Free Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham) by Jamie Sheffield Page A

places, times and dates... all were listed in detail. The truth is that people want ( need ) to assume that if they use a throwaway email address and clear the history and cookies of the browser that they're using, that the information disappears as completely as a mess on a kitchen counter; but as soon as his fingers did their walking, either in emails or Google or Facebook or IM or on websites, Cynthia had him. I resolved to work on ways to avoid this form of surveillance as soon as I had finished my business with Cynthia and George and the methamphetamine that he seemed to be making in my home.
    From what I could decode, George had four teams of two guys working for him. Each team worked a couple of towns then rotated around to different towns, and into the meth-lab, every week or so. They would connect with buyers for the meth in each town, and make deliveries as they rotated through. By rotating the team, they could work through all of the drugstores in their towns, buying the legal maximum daily amount of pseudoephedrine at each before moving on to the next store. The other supplies and precursor chemicals could apparently be purchased even more easily, according to Cynthia, from Walmart, Home Depot, and a few online sources. Based on the information Cynthia had in her computer on the production of methamphetamine, working at this rate, and assuming a reasonable rate of conversion, they could produce and sell about 30-40 kilograms of meth each month. Her research seemed to indicate that George would gross somewhere around two to four million dollars per month, less whatever expenses his business incurred.
    There were descriptions, and even GPS coordinates of potential locations for their factories, which probably were a couple of trailers and RVs back on clear-cut timberland, leased for next-to-nothing while the forest regrew. There were also some pictures of one site that I think Cynthia must have taken with her digital camera ( this made me shiver, the thought of her sneaking through the woods to take pictures of these people ). I think that she had been trying to build up a supply of evidence against George Roebuck and his cottage meth industry, to dump into my lap to either break up in some way or bring to Frank. My assumption is that she wanted to build a bridge from the factories in the woods to the cash in the cities to George Roebuck, and that she got tripped up or showed her hand at some point along the way, and been kidnapped. The story, as I told it, made sense, fit the facts and information footprint that I had, and seemed plausible. It also left me with a hollow feeling in my stomach as I swam back to the shore of my camp with a giant looming lack of a plan.
    She had wanted, had asked for, my help in working this problem; a problem ridiculously outside of her skillset. She was more suited to data-mining or making those silly amuse bouche things she filled her weekends with, than slogging through the woods to spy on drug-dealers and break-up multi-million dollar crime rings. I could have helped, should have helped, would have helped; but the Amish seemed more interesting on the day that she asked, so I put her off. I would have helped her eventually... today... but she couldn't wait, and now she was in some serious trouble, and I would have to see what I could do to get her out.
    I dried off, cleaned up the campsite a bit, put up a tarp and prepared my gear for the stormy weather that was due to come in the next day or two. The gear and campsite would wait for me if I got delayed in town for as much as a week, and it was nice to know that it was ready; not as nice as a plan, but better than nothing. I grabbed the garbage and my electronics, and headed back into town, still in the dark; stopping on the way to fill up the Element and grab some hot fat and protein at McD's on the way to Smart Pig to try and live up to my name.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Smart Pig Thneedery, 12:35a.m.,