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21 year old Virginia man is recruited over the internet by the 'Defense Intelligence Agency' to rob banks in order to test police response times
May 26, 2013
H. Torres
In a white-walled interrogation room in a small Virginia police station last June, two detectives were trying to get Herson Torres to crack. Surveillance video tied him to two attempted bank robberies in the area during the past week. The skinny 21-year-old didn’t have a criminal record and seemed nervous, but he wasn’t talking. The detectives showed him pictures of his brother and father. They told Torres he could be sent to prison for as many as 25 years.
H. Torres
“If I tell you, you’re not going to believe me,” Torres said. He was crying as he told them an incredible story about being recruited by the Defense Intelligence Agency to participate in a secret operation testing the security of Washington-area banks. He said he’d been assigned to rob a half-dozen banks over four days. And he told them about Theo, the man who hired him and gave all the orders—even though Torres had never met him.
Angry, his interrogators accused him of making up a ridiculous story. Still, Torres persuaded them to look at the text and e-mail messages on his cell phone; he also gave them the password to his Facebook account and urged them to retrieve a copy of the Defense Intelligence Agency immunity letter from his glove compartment. The police locked up Torres on a charge of attempted robbery and examined the evidence. By the end of the night, they weren’t sure what was going on, but they suspected Torres might be telling the truth.
Torres’s unlikely entry into the covert world of retail bank security testing had begun seven days earlier, he said. He had returned home from unloading trucks at Target when his phone lit up with a text message from an old friend. “Hey, I got this job for you where you’re going to get paid 25K,” Carolina Villegas wrote. “Doing what?” Torres asked. “Robbing banks,” she texted.
Torres started laughing. “Is this a joke?” he wondered. Soon Villegas was on the phone explaining that it was a government job. And it was legal.
The thought of making $25,000 was seductive to Torres, who was earning $11 an hour at Target. Since graduating from high school in 2008, Torres, who goes by the nickname Geo, hadn’t changed much. He spent most of his time hanging out with friends, collecting Batman comic books, and working part-time jobs. Twenty-five thousand dollars would be enough to start community college and move out of his parents’ house.
Three hours after talking to Villegas, Torres was climbing into her gray Jeep Cherokee in a Dick’s Sporting Goods parking lot in Bailey’s Crossroads, Va. He hadn’t seen her since high school, though the two had been chatting on Facebook recently. Villegas was a supply specialist in the U.S. Army Reserve and also worked as a cashier at a Carter’s baby clothing store, according to Torres, police, and the military. (Villegas declined to comment for this story.) When Torres arrived, Villegas was talking on her phone while writing down text messages. She was wearing a black glove on her right hand. Her Army fatigues and combat boots were in the back seat.
Villegas introduced Torres to the man on the phone, Theo. He didn’t offer a last name. Theo said he worked for the government and was recruiting Torres to test the defenses of Washington-area banks. The plan was simple: Theo would tell him which bank to target, and Torres would give a manager a note demanding money. Armed security officers, threats to call the police, or a wait that exceeded five minutes would be cause to flee. If he left with money, he’d be paid $25,000. Successful or not, he was guaranteed $2,500 for taking part. Torres would deliver any money recovered to a location near Richmond. If arrested, Torres should stay silent. Federal authorities would get him out in 24 hours.
“Is this real?” Torres asked. Theo was reassuring: The entire operation was government-approved. Torres was even vetted before being approached, Theo said, mentioning a misdemeanor theft charge against Torres for stealing from a J.C. Penney store when he was 15.
Torres said he was in. To his surprise, the operation started immediately. He put on the hooded sweatshirt Villegas had asked him to bring, and she drove him to a strip mall three miles away. The hoodie would hide his face and cover the ambigram-style “Breathe Music” tattoo on his forearm.
Torres was sweating as he entered the SunTrust branch in Alexandria, Va. As Theo instructed, Torres wore a single black glove to avoid leaving fingerprints. Keeping his head down, he handed the manager the note: “I need your help. I need money. My family is being held hostage and a bomb will go off at 4:30 if you don’t help. Don’t call the police or the FBI.”
When the manager said the only way he could help was by alerting the police, Torres hurried out. Villegas was in her car with Theo’s next assignment: a Capital One branch five miles away.
