Chapter Eight – The CRA Game

 By now Unknown’s tone had shifted. The Threema messages came faster, almost eager, as though the scammer had been waiting all day for Janet to sit with her burner phone.


Unknown: This one was art. Clean, simple, and terrifying.


Janet Brown: What year are we in?


Unknown: 2015. The tax scam. You’ve heard of it.


Janet leaned back, fingers poised. She’d read hundreds of reports, but now she wanted the anatomy straight from the source.


Unknown: I’d call a senior, voice clipped, professional. “This is the Canada Revenue Agency. Our records show you owe $2,500. If payment is not made immediately, we will take legal action.”


Unknown: The trick was the callback number. I gave them a line that routed right back to me. So when they dialed to confirm, it looked and sounded like CRA. I even had hold music.


Janet Brown: And they believed it?


Unknown: Of course. I made sure they were scared. “We will freeze your accounts. We will send officers to your door.” Fear opens wallets faster than pity ever could.


Janet Brown: How did you pick them?


Unknown: Same method as before — mailing lists, property records, cross-checks. But here I refined it: I searched for seniors who’d filed late or had small penalties on record. Public court dockets will show that. If someone’s already afraid of the taxman, they’re primed to obey.


Janet’s pulse quickened. He—she—had just admitted to mining court records. Another breadcrumb.


Unknown: Once they were hooked, I directed them to a retailer — Walmart, Shoppers, even Best Buy. “Buy gift cards,” I’d say. “This is how CRA processes urgent collections.” Most didn’t blink.


Janet Brown: And once the cards were bought?


Unknown: The sweetest part. Scratch the back, read me the numbers, peel off the security seals. I sold the codes in bulk — sometimes overseas, sometimes to a broker around the corner. Quick cash. No paper trail.


Unknown: One woman did it in tears. She read every digit like she was confessing sins. Two-five-hundred gone in twenty minutes.


Janet tasted iron on her tongue but kept her fingers steady. Her father’s warning hummed in her head: Don’t let the disgust leak through.


Janet Brown: Didn’t you worry they’d tell their family or call the police?


Unknown: Shame does half the work. Who admits to their kids that they handed over gift cards like an idiot? They keep it to themselves. Always quiet.


Janet stared at the glowing green dot. Each boast felt like another knife. She breathed, wrote down the detail, and waited for the next crack to appear.


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