The Last Undercover (25 page)

When our more experienced squad members arrived they weren’t real happy we captured an important fugitive without their assistance, but they took him into his apartment and began questioning him. Within a few minutes I walked in, and as I approached the still-cuffed fugitive, he nodded with his head toward me and said with a quaking voice, “Th-th-that’s the son of a bitch who almost killed me.” I know I flashed an ear-to-ear grin. I faced the enemy and won. I belonged in the FBI.

S
itting in the conference room in Miami, I wished I could jam a .38 in a few pedophiles’ ears as I read them their rights, but for now I had to remain patient. I had to smile and nod and invite them to tell me their darkest fantasies, hoping to elicit the magic words or actions that would allow the justice system to prevent them from harming any boys for a long time.

By this time, Floyd was speaking. He had senior status in the organization, having been a member since 1981. His current responsibilities included working on the
Bulletin,
the Web site, and the steering committee. He said that over the years, he had been a member of the New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles chapters and “appreciated the diversity that you find among boy lovers, all shapes and sizes, all kinds of tendencies. We need to respect that and not try to force everyone into a mold.” Boy lovers did come in many “flavors,” as Bob from Atlanta liked to say. By this time, I realized it was wrong to assume that BLs always had effeminate mannerisms. They came in every sort of package, from every economic stratum. Some were openly gay, some liked adult women
and
eight-year-old boys, and some, like David R. Busby, were only attracted to boys.

Floyd professed a desire to gain a “greater sense of the boy lover movement in other times and other places. We’re not the first and we won’t be the last.”
So,
I thought,
a history buff.
Of course, BLs were constantly playing on the theme of the ancient Greeks and their reported propensity for homosexual liaisons, some of which, presumably, were between older men and younger boys. Floyd’s interest in the supposed “history” of boy lovers had some context.

James heard about NAMBLA over twenty years ago, he said, but it took him “nearly twenty years to join.” He spoke cautiously and was one of the few not to mention interacting with other BLs as a motivating factor for attending the conference. His reason was quite pragmatic. He was “attending this conference to have an impact in the organization.” Then, he warned the attendees, that it is “healthy to be fearful of society and reticent to be too open about yourselves to people you don’t know. I’m sure prisons are full of people that didn’t intend to get there.” I, of course, hoped a few more ended up that way.

When it was my turn to speak, there was no need for tears this year. I was accepted and as comfortable in this setting as my mission and training could make me. I said I came for the “fellowship” and, referencing Chris’s earlier remarks, I joked I was “in charge of NAMBLA’s transnational prostitution ring.” Before I could complete the thought, Peter pounced, immediately chastising me. Bob from Atlanta interrupted Peter and said, “I’m Robert and I’m in charge.”

The interchange drew laughs, but Peter continued: “The problem is, I don’t think there are any bugs here, but that’s exactly the sort of thing that’s hostile to us. . . . It’s not a good idea to say things in jest.” Peter was right on both counts. Even things said in jest might be taken literally, and there were definitely “bugs.” I would be wearing one throughout the conference.

Bob, the attorney, wrapped up the introductions. “I’m Bob and I live in Atlanta. I was born in New York, but I live in Atlanta now. . . . I’d like to see the
Bulletin
have fewer pictures of eight-year-olds and more pictures of fifteen-year-olds.”

That drew a chorus of “boos” from some of the others.

“Everybody has his own tastes, you know,” Bob said. And then he returned to the oft-stated theme of most BLs:

I love the
Bulletin.
I love the pictures. I’m sorry that we can’t have sexier pictures like we used to have. I like to come here just to hang around with other boy lovers, just to juice up my engines. I was out of the closet thirty years ago, and I started getting more comfortable with liking boys about twenty or twenty-five years ago.

Following the introductions and Peter’s safety lecture, we began a discussion to determine the agenda. The conference was to last two days, and most of the morning session would be taken up discussing what we would be discussing.

Had I really been interested in advancing the stated goals of this association, I would have been frustrated by its lack of organization. Since my interests lay strictly in the criminal conduct of its members, however, I merely sat there attempting to look engaged.

