Revenge Heist

If you want to find security camera blind spots, watch where security guards use their cell phones.

My colleagues congregate in the museum's dark corners and hidden nooks to check text messages and update social media statuses. The two-hundred-year-old building has plenty of nooks. I’m unsure how I’ll use the blind spots in the heist, but it is helpful information.

The name on my badge is Edward Tuttle, though that is not who I am. Edward Tuttle is a low-level Marketing Executive at a third-tier ad agency and an unrepentant high school bully. In the real world, Edward would have been convicted of aggravated assault, but in high school, felonies are fine. Because boys will be boys, torture is hazing, and school is a safe zone for psychopaths.

Like the Count of Monte Cristo, I am on a path of righteous vengeance against Edward Tuttle. While I did not spend years in prison, I did spend prom alone in my parents’ basement, and I still feel the injustice these many years later.

Assuming Edward’s identity was easy. We look similar, both nondescript white men with light brown hair. At 6 feet tall, he’s two inches taller than I am, but everyone lies about that. I get his social security number on the dark web, and I get a driver’s license using that.

When I am hired at the museum, I hack into the computer system and exchange my picture for his. I am erased, and Edward is employed. It is almost too easy. The HR woman frequently leaves her desk and never logs off her computer.

A few weeks later, I’m patrolling the galleries, contemplating how to steal one of the museum’s smallest paintings, when a gray-haired volunteer accosts me.

“They’re standing too close to the paintings,” the old woman says as she points at a family inspecting an impressionist painting.

“They’re not touching it,” I point out. I adjust my face mask over my nose.

“They have to be at least two feet away from the art at all times,” she snarls.

“Do you have a tape measure?” I ask.

This is not the correct response. The volunteer promptly reports me to my supervisor.

“Mona Garret says that you are not enforcing museum policy,” my supervisor tells me in the break room. He is a tired-looking man, so overweight I worry he will have a cardiac event in front of me.

“I’m not sure why she would say that. I always follow museum policy,” I wrinkle my eyebrows to show the appropriate amount of concern. Emoting is challenging when wearing a face mask.

“She said that you were being disrespectful.”

“I hold her in the highest of regards,” I shrug. “Mona is extremely diligent.” I’m telling the truth. Mona is a bitter divorcee determined to spread her dissatisfaction with her life to the general public. I respect anyone with that level of pettiness.

“Maybe she wouldn’t be so hostile if you removed your mask,” my supervisor suggests.

“I have asthma and need extra protection against airborne illness,” I say. “You can ask HR. It’s in my file.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Just try to stay clear of her.”

It’s Mona herself who inspires my plan. The museum is a popular place for wedding proposals. People choose proposal locations based on how they wish to be perceived. Propose while hiking, and you’re sporty and outdoorsy; propose on an international trip, and you’re an adventurous traveler; propose at the museum, and you’re intelligent and cultured. According to Instagram, Edward Tuttle proposed to his wife at a restaurant, which shows he is an unimaginative knob.

When yet another intelligent and cultured couple gets engaged in front of an Art Nouveau painting of Aphrodite, Mona stomps over to me.

“You need to put a stop to this,” she insists.

“How’s this against museum policy?” I ask.

“It’s causing a disturbance and disrupting the other patron’s viewing experience,” she hisses as the other patrons clap for the happy couple.

“Yes, these people seem to be experiencing too much joy and love,” I agree. “It is disturbing.”

“He could set off confetti or smoke bombs,” she insists. “He should have gotten approval.” I suspect she is confusing a proposal with a gender reveal, but I say nothing. Mona leaves to break up the happy couple, and I inspect my painting.

My piece is a small oil painting of a water pitcher on a table. It was painted in the studio of a famous Renaissance artist, so when one of his apprentices was painting it, he may or may not have sneezed on it. Also, it was never stolen by Nazis during World War II, which is why it stays on the wall. I want it because it is near the exit and it can fit into a grocery bag.

The painting is worth millions, but the money means nothing to me. Nearly two years ago, I sold an app I developed for twenty million dollars. My app uses AI to help cable companies answer customer service questions.

After Mona kicks the happy couple out, I walk from my painting to the exit, timing myself. It takes twenty seconds to get from the painting to the door, not including the time to get it off the wall. I need to test the security’s response time.

I walk around the building, looking for some teenagers. I find a group horsing around near a painting. Walking past, I furtively bump the loudest boy with my hip. He goes flying, arms flailing into the frame, knocking the thing askew. I press the stopwatch on my phone and wait as the alarms go off. Orders come screaming over my walkie-talkie, but they are garbled and confusing. It takes a minute and ten seconds for another security guard to arrive. We cannot touch the painting, so we guard it until the conservationists arrive. Security takes the boy’s statement and information and then kicks him out. He protests, but no one listens, as he is clearly roughhousing on the security video. 

After work, I sit on the bus thinking. I take the bus three stops, get off, and then walk two blocks to my car. I never drive my SUV to the museum. Instead of going home, I drive to the state line, where I find a place to buy smoke bombs. I wear my face mask and pay in cash, though I needn’t have bothered. These aren’t the type of people to keep customer records and are even less the type to give those records to the government. Still, I park half a mile away and show them Edward’s ID.

The only thing left to do is wait. I don’t have to wait long. Another intelligent and cultured couple appears a few days later. While he is down on one knee, I go to the dead zone. I pull the string on the smoke bombs and toss them in the general direction of the couple. I drop another at my feet and then go to my painting. People around me are shouting and rushing around while I clip the wire behind the painting and carry it back to the dead zone. My heart pounds as I take the grocery bag from behind a bench and slide the painting into it. I then walk toward the exit, security guards running past.

“Fire!” I shout as I walk briskly toward the door. Now, security’s job is to ensure everyone exits the building safely. The patrons, staff, and security guards all run toward the doors. I am swept up by the crowd and out onto the sidewalk before I can blink. People are fleeing, running into traffic in their haste. I run down the block, where I have a bike locked to a fence post. I unlock it and strip off the sweater that identifies me as a security guard. I take my walkie-talkie and throw it into the storm sewer. Then I ride. I ride the four miles to my SUV with the bag bumping against my wheel.

When I get to my SUV, I pull out an RFID scanner. Sure enough, there’s a locator chip hidden in the frame. I remove it, tossing it into the hood of a parked car. I look around to see if anyone has seen me, but this is not a nice neighborhood, and no one here has a door camera.

I drive twenty miles to the storage locker I rented weeks ago and put the painting in one of the empty boxes stacked inside. It will stay there until I decide whether to use it to frame Edward or hang it in my bathroom.

I go home and watch the news. The heist is all anyone is talking about. Edward Tuttle is arrested. He is taken from the pickup line at his children’s school. He works from home, so he has no alibi. He probably shouldn’t have bragged about that on LinkedIn. The police believe he had an accomplice, but there’s no evidence. Edward may or may not be convicted, but I don’t care. He has lost his job, and his wife is leaving him. She announces it on Facebook, with a link to a GoFundMe for moving expenses.

After several weeks, I go to the storage locker and collect the painting. It looks fantastic on the wall across from my toilet, and I can look at it while I sit. Edward Tuttle does not go to prison, though he spends an absurd amount of money staying out of it. It’s enough for me.

I look on Facebook for Mona Garret. Most of her posts are pictures of her house, which she hopes to leave to her daughter when she passes. I open a new tab and start researching how to flood a house.