A woman stole my wallet and all I got was a lousy detective

The woman who stole my wallet six months ago thinks I’m a psycho victim. The police detective who was assigned to investigate the crime told me so; it was pretty much the only thing about the whole unfortunate incident that I didn’t find out first, by myself.

“Just leave it alone and let the courts handle it!” said Detective Lorraine Peck of the Long Beach Police Department, phoning on April 10 to scold me for trying to contact the woman who robbed me last Oct. 18. “There are all kinds of civil rights people waiting to get a hold of a case like this.”

A case like this?

Someone had lifted my wallet while I was paying for groceries one morning at Trader Joe’s. By the afternoon, when I noticed my wallet was gone, I immediately suspected who it might be—the woman who’d been standing behind me in line, the one who I’d heard trying to return a loaf of bread as I walked away from the counter, who I’d noticed as I turned around to see exactly what kind of person returns a loaf of bread. I was so pissed that I devoted the rest of the day to tracking her down.

Tracing the woman’s movements with my online credit card records, I went to the businesses where she had used my card and requested their surveillance tapes. Within hours, I had found her . . . sort of. Actually, I’d identified the make and model of her vehicle, discovered her fondness for to-go pancakes from IHOP, steamed over her self-indulgent manicure at Blue Ocean Nails and Spa, and determined that she was a student at Cal State Long Beach. But I didn’t know her license plate number or her name.

Still, I figured it was a pretty good start. But three months after filing a report—and contributing all my own detective work—with the Long Beach Police Department, that’s still all it was: a pretty good start. It was impossible to get the cops to do anything about it.

Oh, I had lots of telephone conversations with Detective Peck. But I initiated nearly all of them. And by the end of most of them, I’d been told to wait. Once, I was told to forget it, that my case was being dropped . . . well, twice I was told this, if you count the time—on April 1—when Detective Peck dropped the bad news to me, and then said, “April Fool!”

But now, when I dared remind that same detective that I was the victim here, she brought up the feelings of my perpetrator, and dropped the p-word.

“Now she thinks you are a psycho victim,” Detective Peck said accusingly.

But I wasn’t always “a psycho victim.” I used to be “a good victim.” Detective Peck said so last January. (I’m still not sure if she meant I was the kind of victim she strove to do her job for—or the kind of victim who does her job for her.) In that same conversation, Peck also told me she was dropping my case, due to a lack of evidence.

A lack of evidence?

I had plenty of it. Still do. Fueled by frustration, stubbornness and probably naivety, I’ve spent half a year of my life searching for—and finding—the woman who robbed me of my wallet and peace of mind last October.

Looking back, it was nowhere near worth it.

OCTOBER 2007
I didn’t know I was going to Trader Joe’s when I awoke in my Alamitos Beach apartment on the morning of Oct. 18. But the sight of my empty fridge made my empty stomach groan, and I hopped a bus toward the eastside market to fill both of them before my first class at CSULB.

Grazing the aisles, I gathered the usual high-lycopene tomatoes, flaxseed tortilla chips, sprouted wheat bagels, an English cucumber, and some half-and-half (among other things) and packed them into my reusable tote, feeling rather optimistic and eco-friendly. 

By 8:41 a.m. I was at the front of the checkout line. That’s the time on my receipt—and the moment of my brief but injurious interaction with a woman who somehow “found” my wallet on the stand and did not return it.

Instead, she tried to return a loaf of bread.

I didn’t realize what had happened until I got home from class and discovered my wallet was missing. That provided whoever had it enough time to spend $178.44 of my money—$50 cash and $128.44 in debit card charges at various places along Pacific Coast Highway.

My feelings of violation and anger set me spinning into a constructive fury, inciting me to call the places that had served this woman pancakes, washed her car and buffed her nails. The people there remembered her, and so did their surveillance cameras, which captured footage that ranged from her acts of forgery to her dented car to the sound of her voice as she asked for paper towels to clean the gas (that my money had just bought) off her hands.

First thing the next morning, I phoned the Long Beach Police Department East Division to file a report, handing over all the information I had collected. In return, the dispatcher delivered me a report number and little assurance that my case would ever be touched by a detective. 

My phone bill shows I placed 11 calls from October 19 to 23—53 minutes of what Verizon Wireless terms “peak calling time”—to the East Division. Each time I inquired about my case and submitted new information. In return, I heard a lot about “paperwork” and “cases like this,” the gist of which was that “paperwork” for “cases like this” takes at least a week to file. I also learned that I am impatient and expect way too much efficiency from my tax dollars—that these things need to follow procedure, that they take time. 

Eventually, the paperwork made its way to the burglary department, where it landed on the desk of Detective Lorraine Peck. She called me twice on October 23 to synthesize the information I had submitted, assuring me that she would have her “computer guy” retrieve the surveillance footage from the restaurant and gas station to help identify the suspect’s car.