The air was thick with ideas being batted around with no apparent rhyme or reason. Dick Stutsman wanted to know, “What are the ways to change society’s opinions?” His question was never addressed.

Chris, my socialist comrade, advanced the idea of regional meetings for those of us who attended conferences, to handle the neglected “social aspects.”

Others threw out other notions, but no one was taking notes, and Peter was having trouble keeping the discussion flowing smoothly. When James brought up Robert’s Rules of Order and suggested the “meetings could be structured in such a way to more easily obtain the goals of the conference,” he was drafted to chair the proceedings.

It was James’s first conference and within an hour he held the gavel: a born leader. Sam assumed the role of secretary and began taking notes. To everyone’s relief, James and Sam quickly got the meeting on track.

Tim observed that the organization was being held together by two or three people and that more leaders were needed.

I thought to myself,
Same song, four hundredth verse.

25

CRIMINAL ADMISSIONS

T
he first break would be a most welcome respite. The discussion during the session was of little value for my mission, and I hoped break time conversations would lead me in the right direction. Just before the break, I realized the recording time on my concealed camera had expired. Saying I needed to take some of my medication, I excused myself from the meeting and hobbled to my room. I took off the peephole camera strapped to my chest and replaced it with a digital audio recorder that was easier to conceal.

David Mayer and I sat at poolside. Within seconds, he complained about the pace and structure of the meeting. I rolled my eyes and agreed. I told him it was similar to last year. “That’s why I just came for the fellowship.” Todd joined us. The conversation began angling in promising directions.

David: I agree. I mean, I would just come to socialize. . . . This is worthless. Bob [the Atlanta attorney] is right. I’d have a much better day walking the beach looking at boys with a couple of you . . . going, “Yum, yum cute . . . yum, yum cute,” letting my imagination go.

Todd: Do politics a little bit and celebrate what we love the rest of the time!

I brought up the issue of travel with Todd, but before he could answer, David said that he, Todd, and Paul Zipszer talked about travel last night after I went to bed.

David: Where’s the travel bureau? When we were talking about it last night, we know that someone knows. So, give us that information. . . . I don’t know who’s lying to who. . . . They’re lying to themselves. Like, “This is all political, this is all to change society . . .” Bullshit. Like, bring on the boys!

Throughout this conversation, David kept referring to Paul Zipzser as “the guy with all the muscles.” Twice he said, “I gotta play with his chest!” The exchange was humorous, but in a few seconds, as David was talking, he stood up, circled around me, and began rubbing my chest, demonstrating what he desired to do to Paul. Had I still been wearing the camera, he would have easily found the device. It might have been a challenge to explain the wires running up my stomach, my multiple “nipples,” and a pinhole camera taped to the front of my ribcage. It’s unfair to say I dodged anything like a real bullet, but the discovery would have ended the investigation much sooner than anyone in the FBI desired.

Todd said he traveled a lot but was unsuccessful at finding boys. “I have good ‘gaydar’ for many adults who are gay, or at least I think I do, but for kids, I just don’t.” I had to conceal a smile; apparently, his gaydar wasn’t working as well as he thought.

A few moments later, I continued the conversation about travel just as Dick Stutsman joined us poolside. Trying to elicit criminal admissions, I said Jeff Devore had mentioned a place in Mexico and I also heard about a place in Costa Rica. Todd immediately said he remembered Jeff, “the minister.” And David said he was aware of a place in Costa Rica called Big Ruby’s and, since American Airlines flew there, he could get “twenty-four passes a year.”

Even as Jeff’s name was leaving my lips, I realized that in my haste to discuss travel, I made a major undercover blunder: I lied in such a way that I could be caught. Undercover agents lie often and lie well, but this was not a good lie, since my story could be checked out if one of my hearers was so inclined. I mentioned Jeff’s name, and to my knowledge, Jeff never traveled to Mexico. Certainly, he had not told me about any such venue. Todd knew Jeff and might have even had a contact number for him.

As all these thoughts ran through my head, I realized I should have corrected myself on the spot, or at least hedged, saying I thought it was Jeff who had told me. The moment passed, though, and I decided to let it ride. Interestingly, Jeff’s name never came up again. No one caught me in the lie or the subsequent inconsistency. As the investigation progressed, I was able to attribute all my travel details to an imaginary friend. Another bullet dodged, even if it was one of my own making.

