The Last Undercover (38 page)
That night he learned that the mother had contacted the police who opened the post office box and took up the correspondence that the boy had started . . .
What had he done! The news of his arrest spread throughout the county. The reaction of family and friends fell into three categories: abandonment, disbelief, or support. . . . Daniel’s acts of kindness have cost him his job, his pension, his livelihood, and his freedom.
He thought of fighting the charges. . . . He could explain each and every sentence he wrote. But taking the stand meant disclosing the prior arrest. . . . A court-appointed attorney encouraged him to take a plea. . . . He reluctantly took the deal offered by the District Attorney.
He began his prison sentence in Colorado but his incarceration resulted in imprisonment in five different institutions over the course of seven plus years . . .
As a sex offender, he was singled out by the prison system. Although he was the target of an attack by a fellow inmate, he managed to survive. Fortunately he was able to participate in a sex treatment program of approximately 50 sex offenders, ten of whom were BLs. The program was most simplistic in its approach, with a Nancy Reagan–type mantra of “just say no.” The program demanded that BLs “swear” off boys and tell everyone with whom they come in contact that they are sex offenders. . . . The genius who drafted such an approach had obviously never been the victim of hatred, prejudice, or abuse.
Rather than obtaining an early release, Daniel served the entire sentence. . . . Daniel was, however, a registered sex offender. When he finally settled after his release, he was forced to register with the local police. That registration placed him on the radar screen of the law enforcement authorities. . . . Despite their efforts he was able to meet boys and he even began corresponding until the day they searched his residence. . . . Now he continues to live under the threat that he might be targeted by the local police. He . . . longs for the day that an enlightened society will see the many benefits the BL community brings.
David Mayer and I spoke again on January 7. We shared a laugh when I gloated over the fact that I was able to connect with Paul when he, “my CIA operator,” couldn’t get through. He told me that his next attempt at reaching Paul had also been thwarted by Paul’s mother, whom David called “Kathy Bates,” referring to her Academy Award – -winning role in the Stephen King thriller
Misery.
“Stupid, she’s not,” he said. “She may be a drunk. She’s probably out of a trailer park somewhere. But, dumb this woman is not.”
David began issuing orders I gladly accepted, since they demonstrated his leadership role in the conspiracy. He told me to call Paul again. David needed to set up a time when Paul could call him so the two of them could make arrangements for Paul’s American Airlines family pass flight to San Diego. David asked me to make the arrangements because “Kathy Bates ain’t gonna let these phone calls go through.” David was also concerned that Paul didn’t have the application for the trip that needed to be submitted in a timely fashion. I told David I mailed Paul an extra brochure and application. David suggested I fill out the form and forge Paul’s signature by signing it with my “opposite hand.” David’s final question concerned a return flight from San Diego to Dallas, Chicago, and Florida. This question had arisen before. I hoped a return flight would not be an issue because my plan called for all three of them to be in custody not long after getting off the plane in California. However, I responded by detailing our return trip from Mexico with potential arrival times in San Diego, suggesting we might even want to go to Los Angeles after the Mexican trip, extending our vacation time together.
Paul and I spoke on January 8. He was looking forward to joining us for the trip and was going to repair his mother’s roof to get the necessary funding for the trip. On January 10, I received his deposit check for two hundred dollars, made out to my undercover name. I had an undercover bank account in a Los Angles bank. The only San Diego branch for that bank was in Carlsbad, thirty miles away. I needed to cash the check and enter the money into evidence, so I placed those tasks on my to-do list.
We all continued to trade e-mails and voice mails, keeping each other updated on the progress of the trip. David, who was willing to obtain a family pass or use his frequent flier miles for Paul, the bodybuilder, had no desire to assist Steve Irvin or David R. Busby. The reason appeared obvious: David Mayer had a schoolboy crush on Paul and may have been hopeful of taking his romantic adventures beyond the youngsters awaiting him in Mexico. From an investigative standpoint, everything was falling into place.
On January 15 I received Paul’s application and a letter.
Hi Robert!
