. The majority of my customers are like a holiday – some turkeys, some hams and some festive nuts.
There are also a few rotten apples – those that think a woman alone is fair game and they are the mighty hunter.
Those, too, come in all guises.
Milt, a longtime customer, he and his wife both in their seventies or so, always polite and friendly, always paid on time, great customers for years. He gave notice and on the final day came to the office to tell me he had spread a blanket down in the back of his van so I could come up and get a personal thank you.
You just never know.
Another detriment to abusing the property is a random walk through. I check every night in a random pattern. Sometimes I walk, sometimes I use the company golf cart, sometimes just a drive through in my car. I check the doors, to be sure they are locked and secure.
The cart is electric, makes very little noise. It also carries a large trash can and a broom so I can pick up the odd bits of trash and cigarette butts that customers toss on the grounds or behind buildings.
I check at different times, early or late, and never in a set pattern.
I also enjoy the quiet, once the lot is empty. It’s nice to toodle around in the little electric cart, making my own breeze in my face, while checking that all is well in my little world.
I have thought about getting a dog, for companionship as well as extra security but so far not willing to make that commitment.
After my escapade last week I avoided my favorite after hours view from the overlook and settled for my evening trips around the lot. The middle of the month is pretty quiet since rents are all due on the first and late on the tenth.
Currently I only had three units available for rent and they were popular sizes that would rent quickly. As a rule, I keep empty units tagged with little wire tags on the door. The bright yellow tags are easy to spot and quickly snap off when I need to show the unit.
Mrs. Murphy hasn’t figured that out. Yet.
Monday nights my rounds are a little hurried from September to January.
I am a huge fan of the NFL. Monday night football is my ‘date night’ – I have a standing date with a pizza and the game.
This particular Monday night was no different. I had ordered the pizza, the beer was cold, and I wanted to get inside, kick off my shoes, and watch football.
On my last lap, the far aisle, something caught my eye and I backed up and turned down the row.
What looked like a plastic bag was blowing in the breeze. It wasn’t moving, just shivering and shaking in the slight breeze from the nearby ocean. I drove that way, intent on grabbing it from the cart and continuing to my pizza.
I leaned down to snag it and stopped.
It wasn’t a bag.
It was a long strip of packing tape, the reinforced kind with the threads running through it.
It had snagged under the door, stuck on something inside the unit and now the loose end flapped around.
I had to get off the cart and tug to try to release it.
No go.
Checking the unit number so I could make a note on the account, I realized there was no lock on the door.
Clients do move without giving notice, contrary to the contract they signed. They forfeit their deposit when they do. I slipped the latch back and stepped inside to see if they had also left trash or debris inside, another common occurrence when customers move out.
It was hard to see in the dark so I waited till my eyes adjusted. The unit was clean.
Until I turned around to leave.
Nestled up close to the front wall, beside the door, was a stack of cartons, three stacks of three. Each of them was wrapped in sheets of clear plastic, the plastic strapped with strips of reinforced packing tape, the kind with the strings inside. The bottom carton nearest the door had a strip of the tape torn loose. When the tape tore it carried a long strip of plastic with it. One end was connected under the carton, the other ran under the door and into my hand. I tugged on my end of the tape and nothing happened. The carton didn’t even shift.
I reached up and shook the top carton, to see if anything was in it. It had enough weight to know it wasn’t empty. With a sigh I carefully lifted it down, not wanting the heavy carton to fall on my head. When I got it on the floor I used the edge of a key to tear a hole in the plastic sheeting. Wiggling a finger under the plastic I managed to tear it along the edge of a tape strip until I had enough loose to pull it clear. The tape refused to give, clinging to the plastic. I had to peel the plastic between st
rips of tape, unwinding it all the way around by turning the carton. I spent another ten minutes working the plastic sleeves off the ends of the carton.
I was finally able to get to the center seam and split it with the key. Inside were tightly wrapped smaller packs, a little larger than a standard red brick, packed closely together. I counted twelve bricks in the top layer.
