Free Scammed by Ron Chudley Page B

recently would have seemed shocking to him.
    But though the whisky did its soothing work, it also seemed out of place in his own home, vaguely distasteful and perhaps even cowardly. Confining himself to one decent-sized drink and a smaller follow-up, he ate supper, then made a pot of coffee and turned on his computer.
    What he realized was that he knew far too little about the sort of crime that had come calling on his parents, and now himself. Oh, he’d seen reports in the newspaper and on TV about theft and fraud of all kinds, but he hadn’t paid attention. Secure in his careful and complacent world, he’d always felt above such distasteful matters, a naïve notion that a double dose of grim reality had suddenly shattered. Detective Tremblay had seemed to regard the Internet as just one more irritant that criminals used to make his life harder. What he had not added was that the same instrument could be a source of protection. Greg intended to use it to bring himself up to date so he could begin, at last, to live in the real world.
    With his PC fired up, he went to Google and in the search window typed “Identity Theft.” The result was amazing. Literally thousands of websites were listed, the first few of which provided so much information that Greg didn’t stir from the screen until after midnight.
    Having familiarized himself with the overall picture, he then concentrated specifically on mail theft. It was depressingly easy: stolen ID was used to have the owner’s mail forwarded to another address. Bank statements then provided access to account numbers; pre-approved credit-card offers could be accepted and used to build up massive debt; personal information was fodder for an array of criminal activities—all in the victim’s name. Should there be any cheques or cash in the mail, that was just a bonus.
    Of course, now that he suspected what had happened, he could alert the post office right away, but that wouldn’t stop the thieves from using the information they had already gained, nor would it be much help in catching them. As soon as mail ceased being forwarded, they’d know they’d been rumbled and move on. In cases Greg read about online, one fact was always made clear: when the post office received notification of a bogus forwarding, it was their policy not to reveal the false address. This was probably intended to prevent irate dupes from taking the law into their own hands. Which was all very well and good but, assuming the information went to law enforcement, what could they do? Very little, if Greg’s meeting with Sergeant Tremblay was any guide. To be fair, fake addresses were usually box numbers, nearly impossible to monitor.
    The only thing that made Greg pause during his online exploration was the urge to refresh his drink: as the night wore on, the notion of whisky in his apartment didn’t seem quite so distasteful. But the liquor didn’t dull his concentration; if anything, it made it more intense. And by the end of the night, when the information had soaked in and the initial distress somewhat abated, he was left with two basic certainties: first, more than anything, he desired the bastard who’d callously stolen his life—his own personal “account inspector”—to be caught; second, no one in any official capacity was likely to be much help in this endeavour.
    At 12:30 he turned off the computer and collapsed into bed. The Scotch he’d drunk did provide the blessing of instant oblivion.
    Some time later he jerked awake, his head almost exploding with the shock of a new realization. Of course! The theft of his identity and the scam on his parents were connected. According to the bank manager, the older Lothians had been targeted because someone had got hold of their personal information. What better source than the tax package Mary Lothian had sent to him? It hadn’t arrived because, along with the rest of