8

It would be another scorching day in that long, hot summer. That much was evident, even at 9 A.M. when Nim reached Brookside.

The D-day force had arrived an hour earlier. Its communications center was set up on the parking lot of a conveniently central shopping plaza where a half-dozen of the utility’s vehicles were clustered, identifiable by their distinctive orange and white coloring and the familiar GSP & L logo. Already the thirty meter readers had been driven to dispersal points. They were mostly young men, among them some college students working during the summer, and each was in possession of a batch of cards showing addresses where meters and related equipment were to be inspected. The cards were from a special computer printout last night. Normally the meter readers’ job was simply to read numbers and report them; today they would ignore the numbers and search only for signs of power theft.

Harry London, emerging from the communications van, met Nim as he arrived. London appeared perky and cheerful. He wore a short-sleeved, military-style shirt and smartly creased tan slacks; his shoes were brightly shined. Nim removed his own suit coat and tossed it back into his Fiat. The sun had begun to bake the parking lot, sending heat waves upward.

“We’re getting results already,” London said. “Five clear fraud cases in the first hour. Now our service guys are checking out three more.”

Nim asked, “The first five—are they business or residential?”

“Four residential, one business, and that’s a lulu. The guy’s been stealing us blind, gas and electric both. Do you want to see?”

“Sure.”

London called into the communications van, “I’ll be in my car, with Mr. Goldman. We’re going to incident number four.”

As they drove away, he told Nim, “I’ve already got two feelings. One, what we’ll be seeing today is the tip of an iceberg. Two, in some cases we’re up against professionals, maybe an organized ring.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Let me answer that after you’ve seen what I’m going to show you.”

“Okay.” Nim settled back, inspecting Brookside as they moved through it.

It was an affluent suburb, typical of many which mushroomed in the late 1950s and early sixties. Before then it was farmland; now the farms were gone, replaced by housing developments and businesses serving them. There was—at least, outwardly—no poverty in Brookside. Even small tract houses, in regimented rows, appeared well cared for, their handkerchief lawns manicured, paintwork fresh. Beyond this modest housing were several square miles of larger homes, including palatial mansions with three-car garages and separate service driveways. The community’s stores, some in attractive tree-lined malls, displayed quality merchandise which reflected the area’s prosperity. To Nim it seemed an unlikely locale for thefts of power.

As if reading his mind, Harry London offered, “Things ain’t always what they seem.” He turned the car away from the shopping area toward a gas station and garage complex which included a tunnel-type car wash. London stopped at the gas station office and got out. Nim followed.

A GSP & L service truck was also parked. “We’ve called for one of our photographers,” London said. “Meanwhile the service guy is guarding the evidence.”

A man in gray coveralls walked toward them, wiping his hands on a rag. He bad a spindly body, a fox-like face, and appeared worried. “Listen,” he said, “like I told you already, I don’t know nothing about no …”

“Yes, sir; so you did.” London turned to Nim. “This is Mr. Jackson. He gave us permission to enter his premises to inspect the meters.”

“Now I’m not so sure I should’ve,” Jackson grumbled. “Anyways I’m just the lessee here. It’s another outfit owns the building.”

“But you own the business,” London said. “And the gas and electric accounts are in your name. Right?”

“The way things are, the bank owns the goddam business.”

“But the bank didn’t interfere with your gas and electric meters.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth.” The garageman’s hands clutched the rag more tightly. “I dunno who done it.”

“Yes, sir. Do you mind if we go in?”

The garageman scowled but didn’t stop them.

London preceded Nim into the gas station office, then to a small room beyond, clearly used for storage. On the far wall were switches, circuit breakers, and meters for gas and electricity. A young man in GSP & L service uniform looked up as they came in. He said casually, “Hi!”

Harry London introduced Nim, then instructed, “Tell Mr. Goldman what you found.”

“Well, the electric meter had the seal broken and was put in the way it is now—upside down.”

“Which makes the meter run backwards or stop,” London added.

