By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
By Michael Roberts
By Melanie Asmar
On April 6, Jeff Trott, the most industrious burglar in Colorado history, was sentenced to 32 years in prison. It was the maximum the judge could impose after Trott pleaded guilty to three counts of first-degree burglary -- a mere fraction of the more than 500 break-ins that he admits to having committed between 2001 to 2005, giving him a lifetime total of 3,500 burglaries, all in central Denver.
Along with his lock-picking skills, Trott's un-prepossessing appearance may have been his greatest tool. The balding 53-year-old's Nixon-era spectacles, nervous-rabbit demeanor and obsessive chatter made him seem more like an awkward algebra teacher than a second-story man. Often his burglary uniform was a tie, faded sport coat and medium-sized suitcase, in which the gentleman bandit would stash stolen goods that ranged from coin collections to DVDs. He never slashed cushions or dumped out drawers; when possible, he would lock up on the way out.
Trott was so careful that many of his victims didn't notice items were missing until weeks, months, even years later, when they were finally contacted by police. At his sentencing hearing, one woman said that if she'd known Trott was the one who'd swiped jewelry from her Denver apartment in 2002, she would now be married to the man she'd originally accused of the theft. So painstaking was Trott's technique that generations of Denver cops who tracked his crimes described his methodology with adjectives ordinarily reserved for a master craftsman: "prolific," "amazing," "unique."
Trott hoarded most of his loot packrat style, amassed floor to ceiling inside his cramped Capitol Hill apartment. Occasionally, he'd hock an item, fence it on eBay or even sell it to a close associate when he needed money. But otherwise he was careful not to draw attention to himself, even if it meant driving the same beater pickup and living life on the cheap.
Trott grew up in Colorado Springs and graduated from Cheyenne Mountain High School, where he was a decent student who enjoyed chess and foreign languages but would sway from obsessive to listless when it came to other interests. After arguing with his parents, he moved to Denver and got a job as a busboy. Making rent wasn't easy, so Trott signed up for a mail-order correspondence course in locksmithing -- and soon started using his new skills on the front doors of local houses. In his early twenties, he hooked up with some partners; they were busted after two dozen haphazard break-ins.
Trott spent a year in a Buena Vista reformatory, where he learned printmaking. On his release, he used his new skills to make money -- literally. He and a partner exchanged counterfeit dollar bills at change machines across the state until his pal was popped by police in 1979 with $12,000 in fakes. Officers were never able to pull together enough evidence to charge Trott. And by then, the 26-year-old was well on his way to perfecting a burglary system that would baffle investigators for a decade.
Trott's M.O. was to focus exclusively on large apartment buildings in Capitol Hill and other central Denver neighborhoods. From 1982 to 1991, police say, he burglarized at least a thousand apartments. (Trott himself puts the estimate at double that.) While most low-level thieves utilize variations on the smash-and-grab method, he never broke a window or kicked in a door. He would carefully pick the lock, enter quietly and take only a few items that could fit in his suitcase. Most often, this was camera equipment and jewelry, but he would also snag things that reflected his eccentric interests: ceramic figurines, stamp collections, textbooks. (Trott served as secretary of the Rocky Mountain Rock and Mineral Society.) But sometimes he'd walk out without anything at all.
"A lot of times I'd go in and they just didn't have anything worth stealing," he remembers. "And then there was a lot of vacants. I must've walked into 500 apartments that were totally empty."
This was partly because of the particular way he cased targets, which involved a lengthy observation of lighting patterns. Trott would begin by parking down the street from a high-rise apartment building, then take notes on a stack of 3x5 cards. "I would break it down by times of which lights were on, which were off, and which were dimly lit, like with only a kitchen or bathroom light," he explains. "I'd make notes for each. Then I'd come back seven hours later and do the same."
If an apartment's lights hadn't changed in 48 hours, Trott would slip inside the building and place small Mylar strips of plastic in the door jamb of that apartment. If the strips remained undisturbed for a day, that was a clue that the tenants were out of town, and it was a good time for Trott to pay a visit. But it could also mean that the apartment was unoccupied, which is why he hit so many vacant spaces.
Still, Trott's system worked well until 1991 -- when District 3 police officers arrested him. It took thirteen pickup trucks to clear the millions of dollars' worth of stolen goods from Trott's shabby duplex on Capitol Hill, which police likened to a pirate's treasure cave. The inventory of VCRs and shoeboxes filled to the brim with gold jewelry was so extensive that police displayed the goods flea-market style inside an auditorium so that victims could claim their belongings ("Stealing Home," May 29, 1991).