After concluding Torres was serious, the manager there asked him to wait a few minutes. Torres watched as the manager herded the other employees behind the teller window. Realizing things weren’t going according to plan, he sprinted through the parking lot to where Villegas was waiting.
“I think he called the feds. We’ve got to bounce,” Torres said. Theo was listening—Villegas had him on speakerphone. He ordered them to proceed to the next bank. As they drove away, police cars sped by in the opposite direction. A helicopter buzzed in the distance.
“Go hide out. I’ll get the helicopter off your back,” Theo said calmly. While keeping Torres and Villegas on the line, he called the Fairfax County police to lead them astray, saying he’d seen the robbery suspect get into a gray Ford Focus. Theo then ordered Villegas and Torres to hide in parking garages for the rest of the day; several hours later he told them they were cleared to go home.
Hearing Theo lie to the Fairfax County police gave Torres pause. “Is this really happening? Is this what’s going down?” he wondered. But he had to admit that the day was fun: “Something about it—I went in, I came out, I was running. It felt good.”
That night, Villegas called Torres with instructions from Theo: More banks tomorrow. Bring friends. Torres was scheduled to work, but Villegas said it wasn’t a problem: Theo would take care of it. After a call to Target and a faxed doctor’s note, Torres was free to focus on his new job.
When Torres tried to recruit some friends and his brother for the mission, no one believed him—until Villegas gave him the letter from Theo. The document, on Defense Intelligence Agency stationery, explained that the agency was conducting “Operation Downstrike” with the help of “civilian volunteers” who “will be immune from civil and criminal action.” The letter helped persuade Torres’s brother-in-law to join Villegas and Torres on Wednesday to attempt more robberies. Torres stashed a copy of the letter in his glove compartment.
As the three drove from bank to bank along the Capital Beltway, Theo was on the phone giving a critique of the previous day. He said Torres had left fingerprints on the Capital One door and the branch had captured his picture. “Don’t worry,” Theo said. “I’m going to fix that.” Theo said he was looking into getting the men government-impounded cars to use for the bank jobs. He also said he might be able to find Torres a permanent government job.
Neither of the two robbery attempts on Wednesday succeeded. Theo called Torres that night and said Villegas wouldn’t be available the rest of the week, though the operation needed to continue with additional operatives.
The following day, Torres and his brother-in-law entered a BB&T bank in Alexandria. It was packed, so the pair quickly left without making an attempt.
On Friday, Torres made what would be his last—and worst—attempt. He, a cousin, a friend, and his brother-in-law tried to rob the same BB&T branch. It was again busy.
While Torres waited in his Honda Civic, the other three entered the bank unarmed. Mayie Libby, a BB&T account manager, knew right away the men were robbers—and inexperienced ones. They wore baseball caps and hooded sweatshirts despite the 85F weather. They demanded money but hadn’t brought a bag. As Libby went behind the counter for money—and a bag—two of the men fled, diving into the waiting Civic. Torres was on the phone with Theo as police cars screamed into the parking lot. “Theo, I don’t know where these cops are coming from. I need a getaway,” Torres said. Theo told him he was looking up safe houses, but Torres didn’t wait. He sped home, leaving his cousin inside the bank to be questioned by police.
Friday night a detective called Torres. He hung up and called Theo, who told him to hide out. Torres fled to a friend’s house. A few hours later, Theo sent him a text message: “You’re in the clear.” Tuesday evening police entered Torres’s home and, mistaking the remote control in his hand for a gun, drew their weapons and brought him in.
Six hours after Torres was arrested, Detective John Vickery of the Fairfax County police got a call on his cell phone from an unfamiliar number with an Oregon area code. It was Theo. “Where is he? What have you done with him?” he demanded. “You can’t make people disappear—only we can.”
Theo told Vickery he was a federal agent working with the Central Intelligence Agency. He requested a meeting with Vickery and his supervisors, whose names he knew, promising to explain the operation. He used law enforcement terminology and familiar acronyms and appeared to understand security clearances. But his demands for the meeting, such as not wanting to go through the police department’s metal detector, didn’t make sense to Vickery, a 20-year veteran of the force. “When we do deal with the CIA, we usually go to them,” he said. “We didn’t know whether we were dealing with a federal agent or a nut.”