I pulled one out and stepped back to the door, unable to see what the wrapping concealed. Just outside the door there was enough light from our security lights to see what I held.
Either someone planned an enormous bake off or flour was on the endangered species list. I doubted both. Pretty sure I had nine cases of coke or some similar drug. Great.
I put the package on top of the nearest carton and locked up the unit, using one of the heavy Master locks from the cart. Once the door was secure, I started the cart and headed for the office. I stuck the original strip of tape and plastic into my back pocket and went to call the police. So much for football and pizza.
The first officers to respond were shown the unit and promptly called for detectives.
I made a pot of coffee and settled in the office. While I waited for the detectives I pulled the strip of plastic out of my pocket and looked at it again in the brighter lights of the office.
The tape strip stuck to the plastic was reinforced with strings, making it almost impossible to tear cross wise. Lengthwise it was easy, tearing between the strings. Reinforced tape is common when people are moving or storing things for a period of time. I’ve seen a lot of it but never this one. Whatever this brand the three center strings in the tape were red, white and green, giving it a holiday flair. Tugging on it I was sure you could hold a Christmas tree to the wall with this stuff.
The detectives finally arrived, followed by a van and over the next hours photographed, labeled and removed the cartons.
For my part I answered the same questions three times.
Seriously.
I was to the point I questioned the wisdom of calling it in. Maybe I could have just lugged the cartons to the street and claimed ignorance.
I printed out copies of gate access during the last twenty four hours and burned a couple of DVDs from our computerized camera system and handed them over, keeping copies for my own records.
The unit containing the contraband (their word, not mine) according to my records was empty.
Some person or persons unknown had snapped off the little yellow tag and stacked up the cartons. The door to the unit had been blocked from the camera’s view by a white van and a U-Haul rental truck during the daylight hours, no way to tell which if either had unloaded into the unit.
Also on a corner, it could have been accessed by anyone in the lot, not necessarily the van or truck.
Plus, I had not checked that unit last night, so it was quite possible that the cartons had been unloaded the day before.
And so it went.
It was well after midnight when the detectives came in to tell me they were through for the night, and would see me bright and early the next morning. Oh, goody.
They had their own lock for the door, so I gave them a temporary code to access the gate, shut down the computers and locked up.
It was one o’clock in the morning. I decided to grab whatever sleep I could and do my reports Tuesday morning.
The unlocked door and the abandoned cartons of drugs kept me from sleeping so I was up, dressed, and in the office early. I wrote up reports of last night’s events, added copies of all the information I had given the police and made a file.
I sent one copy of the whole file to the owner, printed out a hard copy for the office, and saved the whole thing to an online service I use for backup.
Checking the log, the police had been in and out several times since the gates opened. I pulled up the camera closest to the unit and sure enough, one police cruiser and one unmarked Ford sedan were parked in the aisle.
I made coffee and watched them move around while it dripped.
Our camera system has twelve cameras strategically located around the grounds, all in living color although we don’t have sound. It’s still pretty easy to figure out what’s going on without hearing them.
The guy sneaking around the corner of the building, looking in all directions first, and coming back out with a wet spot on his zipper is definitely not using the restroom we provide for the customer’s convenience. He will also be getting a request to wash down the building, which he will ignore, and a ten dollar fine, which he will pay or move his stuff out.
Usually the embarrassment of being caught does the job.
Sipping coffee and watching the police was at least something new and different. Even that paled after a while and I returned to my trusty Kindle.
A little before noon two men in suits pulled up in the Ford and came into the office. They showed their gold badges and ID and we all shook hands.
I offered coffee and they accepted. We all sat down to become best friends.
Once the prenuptials were out of the way, the biggest guy took the lead. He was heavy set but not fat, balding, and looked like your average citizen, except for the gun under his arm. And the suit, a deep navy blue, highlighted by a white shirt and a purple tie. Jeans and sweatshirts or tee shirts were the most common uniform in Jade Beach.