Already frustrated, I wrote an article in the Oct. 24 issue of The District that chronicled my drive for retribution, never dreaming I’d still be at it six months later.

After another week, I still hadn’t heard from Detective Peck, so on Oct. 30 I phoned her and sent her an e-mail attached with scanned copies of all the information I had, asking if her “computer guy” got the tapes. Nothing.

The lack of response was crazymaking, but I was also concerned that I might be getting a little overzealous. I didn’t want to harass the LBPD so much that somebody might, I don’t know, lose my file or something. I told myself to be rational, be polite, be gracious.

For the rest of the year, Detective Peck responded to me only by e-mail.

NOVEMBER 2007 
The first of Peck’s communiqués arrived on Nov. 3, when she finally answered my question about the surveillance videos . . . kind of. “My computer guy should get the video,” she wrote in an e-mail. “He had some issues with getting someone [at the gas station] to give him access. I’ll let you know . . . ”

Confused, I wrote back to Peck on Nov. 5, stating that the general manager of the gas station had shown me—a civilian—the surveillance tapes without hesitation, and that I couldn’t understand why a cop wouldn’t be permitted to view them, too. 

Peck’s response: “There was just a conflict in scheduling a time to get the video, but I should have it soon.”

The subtle shift in explanation left me even more confused.

On Nov. 7, Peck let me know she’d received the video: “But I won’t have a chance to look at it until later today or Monday,” she wrote. “I’ll keep you posted.”

When I hadn’t heard anything by Nov. 13, I e-mailed Peck about it. She replied the very next day, promising to let me know when she’d seen the video, mentioning that she hoped to get to it by the end of the next week.

On Nov. 21, Peck wrote to report that she’d seen the video—but that the tape did not show a license plate number on the vehicle. She added, however, that the video productions unit might be able to get a partial plate and that after Thanksgiving she expected to have a little more time to work on the case.

On Nov. 27, Peck e-mailed me four images of the suspect’s vehicle—showing damage on the passenger side—so I could keep my eyes open for it. She also contacted the CSULB University Police, mainly because the suspect had purchased three sets of temporary parking tickets at the university.

By now, my thief had roamed free for more than a month. Meanwhile, I was feeling emotionally imprisoned—overcautious and paranoid. I stopped carrying a wallet with me when I went out, stuffing only my driver’s license and some cash in my pocket in the not-so-off chance that I might get robbed again.

DECEMBER 2007
I went home for the holidays, back to the northeast for three weeks. Before I left in mid-December, I sent Peck an e-mail wishing her a happy season, reminding her about CSULB’s winter recess, and asking her to contact me with any new information. Honestly, however, I’d nearly given up hope.

No news.

JANUARY 2008
Just before returning to Long Beach—and still in a slight holiday-food coma—I wrote to Peck on Jan. 4, informing her that I would soon be back and requesting an update. She replied on Jan. 7 with news that she had not been able to identify the vehicle. Then she mentioned that this was her last week in the burglary department. She was being transferred—and she was trying to close as many cases as quickly as possible. Alarmed, I wrote back right away: “Does this mean my case will be dropped or will another detective take over?”

Peck didn’t respond.

More than a week later—on Jan. 15—my telephone rang. It was Peck, calling to inform me that, due to her transfer and the insufficient details of my case, she was going to close it. Without a license plate number, there was no suspect.

Peck thanked me for my persistence and apologized for the lack of a result, saying that she wished more victims would fight for justice like I had.

I wasn’t fighting, I thought. I was investigating. Isn’t that her job?

Peck tried to leave it light. “Hey, you should come down to the station and apply,” she said. “We need good people.”

FEBRUARY 2008
Inside a red Passport Bus that was plowing north on Bellflower Boulevard, I gazed absently through the window at whatever scenery was flashing past on an otherwise unremarkable Feb. 22.

Then: Her car! The woman’s car! My thief!

With no better technology than my eyeballs and blind luck, I had found it—parked on the road adjacent to the university, dents and all! I scribbled down what I could of the plate number as I whizzed by. There was a stampede in my chest when I jumped off the bus at the Atherton stop and booked it back down the street to write down the entire license number. As I got close, I gasped. She was getting in the car and pulling away, leaving me with only the first four digits of the plate. But that had to be enough . . . right?

Frantically, I scrolled through my cell phone’s contact list, found Peck’s old number and punched it in. After some breathless explanation to the poor soul on the other end, I was transferred to Peck’s new extension. I left another message, staring in awe at the suspect’s vehicle I couldn’t follow on foot. 

The minute I got home, I slapped out another e-mail to my detective, describing the day’s events and pleading for help, even though the case was closed. I even drew a map.

Peck’s e-mailed response was labeled confidential—all of the e-mail she sent from then on included that warning, and the consequences for violating it, probably because of her change in departments—so I can’t quote it. 