Nim nodded, well aware of that simple but effective way to get free power. First, the seal on a meter was pried open carefully. After that, the meter—which was simply plugged in to slots behind it—could be lifted out, inverted, and replaced. From then on, as electricity was consumed, the meter would either reverse itself or stop entirely—if the first, the record of consumption would diminish instead of increasing as it should. Later—probably a few days before a power company meter reader was expected—the meter would be restored to normal functioning, with the disturbance of the seal carefully concealed.

Several power companies which had suffered this kind of theft countered it nowadays by installing newer-type meters which operated correctly whether upside down or not. Another prevention method was through elaborate locking rings which made meters non-removable, except with special keys. However, other ingenious ways of power theft existed; also there were still millions of older-type meters in use that could not accommodate locking rings, and they would cost a fortune to replace. Thus, through sheer numbers, plus the impossibility of inspecting all meters regularly, the cheaters held an advantage.

“The job on gas was fancier,” the serviceman said. He moved to a gas meter nearby and knelt beside it. “Take a look here.”

Nim watched as, with one hand, the serviceman traced a pipe which emerged from a wall, then connected to the meter several feet away. “This is the gas line coming in from outside.”

“From the street,” Harry London added. “From the company main.”

Nim nodded.

“Over here”—the serviceman’s hand moved to the far side of the meter—“is a line to the customer’s outlets. They use gas here for a big water heater, hot-air car dryers and for the stove and heater in an apartment upstairs. Every month that’s a lot of gas. Now look at this—closely.” This time, using both hands, he fingered what appeared to be pipe joints where the two pipes he had pointed to disappeared into the wall. Around each the cement had been loosened, some of it now in a small pile on the floor.

“I did that,” the serviceman volunteered, “to get a better look, and what you can see now is that those aren’t ordinary joints. They’re T-joints, connected to each other by another pipe, buried out of sight inside the wall.”

“An old-fashioned cheater’s bypass,” London said, “though this is the neatest one I’ve seen. What happens is that most of the gas used doesn’t pass through the meter the way it should, but goes directly from the street to the appliances.”

“There’s enough still goes through the meter to keep it operating,” the young serviceman explained. “But gas flows where there’s least resistance. There’s some resistance in the meter, so most gas goes through that extra pipe—the freebie route.”

“Not any more,” London pronounced.

A pert young woman carrying cameras and equipment came in from outside. She inquired cheerfully, “Somebody here want pictures?”

“Sure do.” London indicated the gas meter. “That setup first.” He told Nim, “When we get a shot the way it is, we’ll chip out the rest of the cement and expose the illegal pipe.”

The fox-faced garageman had been hovering in the rear. He protested, “Hey, you guys can’t break up no wall. This’s my place.”

“I’ll remind you, Mr. Jackson, you gave us permission to come in and check on our company’s equipment. But if you want to review your rights, and ours, I suggest you call your lawyer. I think you’ll need one, anyway.”

“I don’t need no lawyer.”

“That will be up to you, sir.”

“Mr. Jackson,” Nim said, “don’t you realize the seriousness of all this? Tampering with meters is a criminal offense, and the photos we are taking can be evidence.”

“Oh, there’ll be criminal prosecution all right,” London said, as if on cue. “Though I will say that if Mr. Jackson co-operates in two ways it might work out in his favor.”

The garageman looked at them suspiciously. “What ways?”

As they talked, the photographer clicked away, shooting flash pictures of the gas meter, then moving to the electric one. The serviceman began loosening more cement, exposing more of the concealed pipe within the wall.

“The first thing you have to do,” London told Jackson, “is pay for what you owe and what you stole. Since I was here the first time, I’ve been in touch with our Billing Department. Comparing recent bills with what your gas and electric charges used to be, they’ve come up with five thousand dollars owing. That includes a service charge for what we’re doing today.”

The garageman paled; his mouth worked nervously. “Jesus! It can’t be that much. Why, it’s only been …” He stopped.

“Yes,” Nim prompted. “How long has it been since you began tampering with the meters?”

“If Mr. Jackson tells us that,” London joined in, “maybe he’d tell us who did the job on the gas meter. That’s the second thing we’d look on as co-operation.”