He introduced himself as Karl Miller and his credentials backed him up. He was with the DEA.
His partner was smaller, more compact, with a similar suit and credentials. I didn’t have time to read his name before he pulled them back and tucked them in an inside pocket. I thought about pulling out my driver’s license and flashing it and let it go.
When everyone was settled Agent Miller pulled out a small notebook and flipped pages.
“I’ve been over everything we found last night. Do you have anything you can add to the report? Any way to identify who moved the drugs in?”
“No, sir,” I said, shaking my head. “I gave you a copy of my own report for my owners. That’s everything I have.” Reaching into a drawer, I pulled out one of the yellow tags I use for empty units. “This is the kind of tag I put on the hasps of the empty units,” I explained, handing it to him. “As you can see, once it’s clipped on, it’s just a simple snap to remove it. The wire hanger is crimped, easy to snap off.”
He nodded and made a noise in his throat. His partner stood up and went over to the wall to admire the picture of Troy Aikman in full gear that adorned that wall. “You go to this game?” he asked.
“No, sir. The photographer is a friend. He made me a copy because I was a huge Aikman fan.”
“Cowboys fan?”
“Since 1960. Not fond of the current regime but always a fan.”
Detective Miller cleared his throat and I pulled my attention back to him.
“Well, here’s the deal,” he began, folding up his notebook. “We’ve been working with a state wide drug enforcement task force. It includes several different law enforcement agencies, including your local police force. They have their own representative who will be contacting you. We are asking that you keep this to yourself as much as possible. We want this stopped.”
I nodded and motioned him to continue.
“Those cartons, the ones you found last night, match the shipment we managed to catch in Oceanside six months ago. I’ll skip the details, for now. We’re hoping these guys may want these back so we’re not going to draw any more attention to this incident. The cartons have been replaced in that unit, as close as possible to their original placement. There will be no reports in the paper or on television. If possible we’d like to leave that unit as it is, for a while, see what happens.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I can put it in our system as under repair, so no one else is going to bother it. Is there anything else I can do?”
“There is another thing. What we would like to do is put a guy inside. Here, at your facility.”
“What is this guy going to do? Sit in the office and try to loo
k like a fichus?”
Agent Miller smiled and folded his hands. “The man we’re sending has been working this case for almost a year, undercover. We don’t want him identified, so we’re hoping you can add him as an employee. A groundskeeper, assistant, whatever. Something that will allow him full access to the property at all hours without being an obvious plant. Something that your customers won’t question.”
“Do I have to pay him?” I asked, thinking the owners are going to balk.
Again with the smile. “No, ma’am. You just need to provide a cover story for him if your other customers ask. We want him to have twenty-four hour access if there’s a way to do that. He’ll just be around.”
So here’s the thing.
This nice policeman is explaining his plan, to put an able bodied man on the premises whose presence can be justified.
That’s what he’s saying.
What I am hearing is they want to bring a guy in here to do all the sweeping, which I hate, climb the ladders to change light bulbs, oil doors, and all the other maintenance around the facility.
For free.
“I can put him in as a maintenance man, as long as he doesn’t mind a lot of sweeping,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “We can work out an access code to allow him to come in at night although that will be noticeable. Our gates normally lock at seven. I’ll have to get creative to explain him after hours. He’ll have to be unobtrusive.”
The other detective guffawed from across the room.
Agent Miller gave him a look and turned back to me.
“That would be fine, ma’am. He’ll get together with you and set his own hours. He won’t interfere I assure you. We really appreciate your cooperation.”
“When will he start?”
Agent Miller stood up and pushed in his chair, glancing at the other guy, who was already headed for the door.
“That will be up to him, ma’am. I can’t give you an exact time. I don’t know his schedule. He will be in touch with you.”
“He’s gonna have to if he wants an access code.”
