http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2016/may/17/sticky-fingers-rise-of-the-bee-thieves?utm_source=esp&utm_medium=Email&utm_campaign=GU+Today+USA+-+morning+briefing+2016&utm_term=172654&subid=8147431&CMP=ema_a-morning-briefing_b-morning-briefing_c-US_d-1

A stinging whoddunit

American beekeepers in California are dealing with the rise of a new kind of criminal: the bee rustler. Every year, at the height of the spring pollination season, dozens of nighttime thieves break into bee yards to steal hives.

Hunting down the thieves is a frustrating job for detective and beekeeper Rowdy Jay Freeman. Where dozens of humming boxes sit one day, there are “nothing but tire tracks in mud” the next, he said. “There are no witnesses out there in the country.”

As bees have become a billion-dollar business, the buzz in California is: who would try to steal them?

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Excerpt :

Tuesday 17 May 2016 01.00 EDT 

The bees crawled up the thief’s arms while he dragged their hive over a patch of grass and through a slit in the wire fence he had clipped minutes earlier. In the pitch dark, his face, which was not covered with a protective veil, hovered inches from the low hum of some 30,000 bees.

The thief squatted low and heaved the 30kg hive, about the size of a large office printer, up and on to the bed of his white GMC truck. He had been planning his crime for days. He knew bees – how to work them, how to move them, and most importantly, how to turn them into cash.

He ducked back through the fence to drag out a second box, “Johnson Apiaries” branded over the white paint. Then he went back for another. And another.

The Diablo Grande foothills edge the western side of California’s vast Central Valley. During the day you can see rolling pastures and an endless quilt of farmland. But at night, it is so dark that you are lucky to see your hand in front of your face. The thief thought there was almost no chance that a motorist would pass by, let alone one who would notice him.

Jerry Phillips, a night manager for the area’s water provider, spends his nights zooming between pump stations in the foothills. He knows every farmer and cowboy on the hill’s eight-mile stretch, including a local beekeeper named Orin Johnson. Johnson, who had been hit by bee thieves before, liked to alert potential witnesses. “If you see anybody in there in the middle of the night,” he had told Phillips, “it ain’t me.”

Sure enough, Phillips saw someone on his way down the parkway that night. He quickly phoned the nearby golf resort, which has its own roving security detail on the hill.

After the thief loaded the ninth hive, he sat behind the wheel, with the driver’s-side door open. The truck was far from full, and there were almost 100 more boxes behind the fence for him to choose from. That meant a lot of money. The exact value of a hive is not standard – it depends what you do with them – but nine hives can bring in about $5,000 in just one year. And they are worth considerably more in the hands of a capable beekeeper who can maintain them season after season.

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Suddenly, a wall of white light hit the thief from behind. He froze.

A security guard stood next to his patrol car’s spotlight, keeping his distance. The guard, whose name was Dre Castano, inched forward, wary of being ambushed. He thought there was no way just one guy had got all of those big boxes into the truck on his own.

The thief climbed out of the car and turned into the light. He stood there alone, his eyes glazed over and sullen. Maybe a drunk driver, Castano thought. He asked for the man’s ID.

Pedro Villafan, 5ft 2in tall, and 46 years old. He lived 20 minutes south, in Newman, another little town at the base of the foothills. He looked flushed, half-asleep. But he kept calm and answered Castano’s questions. Yes, those were bees. No, they were not his. No, he did not work for Orin Johnson. Yes, he was stealing them.

Castano, surprised by Villafan’s immediate confession, put him in ziptie handcuffs and walked him to the backseat of his patrol car. Less than 45 minutes later, at about 3.40am, Johnson pulled up to the scene, now lit red and blue. A sheriff’s deputy had just arrived, as well. He asked Johnson to identify the bees and sign an affidavit committing to press charges.

The thief climbed out of the car and turned into the light. He stood there alone, his eyes glazed over and sullen
“The suspect wants to talk to you,” the deputy said to Johnson, motioning to his cruiser. “Do you want to talk to him?”

Johnson walked over and poked his head through the window.

“I made a huge mistake,” Villafan started.

“Of course you did,” Johnson interrupted, trying his best to remain composed.

“I shouldn’t have done this,” the thief said. “All my bees died.”