Stupid criminal tricks

Column

Let us stipulate at the outset that Todd Eugene Helms has yet to be found guilty of anything. That said, we'll grant you his situation is sticky.

Dade City police have reason to believe Helms, of Zephyrhills, systematically swiped, over an eight-month period interrupted by his arrest Wednesday, assorted items used in the upkeep of Pasco Middle School, where he was a custodian. Among the allegedly pilfered pieces, subsequently pawned: a leaf blower, a gas-powered hedge trimmer and, in a feat of astonishing boldness, an E-Z-Go golf cart.

We reiterate: Helms is merely a suspect, and even happily married husbands know how the process of becoming a suspect often goes horribly awry — although we trust local authorities employ stricter standards of evidence than the overzealous spouses of our acquaintance.

According to published reports, Helms pawned and redeemed the blower and the trimmer repeatedly, making it sound as if he was using school property as collateral for bridge loans. No harm, no foul, right?

In fact, the repetitive under-the-radar mischief described by police would scarcely have served as a proper springboard for the occasional feature we're initiating this very Super Bowl Sunday — Stupid Criminal Tricks — but, hey, it's difficult to overlook the wackiness required to make off with a middle school's golf cart.

I mean, right up to the alleged E-Z-Go caper, the accusations against Helms describe a comparative criminal genius, an easy-come mastermind. Compared to, for instance, 31-year-old Christopher Scott Schlidt, an unemployed Wisconsonite who arrived in Hudson in the autumn of 2010 behind the wheel of a stolen black 2001 Honda Civic.

Schlidt had gotten along largely without incident, it seems, until he not only managed to get lost in Connerton just before 2 a.m. last July 7, but he approached an off-duty Pasco County detective for directions.

Things unraveled quickly when it turned out Schlidt sought a nonexistent street; he couldn't produce a driver's license; and that he'd fibbed about just then arriving from Ohio with a trunk full of luggage, which turned out to be a couple of sneakers and a single pair of pants.

While the deputy, Kenneth Gregory, ran the Honda's plates (stolen) and its vehicle identification number (ditto), Schlidt paced and smoked, then bolted. That didn't work out so well, either. Gregory summoned backup and, while a deputized dog named Bo sniffed out Schlidt's unimaginative hiding place — he was face down in tall grass a few hundred yards away — Gregory discovered in the Honda a handgun, a handcuff key, a steak knife and a pouch of marijuana.

Postscript: In December, Schlidt was found guilty of stealing the car, burglary and possession of marijuana.

Let this be a lesson to you, kids. If you're going to steal a car, steal a GPS, too.

As long as we're waxing instructive, here's another: Burglarizing cars is risky business, and your peers will understand if you swallow a valium to steady your hands. But if you down, say, seven, you may conk out right in the middle of carrying out your line of work, leaving you to explain to the authorities — as 26-year-old Christopher Joseph Acerra did last July 6 — "I do stupid things when I'm messed up."

Acerra, a Hudson resident sporting multiple tattoos, was discovered about 4:30 a.m. sawing logs in the passenger's seat of Christopher Thoms' Isuzu pickup truck, parked in its Timothy Lane driveway, its dashboard partially disassembled. Acerra explained he'd meant to get at the stereo, but then he dozed off.

The nap apparently awakened Acerra's confessional spirit. "I feel great!" he told deputies, leading them to his white Ford pickup, which revealed a lively inventory of power tools, personal electronics (including — would-be Schlidt copycats take note —assorted GPS systems), lawn maintenance gear, a digital camera and drug paraphernalia.

We could go on, and will at a future date. I mean, your neighbors in astonishing numbers tirelessly rack up ill-considered foolishness. And bringing it to your attention is both a public service and personally entertaining.

Listen, Sheriff Chris Nocco takes tales like these everywhere he goes. "Then there was the guy," he says, "who walks up to me — I'm in uniform, right? — and says, 'Hey, I'm new in town. Could you point me to the nearest pain clinic?'"

See there? Why should Nocco have all the fun?