When Dick joined the conversation, I asked him if he traveled. He told us of the only two trips he ever made overseas in nauseating detail.

Well, I found . . . a so-called House of Boys in Amsterdam, not too far from the train station. There’s just a door on the street. It actually said “House of Boys” on the door. You ring the doorbell. Someone—a boy—comes in. You go upstairs and it’s a little bar with two or three bedrooms and a lounge.

Dick then continued the torture by detailing another success.

There was one, in what country was that? It was a brown-skin country. Turkey or something . . . yeah, Turkey. I think he was around eleven. Then there was someone in France. But they were peak experiences. . . . I gave my partners as much pleasure as I had. . . . Sure, they’re supposed to pretend, but I really truly think this kid had never had his armpits licked, and for some reason, I suddenly thought this would be a great thing to do. You know, it turned me on, but it turned him on, too. Anyway, I had success!

David shared his experiences on the gay beaches of Mexico and in Thailand, a topic he would repeat several times during the investigation. He said he “virtually never” did anything in the United States.

The break-time conversation was a gold mine of admissions, but was unfortunately interrupted by Peter’s call to return to the matters at hand. Groaning inwardly, I raised myself off the lounge chair and headed inside with the others.

The Saturday afternoon session was no more thrilling than the morning. James, the newly anointed moderator, noted that Chris did a lot of “thoughtful research and was a repository of information about political, legal, and social events related to us in the press.” David looked at me and rolled his eyes and I had to agree with his assessment. I never claimed to be the brightest bulb on the tree, but I’m not sure I was ever able to follow any line of reasoning Chris proffered. If he was the best hope for the next socialist uprising, I was putting my money on capitalism.

At one point during the discussion, Chris enlightened us with the fact that Israeli intelligence determined Yasser Arafat was having sex with the Palestinian boys who threw rocks at Israeli tanks. Peter, who is Jewish, smiled. “Oh, is that so? Now I’m changing my mind about him.”

Peter spoke of commissioning a former member who was a talented cartoonist to depict the boy-lover struggle in an art form readily understood by millions. Peter wanted the cartoon, consisting of several panels, to depict how society was led to hate Jews, blacks, gays, and BLs. Yet society had been proven wrong, he said; many great people from these groups contributed so much to the world. Peter wanted the final panel of the cartoon to show NAMBLA and what contributions its members made. He never actually filled us in on the identities of the great, influential members of NAMBLA and their world-changing contributions. I guess we’ll have to wait for the cartoon.

James suggested the theme of this conference should be reenergizing the membership and getting more involvement from those in attendance. From my perspective, he had a point: three or four people were doing 95 percent of the work. Peter Herman, aka Peter Melzer, age sixty-five, served in a CEO-like capacity. Floyd, age sixty-eight, was the “filter and censor” for the NAMBLA Web site and, along with Joe P. from California, performed most of the editorial duties for the
Bulletin.
The situation was ripe for an ambitious undercover agent to assume management responsibilities and wreak havoc on the organization. But, as I said often and under oath, the scope of our mission was to identify the criminal activities of those networking at the NAMBLA conference, not to target the organization as such. It was for this reason I kept my involvement at a minimum.

Peter worked hard to garner support and encourage attendees to contribute beyond the payment of the annual dues, but most of his lobbying efforts were wasted. I almost felt sorry for him as he floated projects and ideas and continually failed to find takers. Peter admitted that last year his goal was to issue a press release about NAMBLA’s twenty-fifth anniversary, an opportunity to let the world know NAMBLA was alive and well. Celebrating twenty-five years as a “liberation” movement was an achievement worthy of attention, he said. But the press release never materialized. As the discussion languished, Peter asked James to write an article for the
Bulletin
about seeking more involvement from the membership. James reluctantly said he would get with Sam to discuss it. The next two issues of the
Bulletin
failed to sound the call. The organization was big on plans and poor on follow-through—perhaps because its members were primarily focused on networking and justifying their sexual agendas.