Prison inmates, a remarkably ingenious bunch, are updating long-standing methods of smuggling drugs, porn and cellphones the same way online retailers hope to one day deliver socks and underwear to American homes -- through the air, with drones.
By coordinating with wingmen on the outside for shipments of contraband, inmates can bypass the need to bribe corrupt guards or persuade family members to hide forbidden items in body cavities.
Though nobody is precisely sure just how many drones are landing every day in prisons, the threat is global. Last year, there was a melee at an Ohio prison after a drone dropped heroin into the exercise yard. In April, security cameras at a London prison recorded a drone delivering drugs directly to an inmate's window.
And in western Maryland earlier this year, prosecutors convicted a recently released inmate and a prisoner serving a life sentence on charges of attempted drug distribution and delivery of contraband after they completed several nighttime missions netting them $6,000 per drop in product sales. It was such a lucrative scheme that the former inmate had purchased a new truck for himself with the profits.
In many cases, the drones soaring over prison walls are the same $50-to-$500 devices that show up under Christmas trees only to be promptly crashed into trees by their new owners. Flight paths are somewhat more clear in the stark nothingness surrounding many prisons.
"These things can be fun toys if you're not trying to smuggle contraband into a prison," said Allegheny County assistant state's attorney Erich Bean, who prosecuted the Maryland case, calling it "one of the most interesting ones I've ever handled."
Prison officials are dealing with this new threat even as inmates continue using older, higher-risk methods. Earlier this month, more than 50 correctional officers and inmates were charged in a smuggling scheme at Eastern Correctional Institution, Maryland's largest prison.
Drone deliveries aren't all that surprising given how much time inmates spend watching television news, security officials say. They've likely seen stories about retailers such as Amazon pushing the concept.
"We are trying to keep up with technology just like everyone else," said Stephen Moyer, secretary of Public Safety & Correctional Services for Maryland. "So this is a huge challenge for all of us in corrections."
And prisons aren't the only secure facilities grappling with consumer drones.
Last winter, an errant pilot crashed a drone onto White House grounds. A few months later in Japan, a man was arrested after landing a drone carrying radioactive material on the prime minister's roof. Power plants, nuclear facilities, chemical companies, data centers, airports and stadiums have also reported drone incursions.
The threats to prisons and other facilities have given rise to startups selling anti-drone detection systems that use thermal imaging and other technology to spot airborne infiltrators. Some executives have jokingly compared the technology to the Reagan-era "Star Wars" missile defense system proposals.
The industry is even attracting former Defense Department and senior counterterrorism officials.
DroneShield, with offices in Herndon, Va., and Australia, was started by John Franklin, a former researcher at the Air and Missile Defense Sector at Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory. Its board members include Samantha Ravich, who was former Vice President Dick Cheney's deputy national security adviser.
DroneShield installs shoe-sized boxes near potential targets -- at the Boston Marathon, they were attached to light posts -- that listen closely for motor and propeller sounds that drones make in the air. The system then sends alerts to law enforcement. The company is working with prisons in several states and others in Europe.
In New York, the Suffolk County jail recently installed a competing product made by Dedrone, a German company co-founded by a former executive at a consumer drone-maker. Dedrone shoots infrared video and scans radio frequencies for specific signals from pilot remote controls indicating turns and other drone movements.
"If it looks like a drone, if it sounds like a drone, if it's acting like a drone, it's a drone," said Jorg Lamprecht, the company's founder.
Michael Sharkey, chief of staff for the Suffolk County sheriff's office, said he was not aware of any drone deliveries before Dedrone was installed and there have been no attempts since then.
"But we have to stay ahead of the curve," he said. "There are access points available now that weren't available before. We don't want any special deliveries made into our correctional facilities."
Following the arrests in Maryland, Moyer, the state's corrections secretary, asked Gov. Larry Hogan for $1.5 million to test detection products. The funds have been allocated in the 2017 budget.
Bean, the prosecutor in the case, said Moyer was concerned and in close contact with him throughout the trial, which revealed how remarkably easy it was for the scheme to unfold.
Charles Brooks, convicted of conspiracy to commit murder in 2002, was on a special tier at the Western Correctional Institution for inmates taking part in a rehabilitative program training rescued dogs. He became friends with Thaddeus Shortz, a 25-year-old serving time for drug offenses.
Somewhere along the way, they quietly devised their airborne contraband operation, which commenced with Shortz's release in early 2015.
Shortz would tightly wrap drugs, cellphones and pornography in bags and attach them to a drone. Late at night, Shortz would drive to an access road near the prison and land the drone in the prison yard.
Brooks, walking his dog, would detach the package. Then the drone would disappear again into the night sky.
Corrections officials learned about the scheme from inmate tips and set up a sting operation with local law enforcement. They caught Shortz near the prison in a brand-new truck loaded with a drone and several packages containing drugs, cellphones and DVDs.
"The titles written on them indicate they are pornographic movies," a police report said.
Shortz, apparently proud of accomplishments, told investigators exactly how the conspiracy worked, describing himself as "one of the 'top' guys on the outside," according to the police report. He weighed each package to make sure it did not exceed 10 ounces, the maximum payload weight.
Officers asked him what he did with the proceeds. He used $20,000 to buy a new truck. Also, he had just ordered a custom-built drone capable of carrying more than 16 ounces in an attached basket.
A Smith & Wesson .380 pistol weighs 11.85 ounces.
"The worst-case scenario," said Lamprecht, the founder of Dedrone, "is that they get a gun over the walls."
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