Vault at state revenue department is home to unclaimed cash, family heirlooms and all manner of bric-a-brac

On Nov. 30, 2002, six 10-ounce silver bars, a handful of coins and a pile of papers were abandoned in a safe-deposit box. After languishing for five years, the silver bars traveled to a new home on the second floor of the Manuel Lujan Building, where they joined nearly 12,000 other pieces of unclaimed property.

The unclaimed property vault -- a tiny room lined floor-to-ceiling with white boxes -- may be nondescript, but its contents are far from ordinary.

Standing in the middle of the room, Libby Gonzales pulls out a vintage stuffed camel and a bison from one box. It's her job as director of the state Taxation and Revenue Department's Revenue Processing Division to oversee the state's unclaimed property.

From another box, she takes out a vintage 1928 Astra pistol. A third box reveals tiny moccasins and motherof-pearl opera glasses. A fourth box, which she doesn't open, holds a pair of underwear, she says.

In the unclaimed-property business, people like Gonzales see it all. They see the precious family mementos, the piles of dusty papers and the oddities hidden away in safe-deposit boxes. Some of what they see finds it way to its owner. Much of it will remain boxed away in this room.

But even more often than the fascinating boxes of belongings, the main item people leave unclaimed is cash. More than $170 million in cash remains unclaimed, which the state is required to hold until an owner comes to claim it. More than 90 percent of what people find is money, Gonzales says.

For people with a legitimate financial claim, it isn't hard to get money back. Retrieving grandpa's rifle may prove a little more difficult.

To claim money, you need to show proof of identity. To claim it for someone who has died, you need to prove you are the estate's representative. In most cases, you must describe the contents of the box.

In the end, the office finds owners of only about five boxes a year, says Stephanie Dennis, a tax examiner supervisor who also works in unclaimed property.

Boxes arrive at the unclaimed property office courtesy of "holders," typically banks, utility companies and employers. Holders also have to submit a list of individuals who have unclaimed money, which often includes stocks, wages and deposits, by Nov. 1 every year.

As holders add new funds, the pile grows by $8 million to $10 million a year. This year one utility company added nearly $1 million to the state's unclaimed property account, Gonzales says.

There's no shortage of would-be scam artists. Gonzales remembers one individual who attempted to get property back and claimed he was the sole heir of an estate.

"He made the mistake of saying he had two siblings," she says. "He had to share."

Freebies all the rage

Unclaimed property is getting more attention than ever. When Dennis started her job eight years ago, she says, about 100 people a month made claims. Now the office processes 10 times that many each month.

To drum up attention, revenue processing staff members bring laptops to the State Fair every year, as well as several other state events, where people can search the database.

By law, the unclaimed property division has to publish a full list of names of property owners in the state's newspapers every year.

That means a surge of phone calls. Every time the list of names is published in the newspaper, Dennis says, she receives at least 400 messages a day for the next week.

"We have to gear up and add additional resources," says Gonzales.

Before sending the contents of a safe-deposit box to the state, a bank has to hold an abandoned box for five years and prove that it tried to find the owner.

But if a bank has an old address or the person dies without telling family about their vintage stuffed animals, lost items may stay lost forever.

Property stays in the vault until the state holds an auction. But the state hasn't held one since 1995, Gonzales says. Items must generate enough money to justify the expense of appraisers and auctioneers.

When the state sells unclaimed property, the money is held in a general account until the owner claims it, which may mean forever, Gonzales says. In New Mexico, the state can't use the money in the account except for up to $100,000 a month that is used to finance political campaigns.

Somebody call in the P .I.

Sometimes private investigators step in to connect people with money they never knew they had.

Bill Elliot, an Albuquerque investigator, often works with estate executors who must find every asset before dividing an estate.

Elliot follows dusty paper trails through county clerks' records, marriage certificates and treasurer's records. Many people die without a will and leave family members in the dark about bank accounts, life insurance or property in other states, he says.

"Most people don't have the resources of where to go back to look," he says.

Although Elliot's clients find him, some investigators, called finders, seek out clients. Combing through public records, finders can determine who has unclaimed property. Finders then contact individuals and promise to help them get their money back. Finders charge up to 30 percent of the property value, says Gonzales.

The state's tax department has had an uneasy relationship with finders. In 2006, one finder successfully sued the department for limiting the number of records he could access.

Gonzales says she would prefer that property owners seek out unclaimed property themselves.

"If the owners would just come to us, they wouldn't have to pay," she says.

A few oddities to be found

Inside the unclaimed property vault is a towering backlog of boxes waiting to be opened.

"This is all Wells Fargo," says Dennis, gesturing to a stack. "We don't have any idea what it is until we open it. It's a surprise."

Dennis says the strangest thing she has seen was a blood sample on a cotton ball with a note asking for the bloody item to be tested if found. One box contained only a package of unopened birth control pills. By law, staff can destroy items that have no monetary value.

Occasionally, staff members try to contact owners. Dennis remembers when her supervisor, David De La O, found a box of old photographs, ribbons and military badges. When he called, the woman who answered was burying her husband that day at the National Cemetery in Santa Fe.

In circumstances like that, Gonzales says, "you're happy that you were able to connect them. It must have meant a lot to him because he had it in a safe-deposit box."