I have filled out the reservation request as you needed. I will be starting my mother’s roof repairs this weekend at which time she will pay me and I will forward you the remaining $420. . . . I look forward to seeing you in LA. Thanks again.
Paul
The irony was apparent: His mother, who had so diligently protected him from David and Todd’s attempts to invite him into the criminal conspiracy, was now unknowingly providing the funding for him to join us.
Meanwhile, I was still deeply involved in a Los Angeles undercover investigation targeting international weapons dealers and narcotics traffickers and was now trying to minimize my NAMBLA contacts. On January 17, I had a meeting with one of those involved in the weapons deal and was en route to a second meeting with a faction of an Asian organized crime syndicate when my cell phone rang. It was Greg Nusca, aka David R. Busby.
I took the call, quickly switching from my macho, weapons-dealing persona to “Robert,” the lover of prepubescent boys. Greg proudly told me he had taken a second job to pay for the Mexican trip, an indication of how important it was to him. I almost laughed out loud as Greg explained that he completed the travel agency application using his alias, David R. Busby, combined with Miami Sam’s address—then used his true-name credit card to pay for the trip! Even though we already had him identified, his attempts at secrecy and concealment vanished with that move. I’ve always joked that I want my target’s IQ to be a few points lower than mine. It still makes the project challenging but also gives me a leg up on success. I’ve never claimed to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I see the futility of trying to conceal my identity when I provide a credit card with my real name on it.
As a way of covertly discussing our planned excursion into Mexico, Sam Lindblad and I began referring to our upcoming “fishing trip.” On January 19, Sam responded to the
Bulletin
article I rough-drafted.
Hello, fishing buddy,
I thought you did an outstanding job of putting our interview into well-chosen words. . . .
I did receive a brochure from Tim as per our fishing trip on the Iguana. I did pen out a promissory note spelling out my payback to you. I am going to stick it in the mail to you so you have a signed hard copy, but . . . I find I don’t have your snail-mail address. Please email that to me. I am excited also. I must admit that I have wondered if there could be any kind of STING here??? It’s called paranoia.
Start cutting bait.
Samuel
In an attempt to ease his fears, I responded, “I’m excited that so many like-minded ‘anglers’ will soon be together for an unforgettable fishing trip! The only STINGS we’ll encounter will be compliments of the jellyfish off the Mexican coast.”
True to his word, on January 25, I received a letter, a check for $50, and a promissory note that read,
To: Robert Wallace
From: Samuel Lindblad
I agree to repay Robert Wallace for the loan of $420.00 or $320.00 (cross out invalid amount) at $50.00 per month till paid in full. Interest rate____.
Signed: Samuel Lindblad
Date: January 18, 2005
The evidence against Sam, a three-time convicted sex offender, was mounting.
LOSING IT?
A
s the undercover investigations progressed, my health was failing. I was having trouble kicking a cold, but of greater concern was the large amount of blood I was passing in my urine. I made an appointment with a urologist, who performed a cystoscopy. I was still holding Paul’s deposit check for two hundred dollars and needed to go to the bank branch where I had an undercover account. I was putting off the trip because it was thirty miles out of the way and more pressing matters were at hand. After one of my doctor’s appointments and another unpleasant procedure, I headed to the bank. I was still experiencing a great deal of discomfort and decided to reward myself with a stop at a bookstore that was having a sale. I returned to the car and continued to the bank.
When I arrived at the bank I realized I did not have the check. I searched the car as thoroughly as I would have gone over a drug dealer’s vehicle, but to no avail. The check was gone. I had lost evidence, something I had never done before in my career.
Juggling three undercover cases was no excuse. Such mistakes are what defense lawyers use to blister you on the stand, and even though the check was only one small piece of the puzzle and actually insignificant in the overall investigation, it was sloppy work.
Now I had to decide how to handle the revelation to Paul. Obviously, his check would not clear, so he would know something was wrong. Would this arouse his suspicion?
I told my case agent of my mistake, but we didn’t have to wait long for resolution. On January 17, Paul left a voice mail telling me that someone had mailed him the check from a bookstore where it had been found.
