openpolitics.com

Tom Justice was once a cyclist chasing
Olympic gold. Then he began using his bike
for a much different purpose: robbing banks.

The street was empty: no cars, no pedestrians. Suddenly the man spotted a police officer riding a four-wheel ATV. Squeezing the shopping bag, he settled into a relaxed gait. As the ATV approached, the robber smiled and waved hello, as would anyone who had not just knocked over a bank. Returning a stiff nod, the officer kept rolling. And so did the man, descending into a parking garage.

Not 60 seconds later, he emerged, carrying an aluminum bicycle on one shoulder and a messenger bag over the other and wearing a red, white, and blue spandex bodysuit, a silver helmet, sunglasses with yellow lenses, and a pair of cycling shoes. He climbed onto the bike, clicked into the pedals, and began to ride leisurely. It had been less than three minutes since he exited the bank

.. He found a job as a social worker overseeing homeless schizophrenics. Helping people was a welcome distraction from his own issues. But after a while, it felt like a pointless slog — one with no finish line and no congratulations. As Tom’s Olympic dream slipped away, he started fantasizing about identities he could substitute for the thrilling instant gratification of cycling. He made a list, hidden by his bed:

helicopter pilot
lock picker
priest
EMT

.. As he walked to the American National Bank branch, teenage girls in a passing car catcalled. Tom pointed back like the Fonz retorting Aaay! He stopped at a pay phone and placed an anonymous call to the Libertyville Police Department headquarters, a mere two blocks from his target.

“Yeah, hi, I’m at Adler Park. There’s a man with a rifle walking around the woods.”

“Thank you, sir, we’ll check it out,” said the voice on the other end. One less patrol car near the bank.

silver-haired 60-something held the door when Tom arrived. As Tom approached a teller, she perked up immediately. Halloween had apparently come early this year. Then the love child of Rick James and Jackie O handed her an index card but wouldn’t let go. Tom had no intention of leaving behind evidence. As an awkward tug of war ensued, the teller leaned in and read the message. Tense, she stared into Tom’s dark sunglasses. He slid his white plastic bag across the counter, and she loaded it up with cash.

.. After bunny-hopping gracefully into the street, Tom casually cycled back to his parents’ circular driveway. Next door lived Pat and Denise Carey, who had moved in the previous spring. The 47-year-old Pat was a meticulous mower, changing directions each week for a more uniform cut. He was also Libertyville’s chief of police.

Tom parked his bike in the garage, kicked off his shoes, and tiptoed into the basement. He knew he’d never be able to tell anyone about this. Still, he wasn’t remorseful. Banks are insured, and he didn’t care about the money anyway. He’d choreographed, costumed, and delivered a flawless performance. His getaway vehicle was poetic. A sense of euphoria overwhelmed him. Years later, he’d compare the rush of robbing banks to the sensation of drinking four cups of coffee and taking an intensely hot shower while holding back the urge to pee. It had been a long time since Tom felt this alive — or this important

.. When FBI agents arrive at a crime scene, they start with the details: how a suspect dressed and acted, what was said, how a note was written, whether a weapon was brandished. All these pieces fit together to create what former special agent William Rehder calls a “signature.”

.. It would be many months before Tom Justice would even be considered for a nickname by the FBI. Armed robbers and violent offenders are the agency’s top priority. And Tom had perpetrated just one nonviolent “note job” for a haul of $5,580. He wasn’t going to draw heat, especially when the FBI was handling a record 171 bank robberies in the Chicago area in 1998. For now, Tom would stay under the radar. And he took precautions to keep it that way.

.. On October 27, 1999, nearly one year to the day after his first robbery, Tom hit the Lake Forest branch of Northern Trust. He wore a similar disguise and used his bike to escape with $3,247. This time he put the $20 and $100 bills into paper bags and discarded them in alleys where he knew homeless people would find them. He took all the $2 bills and hid them in the bushes outside his apartment. The Eastern European superintendent had two kids who used to play in the courtyard. Tom watched from his second-floor living room window as they discovered the money and screamed and giggled. Robbing banks and giving away the money was intoxicating. Tom saw himself as both mischievous and righteous.