The serviceman called over his shoulder, “I’ll tell you one thing for sure. Whoever did it was no amateur.”

London glanced at Nim. “Remember what I told you? A lot of what we’re seeing is professional work.” He returned to Jackson. “How about that, sir? Feel like telling us who did it?”

The garageman scowled, but didn’t answer.

London told him, “When we’ve finished here, Mr. Jackson, we’ll be disconnecting your gas and electricity. They’ll stay disconnected until the amount owing is paid.”

Jackson spluttered, “Then how the hell do I run my business?”

“If it comes to that,” London retorted, “how would we run ours if every customer was a cheat like you?” He asked Nim, “Seen enough?”

“Too much,” Nim said. “Let’s go.”

Outside, London said, “Ten will get you one, he’s in hock too deep to pay what’s owing. Doubt if he’ll tell us who did the work either.”

As they got into the car, Nim asked, “Can we prosecute and make it stick?”

The ex-policeman shook his head. “I’d like to try, and we might even get a conviction. More likely, though, a court would insist we prove either that Jackson did the meter rigging, or knew about it. No way we can.”

“So in some ways it’s a lost cause.”

“Some ways, maybe; not all. Word will get around; It probably has already, and that will scare a lot of other would-be Jacksons. Also remember, we’ve spread our net wide today. There’ll be a lot more cheaters in it before sundown.”

“But only from Brookside.” Nim considered gloomily the enormous area which GSP & L served; within it Brook-side was a single peanut in a huge plantation.

A few minutes later they were back at the communications center on the shopping plaza parking lot.

As Harry London had forecast, Brookside’s D-day caught many meteiytampering offenders. By noon there were more than forty cases, either proven or suspected; it seemed likely there would be at least as many more during the afternoon. Some supermarkets were included in the bag; an entire local chain had been raided, with illegal installations found in five out of eight stores.

Nim stayed close to Harry London, observing, visiting the scene of some of the more interesting, ingenious violations.

During the late morning they had gone together to one of the trim tract houses Nim noted earlier. Two GSP & L vehicles were parked outside. One of the Property Protection staffers, a serviceman, and the same photographer as before were clustered around an exterior electric meter near the side door.

“Nobody’s at home,” London said in explanation, “but downtown they checked on the guy who lives here, and it seems he’s a tool-and-die maker. It figures. Take a look at this.” As the others moved aside, London pointed to a tiny hole in the glass cover of the meter. A small piece of stiff wire protruded through it. Inside the meter the wire extended to a central metal disc which normally revolved as electricity was consumed.

“That wire, which shouldn’t be there, stops the disc from turning,” London said.

Nim nodded his understanding. “So the meter doesn’t record, even though current goes on flowing.”

“Right. But stopping the disc does no harm, so when the wire’s removed, everything’s back the way it should be.”

“Except for that little hole.”

“You’d never notice it,” the serviceman behind them said, “unless you were looking hard. My guess is, the guy used a jeweler’s drill to make the hole, which is why the glass didn’t break. Damn clever.”

“He won’t feel so clever when he gets his next bill,” London said. “Besides which, we’ll watch the house tonight. More than likely the neighbors will tell him about us being here, which will make him nervous and he’ll want to take out that wire. When he does, and if we catch him at it, we can make a prosecution stick.”

They left while the photographer was taking close-ups of the incriminating hole and wire.

At the communications center, reports of other discoveries continued to flow in. An even more ingenious power thief had penetrated the heart of his electric meter, apparently filing off several teeth from a shaft gear which turned the meter recording disc. This had the effect of slowing the disc and reducing recorded consumption by approximately half. The downtown Billing Department, searching their records, estimated the cheating had gone on for three years, undetected.

In another instance a customer had adroitly switched meters. Somehow he had obtained an extra electric meter—Harry London suspected it was stolen—and substituted it for the regular meter supplied by GSP & L. Obviously the customer left his “private” meter in place for a portion of each billing period, during which any electricity used was “free.”