I called Paul back that evening. Apparently, the check dropped out of my car when I stopped at the bookstore. An employee found it and had the courtesy of returning the uncashed check to Paul, whose address was on the document. My mistake actually became another asset to the investigation: Paul had a second chance to back out but didn’t, making clear his intent to go on the trip. During our conversation, Paul said that rather than sending the two-hundred-dollar deposit he would send the entire amount. We discussed the trip in detail. Paul, a four-year member of NAMBLA, said his age of preference was eleven to thirteen and he “just came out of the closet as a BL” a few years ago.
On January 21, his check in the amount of $620 arrived. I called to let him know I received it. We spoke of sexual preferences, but he was reticent in discussing it over the phone; he was the only traveler who expressed any reservations about the topic. I wanted to solidify the evidence but didn’t want to push him away. He continued to inquire about how safe the trip was. Rather than deal directly with the travel agency, he wanted me to act as his intermediary. Because my exposure to Paul in Miami was minimal, I could understand his reluctance to deal even with me. But as the conversation continued, he relaxed somewhat. He expressed concern that the FBI could be monitoring the calls and that they had infiltrated the organization. His instincts were correct, but would he follow them? As happened so often in my investigations, the target’s personal greed—in this case, the desire to have sex with boys—overcame his natural caution. His comfort level grew as the conversation continued. By the end of the call, he admitted to wanting to fondle and have oral sex with the boys. Paul Zipszer was safely back in the fold.
I was relieved my screwup apparently wasn’t going to jeopardize this investigation, but I couldn’t relax until it was all over. I invested several years of my life and untold hours of thought in this case, and it was coming down to the wire. I couldn’t afford any lapses in judgment.
In fact, one of the reasons the NAMBLA case meant so much to me personally was that I spent so many years gathering the evidence and carefully accumulating actionable admissions from members. Possibly, the mounting pressure was contributing to some of my health symptoms. At times like these, I had to remind myself of my conviction that the beginnings of my FBI career had as much to do with divine guidance as any career plan I’d conceived for myself.
B
y the time my Marine Corps commitment was over in August, 1979, I knew a courtroom career wasn’t for me. I applied to the FBI and did well on the written and oral examinations. I was disappointed soon thereafter, though, when the applicant coordinator told me the Bureau had just announced a one-year hiring freeze. I did ask that he keep my application on file and hoped for a phone call the next year.
I was a little surprised one morning when I saw an ad in the sports section of the
Los Angeles Times
seeking CIA case officers. I thought maybe it was a joke; wouldn’t the CIA recruit covertly? Still, I answered the ad, and soon began a months-long, multitiered recruitment process. All the correspondence I received was on plain bond paper and my first interview was with a man who had a scar stretching across the front of his neck from ear to ear—impressive. I imagined he had been garroted in the back alley of some third world country. Probably, though, in his youth he ran into a clothesline playing touch football in the backyard. Whatever the reason, he had my attention. This seemed to be the excitement I was seeking and I enthusiastically pursued the Agency.
The recruitment process included multiple flights from L.A. to Washington, D.C., traveling under an assumed name, meeting in safe houses, and taking a battery of tests. I kept being called back, moving through the application process. I thought a job offer would be forthcoming and was looking forward to my training at the Farm.
Imagine my disappointment, then, when I was notified the CIA declined my application. I contacted an official with the Agency who told me that being a lawyer, having never lived overseas, and scoring a zero on their personality test entered into the decision-making process.
I was crushed but can laugh about it now. I mean, a zero on a personality test? The test was graded on a scale of zero to ten. The way they explained it to me, a “zero” could live on a deserted island for months on end and a “ten” needed to be in the constant presence of people. I admit, I skewed my answers, thinking they were looking for paid assassins who could parachute behind enemy lines and remain secreted for weeks. Wrong! The psychologist who scored the test told me he had never seen a zero and the Agency was looking for threes and fours. Go figure. My wife occasionally reminds me I have been rated as a zero personality by the federal government.