Asking Questions

We bought our house in Minnesota almost 10 years ago. Planning to do a complete remodel, I gutted every room in the house.
Naturally, while they were open, I tried to think of everything that should go inside the walls. I ran new plumbing, wiring, and ducts for the heat, air conditioning, and exhaust fans. We ran cable for TV and USB ports in nearly every room. I even remembered running a cable to hardwire the smoke detectors and a waterline for the ice maker in the refrigerator.
I thought I’d thought of everything, but it didn’t even occur to me to run wiring for a doorbell.
Ironically, we’ve never used the TV cables; they run through the internet now. Nobody connects computers to the internet with wires anymore; everything is wireless. So, I ran a bunch of cables for nothing, but we could use a doorbell.
In hindsight, why would we need a doorbell? We live on the edge of being in the sticks with only a few neighbors, and bears don’t ring doorbells; they just come in through a window if they want inside. Besides, even the doorbells with fancy cameras and security systems are wireless these days. We have a wireless doorbell: Nova Mae.
Instead of a porch camera, our wireless doorbell has two eyes and fantastic ears. Nova alerts us if anyone comes on the property or pulls in the driveway; she even lets us know if someone is in the street. Nova Mae tells us when the mail is here, when the garbage truck has arrived, and when a delivery truck is at the house.
Nova has an assistant for 24-hour security: Edgar Allan. Our black cat takes the night watch, letting us know if a raccoon is robbing the birdfeeder on the deck or if the neighbor’s cat is prowling around the yard. Between the two of them, we are very well protected.
The other day, I ran to the post office in town to mail some cookies to a friend. Nova Mae came along for the ride and wanted to go inside with me. “You have to wait here in the van, baby girl,” I told her. 
As I walked away from the van carrying the package of cookies, Nova barked several times to express her disapproval of my decision. She thought I baked the cookies for her and was not happy that I was sending them away. When I returned to the van, she was acting strangely, as if she had done something, but I didn’t pay much attention and drove home. 
About ten minutes after I got home, Nova gave two soft, low woofs while looking out the bay window into the driveway. This indicates a low-threat visitor. I looked out the front window and a black Dodge sedan with silver letting on the door was in our driveway. “Silver Bay Police? What are the city police doing all the way out here,” I asked. I looked at Nova Mae, “You better not have done something in the van just because I wouldn’t let you go into the post office!” When I’m driving, if a cop turns around or pulls out behind me, I don’t make them chase me; I pull over. I guess the same is true at home.
When the officer got out of his car, I stepped out onto the front porch. “Hello,” I said, walking down the front steps toward the driveway to greet him. Are you supposed to be way out here?”
 
“Not normally, but I have a reason today,” he said, then asked, “Are you Thomas?” Crap. It’s seldom good when a cop, a school teacher, or your mom calls you by your formal first name.
I gave my routine, smart-aleck answer, “It depends. Do I owe you money?” We shared a good laugh about that, and then I told him, “I am, but you can call me Tom. What can I do for you?”
“Is there something you did or didn’t do that you can think of,” he asked.
When I was in town, I did a rolling stop at Davis Street and Outer Drive, about a block from the police department, but I doubted he saw it, and certainly, he wouldn’t follow me seven miles out of town for that. Maybe someone complained that I left my dog in the van, but the temperature was in the forties, so Nova was not in danger. I drew a blank. “If you give me a clue what you’re talking about, I can probably come up with a confession or an alibi.”
“Do you have a Facebook account,” he asked. I told him I did. “Have you been in New York lately,” he asked. It was raining, and I could tell he was serious. I looked at the name on his uniform. Sean Bergman
“Would you like to step up on the porch and talk, Sean, to get out of the rain?”
Under the roof on the porch, Officer Bergman again asked, “Have you been to New York lately or communicated with anyone in New York?”
I explained, “I have a lot of friends I’ve met through social media, and I do communicate with them through comments on posts, but I don’t know if I’ve talked to anyone specifically in New York.”
He named a person (I don’t remember the name): “Do you know Jane Smith, or does her name mean anything to you?” I told him it did not. He asked, “How many Facebook profiles do you have?”
“I only have one profile,” I answered. I felt a bit suspect, “Can you tell me what this is all about?”
“A lady reported getting messages through Facebook, saying that you had been kidnapped in New York, and if she didn’t send ten thousand dollars, they were going to feed you to the fish,” Officer Bergman explained. “She said the messages were coming from your Facebook account. They even sent her a recorded message.” He played the message for me, but I couldn’t even understand what the man said. “Obviously, that is not your voice,” he said. “And you only have one profile?”
When I confirmed that I had only one profile, Sean pulled it up on his phone. “This is your profile photo and your page, correct?” he asked, scrolling through the page.
“It sure looks like my page,” I said.
The officer continued, “When I type your name into the search bar, three more pages appear under your name with your photos. Someone has lifted photos from your wall and created clone pages using your name.” I shook my head in disbelief.
“I’ve seen a lot of people get cloned,” I told Sean, “But I had no idea I’d been cloned – or kidnapped in New York, for that matter. Why would anyone want to clone me?”
I get friend requests from people who follow my stories; I don’t know many of these people, but I do know others. Or, at least, I think I know them. So, I am cautious when anyone sends me a friend request. I’ll reply, where did we meet, or where do you know me from if it’s someone I haven’t met yet? I can usually tell from their response if they are legitimate or not.
Just a few days before, I got a friend request from a person in Ottumwa whom I’ve known for over 30 years. The photos on the profile were definitely Don Phillips and he had pothers of himself and his wife, who I also know. It seemed legit, but still, I went through the same precautionary routine, asking where we met or where you knew me from.
Don replied, “Facebook suggested you for me to add, that’s why I sent the request. You look familiar also, but I’m not sure where we met.” That sounded suspicious. Don would know the answers. He used to live across the street from me, and our kids went to elementary school together. I'd worked with Don many times through the news department at the radio station, so I asked another question.
“Where do you work?”
Don replied, “Okay, I work as an expert in crypto trading….” Wow! A clone, for sure!
I looked up the real Don Phillips profile. He posted, “I’ve been cloned. Do not accept a friend request from me.” Double wow! It takes a lot of guts to clone Don Phillips, the Sheriff of Wapello County, Iowa. If these hackers will clone the sheriff’s profile, why would they even think twice about cloning me or anyone else?
Officer Bergman handed me a card with a web address. “You can go to this website to report the cloning,” he said. We said our farewells and he was on his way.
After Sean Bergman left, I spent time reflecting on his visit. Even though I briefly felt like a suspect, I was glad he was asking questions. He’s doing his job and keeping the community safe.
It can be a scary world out there. Facebook can be a fun place, but it's necessary for all to be vigilant and watch out for one another. Ask questions when you get a friend invite, and when you're confident it's legitimate, ask more questions.
I gave Nova Mae a rub on the head and a treat, too. “Thanks for the heads-up that someone was in the driveway. You're a lot better than any doorbell.” Be safe, my friends.