Though gas meters were considered more difficult to tamper with, this had not deterred some ambitious freeloaders. As London put it, “Disconnecting or connecting a gas meter takes some plumbing skill, but not much. A do-it-yourselfer can catch on fast.”

One such do-it-yourselfer, a meter reader found, had removed his gas meter entirely, filling the gap with a length of rubber hose. It was a dangerous theft method, but effective. Presumably the meter was left disconnected for part of each month, then replaced near the time a regular meter reading was expected.

Another offender—a businessman owning several adjacent stores which he leased to others—had acted similarly, except his gas meter was reversed, with its face turned toward the wall, causing it to run backwards. It was here the only violent incident of the day erupted. The businessman, enraged at being discovered, attacked the company serviceman with a pipe wrench and beat him badly. The serviceman was later taken to the hospital with a broken arm and nose, the businessman to jail where he faced assault and other charges.

One facet of the many cases being uncovered puzzled Nim. He told Harry London, “I thought our billing computers were programmed to signal warnings of abrupt changes in any customer’s consumption.”

“They are, and they do,” London acknowledged. “Trouble is, people are getting wise to computers, learning to outwit them. It isn’t hard. If you steal power and have the sense to reduce your bills gradually—a little the first month, then a little more every month after that, instead of a big reduction all at once—a computer will never pick it up.”

“Any way you look at it, we’re on the losing side.”

“Maybe right now. But that will change.”

Nim was less sure.

Perhaps the most bizarre episode occurred at midafter-noon when London received a message at the communications center, calling him to an address a mile or so away.

The house, they saw on arrival, was large and modern; it had a landscaped garden and a long curved driveway in which a shiny Mercedes was parked. The ubiquitous orange and white GSP & L vehicles were assembled on the road outside.

The same young serviceman who had been at the gas station-garage complex this morning approached London’s car as it pulled up. “Problems,” he announced. “Need some help.”

“What kind of problems?”

One of the Property Protection staffers, who had joined them, said, “The woman inside is threatening to turn a dog loose on us. It’s a big German Shepherd. She says her husband’s a doctor, a big wheel in the community, and they’ll sue the company if we cause them any trouble.”

“What brought you here?”

The serviceman answered. “One of the meter readers—a sharp college kid—reported a suspicious wire. He was right, I took a look behind the electric meter, and the pot strap’s been dropped, with two wires bridging it. I traced the wires to a switch in the garage—there was no one around and the garage door was open. That’s when the woman showed up with the dog.”

Nim looked puzzled. London ordered, “Explain to Mr. Goldman.”

“At the back of some types of meter there’s a ‘potential strap,’” the serviceman said. “If it’s disconnected—‘dropped’—it breaks a circuit so the meter stops registering. But put a switch across, in place of the pot strap, and the meter can be turned on and off whenever you want.”

“And that’s been done here?”

“Sure has.”

Nim cautioned, “You’re absolutely certain?”

“I’ll swear to it.”

The Property Protection man added, “I saw it, too. There isn’t any doubt.” He consulted a notebook. “The customer’s name is Edgecombe.”

“Okay,” London said, “to hell with the dog! Call for a photog, and let’s try to get evidence.”

They waited while the serviceman used a radio transmitter in his truck, then Harry London led the small procession up the driveway. As they neared the house, a tall, handsome woman, probably in her forties, emerged through the front door. She was wearing blue linen slacks and a matching silk shirt; long, dark brown hair was tied back with a scarf. Beside her was a German Shepherd, growling and straining on a leash which the woman held.

She announced coldly, “I warned you men that if you continue trespassing I’ll release this dog and you can take the consequences. Now get off this property!”

“Madam,” London said firmly, “I caution you to hang on to that dog or tie it up. I’m a security officer for Golden State Power & Light”—he produced a badge—“and this is Mr. Goldman, a vice president of the company.”

“Vice presidents don’t impress me,” the woman snapped. “My husband knows the president of your company well, and the chairman.”

“In that case,” Nim told her, “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that everyone here today is simply doing his job. You are Mrs. Edgecombe?”

