The Case of the Collector

The Case of The Collector

Almost exactly two years ago, in the summer of 2006, a man sat in recliner -a leather one, scuffed on the back from being hastily thrown in the bed of a truck- and looked at the wealth he had accumulated since being released from prison. Lawn mowers, pop machines, car rims, outdoor grill sets, patio furniture, anything he could see he took and added to his collection. For he was a man so possessed with greed and selfishness that he would steal the coat off a traveler sleeping at the bus station just to use as a foot mat before stepping into his car; so full of privilege that he would sooner shoot his neighbor than return his car speakers; so cruel that he would break open a car trunk, steal a tire iron, and use it to smash the windows so he could steal some CDs. For he was The Collector, madman super-thief and scourge of Iowa City. And as he looked upon his garage of stolen wonders, the accumulated hard work of hundreds, all he could think was “more…”
Also two years ago I finished a bike project called “Sister’s Got Fangs”, named after a sticker of a girly snake on the rear reflector. This was the first bike I ever built on my own and was quite the accomplishment. I bought the frame from the local used bike store for $50. It had no brand name, and the curvature of the various frame components, the fact that neither the top tube, chain stays, seat post, nor any other piece of metal was without some kind of bend or alteration, suggested that it may have always been a one-of-a-kind. It didn’t even have a serial number stamped onto the bottom. This was that platform that I spend over a month and several hundred dollars transforming into the ultimate hot-rod.
Between August and October of 2006 I ruled the streets. Not a soul would dare step in the path of Sister’s Got Fangs lest they feel the bite of 26 inches of rubber wrapped around 104 spoke rims. On sunny days I’d watch people stumble into telephone poles after being blinded by the 40 pounds of solid chrome that adorned my bike like the medallions on Mr. T.
The Collector, of course, took notice of Sister’s Got Fangs and since he loathes seeing other people with possessions, he devised a plan to steal her from me. Back then I stored my bike outside because my landlord didn’t want road grime screwing up the carpet. I had what I thought was a decent lock, one of those twisty metal cord deelios, and I figured that between my open window and the twelve or so neighbors that circle the rack, my bike would be safe. The Collector, however, is a pro. He is a man who doesn’t bother to get out of bed in the morning unless there is something to steal immediately outside of his house. He smelled my bike, the oil and hacksaw shavings that were the byproducts of its creation; heard the buzz around town; saw the pedestrians wandering into traffic, complaining that some stupid kid on a magical chrome bike blinded them. He then found his prey, and as easily as snapping a twig, broke my lock with his industrial wire cutters.
I woke up the next day to the sound of my neighbor’s dog barking. I walked outside to complain, still in my robe, strolled past the bike rack, did a double take, and realized my $400+ investment and symbol of my mechanical prowess was gone. Sulking, I reported the crime to the police, hit some pillows and wined on facebook, and eventually accepted the fact that my cherished bike was gone forever.
And such would have been the case if it weren’t for Detective Duffy. Duffy was built to be a cop. He’s round and low to the ground so blows deflect more easily. He has a loud clear voice that broadcasts on CB radios even when he’s just talking. Motivated by efficiency, every step he takes is holistically motivated to help solve crime. Detective Duffy is not a hero; Detective Duffy is simply made for solving crimes. After reading about my bike in the weekly police newsletter, or something, he said to himself, “This is a case that needs solving; I will solve this case.” And he set on it.
Over the following 24 months Detective Duffy went on a harrowing odyssey through the mean streets of Iowa City. He followed bogus leads and chased wild goose after wild goose, not sleeping, rarely eating, never seeing his family; Detective Duffy had one goal that he drove towards like a famished tiger stalking a gazelle, inching closer without satisfying his hunger nor giving away his position.
On a dark night in early August, Detective Duffy followed a bike gang composed of grade schoolers on BMXs –minions- to the secret garage layer of… non other than… the…amazing…unstoppable…person who is…The Collector!
Unfortunately the garage was just a stash spot, one of many. The Collector was gone, vanished leaving only enough evidence for forensics to create a short list of suspects. Nonetheless, Detective Duffy was able to recover $6 million in stolen goods, the crown jewel of which being my bicycle.
When I went down to the evidence storage with Detective Duffy I expected that in the last two years without my maintaining hand Sister’s Got Fangs would be nothing but a shaky, flat tired, rust mobile. To my surprise, the old gal was is nearly the same condition I left it. The kickstand was gone, as was the snake sticker, and the inner-tube valve caps, but other than that it was fine. I guess since Sister’s Got Fangs was such a high profile ride, The Collector was afraid that riding it would be too obvious. He could only keep it in his garage, staring at it, wishing for the day when he could ride it without fear of being spotted, a day that would never be.
With my bike back with me, tires aired and chain oiled, I turned to Detective Duffy and commented that it must be a good feeling knowing that justice is served. He turned to me and said (I’m not making this part up by the way) “Not yet…but some day it will be. Some day.” And then he just walked off down the alley towards the police station.

Note: Much of this essay may be juiced up with assumptions and hearsay, but the basic story is genuine. -SW