House Flipping Files, It's the Bomb, Part I

"House Flipping Is Fun," the billboard should read. It's fun, it's hip, it's cool and for the last few years it's been one of the "in" things to do. It's high risk and often high reward. It's an entrepreneurs dream to find that diamond in the rough and polish it to a brilliance that no one can resist. There are lots of TV shows about flipping houses on cable these days. For example, there's Bravo's "Flipping Out", A&E's "Flip This House", Discovery/TLC Channel's "Flip That House, and others.

Until last April, the only risk I ever imagined associated with flipping houses was financial. You know, the house can't be turned around, it stays a dump and you lose money. Or, the market goes south and you can't sell it. It's a huge risk when credit markets are tight and housing sales are flat. But, the major payoffs come when the renovations happen right, the lenders are lending, and the buyers are snapping everything up at higher and higher prices every day.

As I said, that was what I thought until last April. Seems there was something I hadn't really thought about when it comes to flipping houses -- explosives! Yes, that's what I said, explosives!

Before I get too far into this tragi-comedy, I'll have to explain a couple of things. First, houses are easier to flip for a profit when their initial purchase price is below market value for the neighborhood. Let's face it, if a house sells substantially below market value, there's something wrong with it. Almost always, this means that there's something physically wrong, like a leaky roof that caused damage inside the house.

Joe and Mary Sixpack simply don't want to buy a house that they can't move into right away. House flippers do the dirty work -- fix it up into "new" condition -- and sell it to Joe and Mary Sixpack. The flippers deal with all the contractors and pay all the bills while the repairs are being done. Joe and Mary get their new house with no strings so they can happily raise their 1.7 kids and drive their 2.4 cars.

So, almost always the problem with the house -- the reason it's a great house to flip -- is the physical condition. But, sometimes the house may be in OK shape, but something else is wrong: there's no clear title. No one will lend money on them because they're in the no-man's land of legal paperwork. Joe and Mary Sixpack want to move in ASAP, not a day later.

It's this second, title-trouble house that we were "lucky" enough to flip with some friends starting last April. It had been tied up in probate for some time and the court would not release it for sale until all the legal "i's" were dotted and "t's" were crossed. It was finally released, the sale closed and we happily entered sometime after the first of the month.

NOTE: for many months the house was in probate, it was legally in the possession of a Probate Court in Bernalillo County, New Mexico. This means that the Court appointed someone to take care of the house - you know, pay the bills, mow the yard, clean it, make sure it wasn't falling down. I am confident that a court-appointed caretaker was paid to make monthly visits to the property and to report back to the Court about it's condition.

Before we ever stepped foot in this house, I would estimate that dozens of people had been through it not only performing caretaker duties, but inspecting it, appraising it, showing the house, or seeking to buy the house. So why, why, WHY on God's green Earth did I walk into the house after all this time and all these people had passed through it and find bomb-making materials laying around in plain sight?

It's a shame, really. The tragic part of the story is that the previous owners had both died while they were in the midst of a divorce (thus the need for probate). I'll spare you all the gory details, but it is now clear that not only had all the aforementioned people been through the house, but the Albuquerque Police Department, Fire Department and Bernalillo County Coroner had been in the house at least once after one of the owners passed away there.

So, again, I ask you: Why, why, WHY were there explosives in plain sight sitting around on the floors of several rooms and the garage? Had NONE of these people seen what I saw within a few minutes of my arrival? Had NONE of these people wondered why clearly marked bottles of bomb-making materials were in the bedroom, dining room, kitchen and arage? What the. . .? I mean, really, folks.

On a beautiful spring day in April of this year, Michael and I walked into the house and began making a list of repairs and likely contractors to use for those repairs. There were some papers lying around in the bedrooms, a couple of pieces of useless broken furniture here and there, and some bottles of chemicals clearly indicating that something was terribly wrong.

But we didn't really "see" the bottles right away. They were interesting diversions as we walked from room to room making our checklists. We were curious about them, but they didn't attract our undivided attention. They looked "cool" and we figured that the previous owner had been into collecting old bottles. As we gathered junk up to throw away, we found some old paperwork indicating that one of the owners had been a professor in the Pharmacy Department at the University of New Mexico Hospital here in Albuquerque.

"Oh," I said to Michael, "this guy was a pharmacy professor. He must have been into all these old bottles as mementos or something."

Michael nodded, agreeing to point. "Then what are these powders and liquids inside of these bottles? I hope they're not the chemicals listed on the labels."

"Hm, don't know. We probably shouldn't open them or anything just in case. We can just gather them all up, figure out what we got."

"I saw a box of more bottles out in the garage," Michael said.

"Let's check it out."

Life had been a happy, exhilarating, "New Day" kind of thing that day. It had been filled with the promise of a new house flipping project and great profits ahead. The day was perfect.

Perfect, that is, until we got to the garage and found a wooden box with no lid. Inside the box were six large brown bottles and one little translucent blue bottle. It was pretty, this little blue gem. It was the only one with handwriting on it. The letters spelled out: "Picric Acid -- Explosive When Dry" and "Do Not Touch to Metal."

Google this: Picric Acid. In the top five choices you will find the following link: www.tc.gc.ca/canutec/en/articles/documents/picric.htm. In the document behind that link you will find the following statement:

"Picric acid or Trinitrophenol is, by far, one of the more dangerous chemicals being used today. Classified as a flammable solid when wetted with more than 30% water (UN1344, class 4.1) and a class A high explosive with less than 30% water (UN0154, class 1.1D), it has some very interesting properties. It is explosive but also highly shock, heat and friction sensitive. In fact, detonation with a speed and power superior to that of TNTcan occur by a 2 kg weight falling onto solid picric acid from a height of 36 cm. Picric acid is toxic by all routes of entry, it’s also a skin irritant and allergen and will produce toxic pro-ducts on decomposition."

You have the benefit of this knowledge now. At the time we found the pretty blue bottle, we knew nothing about it. I have to admit that at the moment I found the bottle and for a few moments thereafter I was still living in the happy land of ignorant bliss, unable to believe for even an instant that someone would have a dozen bottles of bomb-making materials in their house. It just didn't register in my brain that the handwritten words I was reading was real or that it had any meaning in my world.

I really thought at this point, folks, that the previous homeowner, being a pharmacy professor, had known these things weren't dangerous and had brought them to his house as part of a collection of some sort -- a trophy case, if you will. I had also figured out by this point that many, many people had been in this house as part of their jobs before me and they must have seen the same things that I was seeing. None of them had become alarmed, right?

It took a while for it to sink in: I wasn't going to be able to do what dozens and dozens of people before me had done. I wasn't going to be able to ignore these bottles. Shit! I was going to have to take charge and do the right thing, wasn't I? Wasn't I?

The only problem was, I didn't know what the right thing was. What do you do with someone else's bomb-making materials? Who do you call? Where do you start?

We're out of time for today, but tune in next time to discover the answer to these and other burning questions like: "What do robots do for a living, Brad?" and how do you answer a cop who asks you "What the hell is going on down there?" when you honestly don't have a clue what the hell's going on down there?