She answered haughtily, “Yes.”

“Our Service Department has reported you have an illegal installation across your electric meter.”

“If there is, we know nothing about if. My husband’s an important orthopedic surgeon, and he’s operating today or I’d call him to deal with your impertinence now.”

For all the bravado, Nim thought, there was a hint of nervousness in the woman’s eyes and voice. London caught it, too: “Mrs. Edgecombe,” the said, “we want to take photographs of the electric meter and some wires behind it; they lead to a switch in your garage. We’d appreciate it if you’d give us permission.”

“And if I won’t?”

“Then we’ll seek a court order. But I should point out in that case everything will become a matter of public record.”

The woman hesitated and Nim wondered if she realized Harry London was largely bluffing. By the time a court order was obtained the evidence could have been destroyed. But the exchange had flustered her. “That won’t be necessary,” she conceded. “Very well, do what you must, but be quick about if.”

“Just one other thing, madam,” London said. “When we’re finished here, your electricity will be disconnected until the arrears, which our Billing Department will estimate, are paid.”

“That’s ridiculous! My husband will have plenty to say about that.” Mrs Edgecombe turned away, fastening the dog’s leash to a steel ring in the wall. Nim observed that her hands were trembling.

“Why do they do it—people like that?” Nim posed the question softly, asking it of himself as much as Harry London. They were in London’s car, headed once more for the shopping plaza where Nim would retrieve his own car, then drive downtown. He had seen more than enough of Brookside, he decided, and enough of power thievery to grasp truly, for the first time, the size and hydra-headed nature of the beast.

“There’s lots of reasons why they do it,” London answered. “Where we’ve just been, and at the other places, too. For one thing, people talk. They like to boast about how smart they are, beating a big outfit like Golden State Power. And while they’re talking, others listen, then do the same thing later.”

“You think that explains epidemics like we’ve seen today?”

“It’s some pieces in the puzzle.”

“And the rest?”

“Some of it’s crooked tradesmen—the ones I really want to catch. They put the word around that they’ll do the meter fixing—at a price. It all sounds easy, and people go along.”

Nim said doubtfully, “That still doesn’t explain that last place. The wealthy doctor—an orthopedic surgeon, one of the highest paid specialties. And you saw his wife, the house. Why?”

“I’ll tell you something I learned as a cop,” London said. “Don’t let appearances fool you. Plenty of people with big incomes and flashy houses are deep in debt, struggling to stay afloat, to save a buck wherever they can, and not too fussy about how. I’ll bet the same thing’s true of this whole place, Brookside. And look at it this way: Not so long ago utility bills didn’t amount to much; but now bills are big and getting bigger, so some who wouldn’t cheat before, because it wasn’t worth it, have changed their minds. The stakes are higher; they’ll take the risk.”

Nim nodded agreement, adding, “And most public utilities are so huge and impersonal, people don’t equate theft of power with other kinds of stealing. They’re not as critical—the way they would be about burglary or purse snatching.”

“I’ve done a lot of thinking about that part of it. I believe the whole thing’s bigger.” London stopped the car while waiting for a traffic light to change. When they were moving again he continued, “The way I see it, most people have decided the system stinks because our politicians are corrupt, in one way or another, so why should ordinary Joes punish themselves by always being honest? Okay, they say, one bunch got flushed out with Watergate, but the new people, who were so damned righteous before they got elected, are doing the same crooked things—political payoffs and worse—now that they’re in power.”

“That’s a pretty depressing viewpoint.”

“Sure it is,” London said. “But it explains a lot that’s happening, and not just what we’ve seen today. I mean the crime explosion, all the way from big crime down to petty larceny. And I’ll tell you something else: There are days—this is one—when I wish I was back in the Marines where everything seemed simpler and cleaner.”

“It wouldn’t now.”

London sighed. “Maybe.”

“You and your people did a good job today,” Nim said.

“We’re in a war.” Harry London pushed aside his seriousness and grinned. “Tell your boss—the commander-in-chief—we won a skirmish, and we’ll win him some more.”