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Stolen guitars are retrieved by police. A bit of legwork, musicians and luck assist
By David Giffels
Beacon Journal staff writer
Published on Friday, Nov 30, 2007
He knew he was tempting fate, but he didn't trust his memory.
Gerard Dominick had to drop off two of his bass guitars Wednesday morning for minor repairs and he was afraid he'd forget. So Tuesday night, he slid the long cases into the back of his van, parked outside his house on North Hill.
He knew he was ignoring the mantra of his bandmate, Colin John — ''Never keep your s--- in your van overnight'' — but he figured just this once, he'd be safe.
He was wrong. He knew it almost immediately as he headed out of the house to leave for work Wednesday morning. He could see before he reached the door that the van had been ransacked. His stomach tightened; his heart sank. Both basses were gone, along with photographs, a power converter, a box of microphones.
Dominick, 44, is a fixture in Akron's rock scene. He has played in a number of bands since the 1980s, a rare, committed soul who has been able to work consistently as a musician in a city not particularly conducive to the profession. His day job as a graphics and creative consultant for a Web design company — 4TECHWORK in the Montrose area — is highly flexible, allowing him to tour constantly with the Colin John Band, a blues-rock trio that plays all over the place. They started this month in Hawaii, and they'll end tonight with a club show in Columbus.
Dominick is hard to miss — a barrel-chested 6-foot-4, 285-pounder with a brooding gaze and a Fu Manchu beard. He looks like a professional wrestler, and he has an oversize, outgoing personality to match. He jokingly calls himself the ''Master of Disaster'' because of all the crazy adventures he's had over the years playing in bands.
But now the nickname had taken a bitter taste.
As he stood there in the chilly morning, three thoughts occurred:
1. Colin was right.
2. He felt sorry for the crooks if he ever got hold of them.
3. He would turn to the people he trusted the most — his friends and fellow musicians.
Musicians are a close-knit group by nature, and Dominick is a natural-born networker. By mid-morning Wednesday, he'd filed a police report and sent out a mass e-mail to a dense list of contacts, reporting what had happened and describing the guitars — both Ibanez five-string basses with black finish, each worth upwards of $1,000.
''Please,'' he implored, ''call me if you come across someone trying to sell the guitars.''
There was a natural empathy — musicians who play in public always have to worry about their gear being stolen; the idea of it happening to someone else hits close to home. Almost immediately, the e-mail forwarding process took over, the network spreading across the region and beyond. One musician friend notified the Guitar Center chain, which sent descriptions of the guitars to 230 stores nationwide.
But deep down, it was hard for Dominick to believe he'd ever see the basses again.
Following what he calls ''a whim from watching way too many episodes of Law & Order,'' he decided to go up to the corner pawnshop — Pawnbrokers of America on North Main Street — and tell them to be on the lookout. The woman behind the counter, Theresa Joseph, said he could leave a description of the guitars. Dominick chatted with her as he wrote down the details. As he finished and looked up from the paper, two men walked through the door.
One of them was carrying his guitar case.
He blinked.
He looked back at Joseph.
''That's it,'' he whispered. ''That's my bass.''
The story here turns into what Dominick describes as ''COPS meets Reno 911! meets the Darwin Awards.''
Rather than take matters into his own very capable hands, he eased away from the counter, acting like a regular customer, allowing the two strangers to take his place. Behind their back, he mimed to another employee, Dave Johnson, to call the police.
Dominick took a post near the door — no one was going to get past him — and Joseph coolly followed the lead, stalling for time by looking up prices on the guitar. Johnson slipped into the back room and called Akron Police Detective Paul Bralek, who has regular contact with pawnshops over stolen goods.
It was obvious to the employees that the man with the long black case knew nothing about what he was trying to pawn, but they kept him talking. At one point, as he lifted the guitar from the case, he spotted Dominick's business card lying there, and slipped it into his pocket.
Within 10 minutes, Bralek arrived and began asking about the guitar. The man, Sydney Jiles, claimed he'd found it by a trash can on Blaine Avenue. But the detective knew who he was dealing with — Jiles, 49, has a long rap sheet stretching back to 1988.
When Bralek asked for identification, Jiles pulled several cards from his pocket. Bralek pointed to the top one.
''Who's Gerard Dominick?'' he asked.
''I am,'' came the gruff baritone from the man still stationed near the door.
Dominick stepped forward. He'd been listening to the lies. His temper was starting to slip.
''I really wanted to play Mr. Potato Head with him for a few minutes,'' he admitted, ''removing body parts and replacing them in hilarious locations.''
Bralek calmed him.
Meanwhile, the man who'd entered with Jiles had been watching all this from a slight distance, slowly inching toward the door. Dominick saw him slip away and told the detective, who stepped outside, wrote down the departing car's description and plate number, and radioed it in.
Jiles' story quickly started to crumble and soon lay in shambles. Police arrested him and he's in the Summit County Jail on charges of receiving stolen goods.
Meanwhile, an officer who heard the call spotted the car driving through North Hill and followed to see where it was headed.
As it turns out, that officer, Paul Hooper, also plays guitar in Dropgun, a rock band made up of Akron cops, and he's a friend of Dominick's. He had received Dominick's e-mail about the missing guitars that very morning. But he had no idea at the time he was helping out a friend.
The driver he was following was Jiles' brother, who police said was not involved with the crime. The trail led them to Jiles' mother's house nearby. Police asked her if there was another guitar in the house. She said she'd check, went up to the bedroom where Jiles was staying, and there it was.
By that afternoon, Dominick had both basses back, although he's still searching for the missing microphones.
For all the unlikely coincidences — and yes, he has a barroom tale that should be good for at least the next 20 years — he's left with a more significant realization.
By Thursday morning, he'd received more than 60 e-mails from musicians he knows and musicians he's never met, a community of people who were willing to help with loaned gear, calls to music stores — whatever he needed.
One fellow musician even called Pawnbrokers of America — with no idea of the strange turn of events there — to alert them about the stolen basses.
Dominick has resolved to return the favor to any that need it. And to listen to the bandleader's advice:
Never leave your s--- in the van.
David Giffels is a Beacon Journal columnist. He can be reached at 330-996-3572 or at dgiffels@thebeaconjournal.com.
He knew he was tempting fate, but he didn't trust his memory.
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