The saga of my stolen bicycle
Background: Last Wednesday evening my bike was stolen from in front of my apartment. I let my guard down, the bike wasn’t locked securely, and even though I came back out to ride it 15 minutes later, it was gone. I never filed a police report because I thought it was hopeless. I’ve had several bikes stolen before so I’ve become rather desensitized to the experience.
Yesterday, at the suggestion of a co-worker, I did a quick search on craigslist for the brand-name of my bike. Lo and behold, there was a match. Posted just the day before, with photos, was my exact make and model in what the seller described as a very tall size - my bike was the tallest size available in the line. The ad seemed fishy for several reasons: 1) The asking price was $250 - much lower than the bike’s actual value ($480 new, so maybe $350-400 used). 2) The seller mis-described several features of the bike, calling it aluminum when it is actually steel, and calling the seat leather when it is in fact not. 3) The seller said he would accept RC cars, planes, or helicopters in exchange for the bike - maybe not that weird given the kinds of things that happen on craigslist but in combination with the other factors, definitely fishy.
The set-up begins: I called the seller to set-up a meeting. On the phone he told me that he was available that evening, he gave me his home address and we planned to meet after I got off work. After talking to the seller, I contacted the police and filed a report for the stolen bike. Vaguely, I was told that with a report filed, I could go to the police station in the district where the meeting was to take place and I would be able to get police assistance.
After work my girlfriend picked me up from work and we headed straight to the police station. I explained my situation to the officer at the front desk. It took us awhile to convince her that we were serious and even longer to get her to offer us any kind of help. Eventually she told us that the “tac team” might be able to assist us. “They’re changing shifts right now, have a seat and you’ll be helped when they’re available.” So we sit. And we wait. Thirty minutes pass without so much as a glance from the front desk officer. By now we’re restless so I approach the front desk. She explains that they’re almost ready and it will just be a few minutes longer.
Sure enough, within a few minutes a plain clothes officer comes out to the lobby and takes us to an office in the back. We explain our situation to the five or six other plain-clothes officers. My immediate impression: the people in this room are basically the Special Forces of the Chicago Police Department. They tell me they’ve handled similar situations before and they seem excited to start their night with my case. As they begin strategizing on how the “operation” will be executed, one officer mentions off-hand that it may be necessary to break down a door. “I love busting down doors,” he says with a grin that tells me he’s done this before.
As the plan develops, they search their database for the address I was given for the meet-up. Looking at the screen, then back to me, Doorbuster says “This house is MLD.” With perfect innocence and wide eyes (read: ignorance) I respond, “I don’t know what that means.” “Maniac Latin Disciples”. The house is known to be associated with one of Chicago’s largest and most organized gangs, or so says Wikipedia anyway. Now the discussion turns to which of the officers won’t be recognized by the residents of this house. There are but one or two of the whole team that can say they won’t be immediately identified. The team decides that the seller would likely be spooked if one of them accompanied me to the door.
Eventually the plan crystallizes: I’ll drive up in my girlfriend’s car with two of the officers with me. Once in front of the house, I’ll to call the seller and ask him to bring the bike outside. Once he’s outside, the two officers from my car will rush the seller while two other squad cars pull in from different angles.
The action goes down: When the seller brings out the bike, I begin searching for identifying markers. I notice scuffs on the sides of the handlebars, a missing bolt from the seat stay - both signs that the bike is indeed mine. Before I have time to look any further, the officers are already running towards us from my girlfriend’s car. They push the seller against the fence and cuff him. At the same time, the two other squad cars pull in front of the house. An officer from one of these vehicles quickly escorts me into his car while another grabs the bike. They begin comparing the serial number I gave them to the number on the apprehended bike. They all match except the last three numbers. I explain to them the other identifying markers and they decide it’s sound enough to take bike and seller back to the station to investigate further.
When we get back, I call the store where I purchased the bike to have them confirm that I have the correct serial number. It turns out I do. At the same time, the officers bring back the first bits of information from their interrogation of the seller. He knew it was a stolen bike but claims that he bought it from a scrapyard dealer for $75 3 weeks ago. This certainly doesn’t match up with the story he told me on the phone: “The bike belonged to my brother but he left it to me before moving to California. I tried to ride it but it was just too big for me.” As I inspect the bike further it becomes clear that the bike is not actually mine. There are still stock safety stickers that I had removed long ago, the black paint on the rims was still in tact, and the saddle wasn’t as worn as I knew mine to be.
Our story comes to an end: So although I did not recover MY bike, I was able to help the police apprehend a criminal - and even though the seller can’t be charged with theft, he will be charged with possession of stolen property, a class-c misdemeanor. It was, without a doubt, one of the most exciting nights of my life.