However, on Feb. 25, she agreed to look into the matter anew, and encouraged me to carry a camera in case I saw anything else.

MARCH 2008
Back in familiar territory. When I hadn’t heard anything by March 3, I contacted Peck via e-mail, asking for an update. She responded positively, but said she needed to see the vehicle in order to match the damage recorded on the surveillance tapes. She also asked if I could pick out the suspect in a photo lineup.

Yes, yes yes! I saw her! She haunts me! I even remember her earrings! I’m confident I can identify her! I told Peck when I’d be available, thanking her one more time for doing her job.

Nine days later, I hadn’t heard a thing. On March 12, I wrote to Peck, asking whether she still wanted me to do the photo line-up. She replied that it would not be possible—for classified reasons—and that she would have to track down the vehicle herself and speak with the suspect in person. Peck advised me that finding time to do so in the near future would be difficult, but hoped I wouldn’t get discouraged. 

Ten days later, on March 22, I found my thief again—again with my eyeballs, those amazing gadgets. I wasn’t even looking for her. I was driving down a very familiar street on my way home when there was her car, again with the matching dents and this time with the full license plate. It was parked at the curb.

Again, the minute I got home, I went through the ritual of contacting Peck—via e-mail but also leaving a voicemail. I took camera-phone pictures of the plate, the damage and other details of the vehicle and sent them to her.

Two days later, on March 24, I received an e-mail from Peck in which she described me as an “awesome detective” and informed me that this new information matched the information she had found from the partial plate I’d given her in February.

Peck also advised me that she would have to be careful of information she revealed to me from this point forward, so that I could not be used as an “agent” in the case. Huh?

Time passed, and I saw the vehicle every day, always parked in more or less the same place. But Peck didn’t call again, and March ended without an arrest.

APRIL 2008
It was the first day of a brand-new month, and I was meandering through the IKEA store in Carson, looking for optimistic spring things when Detective Peck called me on my cell. She had some bad news.

My heart sank as Peck gravely informed me that, despite all the evidence, she would have to close my case again—because she simply had no time to complete the arrest.

Then, after a moment of silence, she said: April Fool!

I didn’t know what to say or think—still don’t, really, except that it immediately qualified as the most unfunny and insulting April Fools’ Day prank ever pulled on me.

I think I coughed out a nervous laugh in response.

“Thank you for being a good sport,” Peck was saying when I got my bearings back. “I’ve been thinking all day about how I could get someone for April Fools’.”

I told Peck that I had been thinking of calling my mother for April Fools’ Day and telling her that she was going to be a grandmother, but quickly decided against it because I didn’t want to upset her with such bad false news!

Fortunately, Peck was actually calling me with some excellent news: She had found the woman—by this time, a monster, in my mind—that I’d been tracking for so long. The ugly ogre’s car had been impounded by the police department that morning, which had forced her to call Peck directly and be questioned about the crime that had been perpetrated against me. And the evil creature had ‘fessed-up to the whole thing, over the phone, right away.

As I listened to Peck tell the story, however—about how the suspect acknowledged she “hadn’t been a good citizen,” explained that “money was tight” and confessed she had “made the wrong decision”—something inside me began to shift.

As I learned about her circumstances —all things I can relate to—her monstrous image began to dissolve. The thief who had stolen my wallet and caused me so much grief and agitation began to seem like a fellow human being, a woman maybe not so completely unlike me.

Even when Peck explained in probably greater-than-necessary detail why this suspect would not be jailed—that she is several months pregnant, that this is her first offense—and that she will only be cited on paperwork that will “take at least a week to file,” I couldn’t find the rage that had been simmering in me for so long. I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting to feel at that point, but it certainly was not the overwhelming compassion that began to seep out of me.

I wanted to talk to this woman more than ever, but for none of the angry reasons that had fueled me for so long.

Now the evil phantom that had been haunting me seemed like a fellow flawed traveler on the road of life.

Call me inexperienced, call me a fool, but I wrote her a letter. In it, I told her that I forgive her, and that I’d love to meet with her and talk about what had happened, one imperfect person to the other. Then I went to her car—the car I’d tracked down on my own—and placed that letter under the windshield wiper.

The woman never called me.

Instead, she called the cops. In no time, Detective Peck was on the phone with me, and she was upset. She said the woman had phoned frantically—that she was “freaked out.”

“Now she thinks you are a psycho victim,” Peck said.

I tried to explain, to describe the spiritual metamorphosis that had occurred within me—something like, maybe, when Pope John Paul II visited the imprisoned man who’d shot him, and forgave him. Remember that?

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Peck said, having none of it. “Just leave it alone and let the courts handle it!”

As she admonished me, I began to experience another spiritual shift—one that made me feel as if I might be the criminal now, as if I might be in the wrong, as if I might now be the monster.

I apologized, wishing I had just done what most people do when their wallets are stolen

Tags: crime, lbpd, Long Beach, theft, trader joe's