There are moments in life that change your mission. For me, it wasn’t a job, a headline, or some cybersecurity training that turned me into a scam hunter. It was a man named Carroll Smith—my neighbor, my friend, and one of the kindest souls I’ve ever known.
Carroll was in his early 80s. He had Parkinson’s disease and the kind of heart that still looked out for others even as his body began to betray him. He lived just two doors down from me, and for a long time, we’d talk, help each other, and check in. He was the kind of old-school man who would give you the shirt off his back, even if it was threadbare.
One afternoon, I drove by and saw Carroll sitting on his porch, looking like the weight of the world was crushing him. I got out, walked up, and he looked at me—almost in tears—and said, “Tony, I need help.”
He told me a man had contacted him with an offer: send $10,000 to a woman in Arizona, and in return, he’d receive $100,000 and a brand-new Mercedes. Carroll believed him. He wanted to believe something good was coming. He just wanted to feel like he could still make a big move. I stood there listening, already feeling the anger rise. I knew what it was. A scam. Plain and brutal.
I stayed with him while the scammer called. I took the phone. The guy claimed to be in our town but wouldn’t tell me where. I went back and forth with him for 15 minutes while Carroll sat beside me, hopeful. Then I said it: “You’re not getting anything. You’ve been scammed.” Carroll looked crushed, but he nodded. He said he understood.
But about a week later, his wife called me. Money was missing again. Carroll had sent more.
This time I got the guy back on the phone. I didn’t threaten legal action. I didn’t play games. I told him flat out that if he didn’t leave Carroll alone, I would find him—and I would end him. And something about the way I said it must have landed, because the guy backed off.
Carroll lost nearly $15,000 to that scammer. Fifteen thousand dollars he did not have. The stress made his Parkinson’s worse. His wife, already strained, moved out of the house. When he died about a year later, she had him buried in a cheap casket, no service, no farewell. She didn’t even go to the burial.
That tore me up. Because I hadn’t seen Carroll much in those last months. Work, travel, life—I wasn’t there. And I carry that. I always will.
But this is why I work in cybersecurity now and refuse to leave the industry. This is why I call out scammers—not because it’s a job, but because it’s personal.
Carroll didn’t die from Parkinson’s alone. He died from heartbreak, betrayal, and the emotional poison these predators inject into vulnerable people.
So yeah, I’ve played along with scammers before. I’ve made them cry. I’ve baited them, burned their scripts, and wasted their time. Because every minute I keep them busy is a minute they’re not breaking the spirit of someone else’s Carroll.
In memory of my friend, Carroll Smith.There are moments in life that change your mission. For me, it wasn’t a job, a headline, or some cybersecurity training that turned me into a scam hunter. It was a man named Carroll Smith—my neighbor, my friend, and one of the kindest souls I’ve ever known.
Carroll was in his late 70s. He had Parkinson’s disease and the kind of heart that still looked out for others even as his body began to betray him. He lived just two doors down from me, and for a long time, we’d talk, help each other, and check in. He was the kind of old-school man that would give you the shirt off his back, even if it was threadbare.
One afternoon, I drove by and saw Carroll sitting on his porch, looking like the weight of the world was crushing him. I got out, walked up, and he looked at me—almost in tears—and said, “Tony, I need help.”
He told me a man had contacted him with an offer: send $10,000 to a woman in Arizona, and in return, he’d receive $100,000 and a brand-new Mercedes. Carroll believed him. He wanted to believe something good was coming. He just wanted to feel like he could still make a big move. I stood there listening, already feeling the anger rise. I knew what it was. A scam. Plain and brutal.
I stayed with him while the scammer called. I took the phone. The guy claimed to be in our town but wouldn’t tell me where. I went back and forth with him for 15 minutes while Carroll sat beside me, hopeful. Then I said it: “You’re not getting anything. You’ve been scammed.” Carroll looked crushed, but he nodded. He said he understood.
But about a week later, his wife called me. Money was missing again. Carroll had sent more.
This time I got the guy back on the phone. I didn’t threaten legal action. I didn’t play games. I told him flat out that if he didn’t leave Carroll alone, I would find him—and I would end him. And something about the way I said it must have landed, because the guy backed off.
Carroll lost nearly $15,000 to that scammer. Fifteen thousand dollars he did not have. The stress made his Parkinson’s worse. His wife, already strained, moved out of the house. When he died about a year later, she had him buried in a cheap casket, no service, no farewell. She didn’t even go to the burial.
That tore me up because I hadn’t seen Carroll much in those last months. Work, travel, life—I wasn’t there. And I carry that. I always will.
But this is why I fight scams now. This is why I call them out. Not because it’s a job. Because it’s personal.
Carroll didn’t die from Parkinson’s alone. He died from heartbreak, betrayal, and the emotional poison these predators inject into vulnerable people.
So yeah, I’ve played along with scammers before. I’ve made them cry. I’ve baited them, burned their scripts, and wasted their time. Because every minute I keep them busy is a minute they’re not breaking the spirit of someone else’s Carroll.
In memory of my friend, Carroll Smith.
The Obituary:
Carroll Wayne Smith
April 8, 1937 – April 14, 2019
Carroll Wayne Smith, 82, passed away Sunday morning, April 14, 2019, at his residence in Wills Point. No services are planned at this time. Inurnment will be at De Kalb Woodman Cemetery in De Kalb. Arrangements are under the direction of Allan Fuller Funeral Home in Wills Point.
Carroll was born April 8, 1937, in De Kalb.
Rest in Peace old friend.