Free Scammed by Ron Chudley Page A

occurred to him, had not the other troubles erupted in his life.
    Bearing the phony cheque, Greg hurried to the bank where the account had been set up by his bogus alter-ego. After a rigmarole that was becoming sickeningly familiar, his true identity was established and the account cancelled. In Greg’s opinion, the people at the bank could have been more sympathetic. Their only advice was that he inform the police, which was the next stop on his agenda anyway.
    Detective Sergeant Mike Tremblay, of the Victoria City Police Fraud Squad, was a large, amiable man with a ginger buzz cut and pale, shrewd eyes. Greg got in to see him early the same afternoon. Though patient and civil, Tremblay was not exactly overwhelmed by his plight; obviously, the sergeant had heard the identical lament a thousand times before.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. Lothian,” he said, “but you must realize that there’s not much we can do at this point. Now that we have your details, we’ll add them to our data bank, of course. When you’re contacted by other people who’ve been scammed in your name—and you will be, believe me—you can refer them to us. We do catch these crooks from time to time. And if your ID comes up when we bust someone, we’ll let you know. Apart from that, all I can say is I’m sorry. And next time, be more careful of your wallet.”
    Greg knew that he should have expected no more than this, but he was annoyed nonetheless, so much so that he found himself blurting out—if only to make this guy just a little more understanding—the story of what had happened to his parents. When he finished, his only reward was a brief shake of the head.
    â€œYeah, that’s tough, Mr. Lothian,” Detective Tremblay said. “It seems your family has been having a really bad time lately. When this sort of thing happens, people are always hurt and amazed, and the question I’m most often asked is, why we don’t do more to stop it. Well, sir, it’s a hard and tricky world. From where I stand, it’s getting rougher all the time, what with drugs and guns and gangs—yeah, even here in Victoria—and, of course, the damn Internet, which is the biggest gift to the rogue element since the invention of money. And although we’re working harder than ever to contain them, to be honest, it’s only on my best days that I feel we’re even keeping even. You’ve obviously had some bad experiences, Mr. Lothian, but sadly, I hear your kind of story every day. If I had more men, better resources, ten times the budget for public information programs, not to mention police overtime, things might be better. But, frankly, even that’s a damn big if .”
    Frustrated, Greg shook his head. “What am I supposed to do now?”
    â€œKeep your wits about you, and your eye on your wallet,” the detective smiled bleakly, “and get over it.”
    â€¢ • •
    When he arrived home at the apartment, it was nearly 5:00. He’d wasted most of an entire day patching up the shredded mess of his life. By habit, he checked the mail, again finding nothing. Then, with a flash of understanding that almost made him nauseous, he tumbled to the obvious: this abrupt and unexplained lack had to be connected with the theft of his identity. How it could have been done, or exactly why, he didn’t know, but it was pretty clear that someone was stealing his mail.
    If that was the case, however, it was too late in the day to do anything about it. Fuming, he went upstairs and started to make supper; then he realized that what he wanted was a good stiff belt of Glenfiddich. Since he’d only acquired the taste, there was none in the apartment, but feeling as he did, he was damned if that was going to stop him. There was a liquor store a block away on Oak Bay Avenue. Suspending his supper preparations, Greg left the apartment almost at a trot, on an errand that