But as time passed, that feeling faded. Tom’s real life seemed mediocre and unfulfilling. He wrestled with depression. And so he returned to the one thing that would instantly lift his spirits.

.. As the harsh winter winds blew off Lake Michigan, the streets became icy and impossible to navigate by bike. Cooped up that January, Tom brooded miserably, unable to shake the realization that at 29, his window of opportunity to become a world-class cyclist had nearly passed. If he wanted to pursue his Olympic dream, he had to do it now.

.. But the monotony of training was setting in, and Tom’s promise to himself was soon forgotten. His secret identity — and the instant rush that only a robbery could provide — called to him.

.. He pocketed all the $5s and $1s and left the $20s inside public restrooms and port-a-potties at beaches. He didn’t need the money.

.. Then one morning, Tom awoke in the Turret and found he couldn’t move. An intense pain surged through his lower back. He’d thrown it out overtraining. It would take hours before he could even get to his feet — and weeks before he could pedal without waking up in agony the day after. Muscle spasms kept causing his body to contort. His right shoulder was two inches higher than his left. His plan to race in the Olympic trials was over.

Soon after he returned to Chicago, Laura dumped Tom for good. He had changed. He wasn’t merely devastated about missing the trials; he was colder, more distant, and secretive. “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” she said. “But I know it’s not right.”

.. Tom couldn’t resist. Sharing an apartment with a beat cop while committing federal felonies was an insane proposition. But with no girlfriend, no job, and no Olympics, all he had left was his unrelenting desire to feel exceptional, to prove to himself that he was too clever to get caught.

.. Once his lower back recovered, Tom robbed the LaSalle Bank in Highland Park — the heist in which he dumped his $4,009 haul in a park trash can. The next week, he hit three banks in three days, and it didn’t always go smoothly.Outside a Bank One in Evanston, a dye pack exploded in his bag, ruining all the cash. Later that day, he hit an Edens Bank in Wilmette, where a heavyset 50-something teller took one look at Tom’s note and harshly scolded him in a Slavic language. She pointed sternly at Tom, who quickly fled without any money. The third robbery, at a Harris Bank in Wilmette, was a success, but when Tom rode up to his apartment, he saw two cop cars parked on the front lawn. His heart sunk — until he realized it was just his roommate, George. Tom went upstairs to his room, where he hid the $4,244 he’d stolen. George had no clue his roommate had just knocked over his 13th bank.

Two months later, Tom robbed the Bank of Northern Illinois in Libertyville. Chief Carey, who’d spent that winter helping blow snow from his neighbor Jay Justice’s driveway, didn’t have any leads — and neither did the FBI. The most interesting aspect of the robber’s MO — his getaway vehicle — was still unknown.

.. No one suspected Tom, and so he grew cocky. Once, at a nightclub, he met a 20-something brunette in a midnight-blue cocktail dress. Tom couldn’t believe it when he learned she was a U.S. marshal. On the dance floor, as loud club music pulsed, she smiled playfully.

“So what do you do?” she yelled.

“I rob banks.” He grinned and continued dancing.

She nodded and kept dancing, too.

.. Working out of a cluttered garage in a suburban industrial park, Steelman built only 50 bicycles per year. He charged $2,500 just for the frame. Given the demand, he maintained a growing waitlist. If potential customers didn’t strike his fancy, Steelman would decline them. This, of course, increased the cachet of owning a Steelman. As nearby Silicon Valley inflated with disposable income, Steelman bikes reached cult status.

.. Higher Gear’s club riders all wore matching red, white, and blue spandex. One day, the bike shop’s manager mentioned to Tom that a local rider was selling a used Steelman, a 12-speed road bike built in 1996. Since Tom’s bike had been stolen, he was looking for a replacement. The Steelman would be a welcome upgrade.

.. On group rides with the Higher Gear team, Tom was easy to spot atop his bright orange bicycle. Other riders consistently complimented the Steelman. It was, without question, the nicest bicycle Tom had ever owned. And not once did he ever ponder which was more amusing — a bike builder named Steelman or a bank robber named Justice.