by Bob Hamer
I was excited about being invited for the face-to-face meeting, but that presented a problem: my nonexistent Egyptian wife. I wasn’t willing to take in just anyone, especially some undercover agent who knew nothing about the procedure and who couldn’t pass as Egyptian. My case agent went to work and finally, with the advocacy group’s assistance, we found a Middle Eastern woman who actually had the procedure as a child and could speak knowledgably about it.
Because it had taken us more than a month to find my “wife” and the clock was ticking, I couldn’t be too particular about whether the two of us would appear compatible as a couple. I was, however, curious as to who would volunteer for such an unusual—to say the least—assignment and anxiously awaited our first meeting. Was I surprised!
My “wife” was beautiful, well educated, and articulate—so much so that, had I been the target, I would have questioned what she saw in me. In fact, I was concerned that she was so attractive Todd might balk at my request to perform the procedure, not believing my cover story.
My undercover wife and I met twice, putting together a game plan. It was important for both of us to have a certain level of confidence in each other. It was especially important for her to believe I held her safety as my paramount concern. I didn’t really expect the meeting to be dangerous, but any undercover meeting can take a turn for the worse. When a target knows he is facing a minimum mandatory federal sentence, as Todd did, there is no telling what the reaction would be, should he suspect a law enforcement sting. Todd had a prior felony conviction and, based upon our investigation, had performed piercings and other more delicate body modification procedures on members of outlaw motorcycle gangs. As a result, we had no idea who else might be in the residence when we arrived, so safety was an obvious issue. My “wife” was satisfied with our preparation and confident I would protect her should matters head south. She was more than willing to assist in the investigation and go undercover with the FBI.
Los Angeles, 2001
This case wasn’t my first time to work with the SAFE team. They introduced me to NAMBLA a year earlier. An FBI agent assigned to the SAFE team contacted me about an undercover assignment involving overseas sex tours. The topic intrigued me before I even heard the details.
The SAFE team operated out of the L.A. FBI office and consisted of representatives from various federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies. The task force had a great reputation and was highly successful in targeting online sexual predators. I welcomed the opportunity to work with them.
The Knoxville, Tennessee, FBI office obtained information during a search that a Los Angeles–based travel agency catering to gays was arranging overseas tours affording opportunities for clients to have sexual contact with young boys. Representatives from the Justice Department and FBI agents from the Knoxville, Los Angeles, and Baltimore offices met in Knoxville and determined that Los Angeles would be tasked with opening an investigation on the travel agency.
By the time I joined the investigation, the Los Angeles case agent had already visited the travel agency’s Web site and obtained general information about travel to Thailand. He also requested information about upcoming tours. With that as the basic background, I came on board to make the necessary phone contacts and the face-to-face meetings.
I knew convincing a gay travel agent I desired to have sex with adolescent boys was going to require a great deal of preparation on my part. I spent the next several days camped out at one of the office’s covert computers, using my alias and accessing everything I could find on man/boy love. My knowledge of computers was very limited at that time, but I knew enough to fear that using my home computer would summon all kinds of unwanted cyber-junk mail into my living room. I was right. I am so glad I limited my Internet research on the topic to the covert computers. I was astounded and disgusted by the pop-ups and junk mail I began receiving in my undercover account.
I accessed a variety of Web sites and even entered a few “predicated chat rooms,” sites the FBI identified as venues where Internet sexual predators roamed. Posing as “bobby13,” I was quickly inundated by adults more than willing to engage me in sexual conversation. On more than one occasion, I was instructed on how to masturbate and was told by several that they were doing so as we chatted. The experience was as repulsive as it was enlightening.
Thanks to computer technology, child predators can find easy access to a network of support and comfort as well as opportunities to interact with teens and preteens. Web sites, chat rooms, forums, and postings are just a search engine away. My interest was man/boy love and there was no dearth of available information. Sometimes referring to their practices as Greek love, Internet authors went to great lengths to justify their pedophilic and pederast desires. Blaming centuries of repressive sexual mores, more than one writer claimed that true abuse was the by-product of limiting “intergenerational sex.” Boy lovers claimed they hoped to build personal relationships that did not necessarily include—but certainly didn’t exclude—sexual intimacy. They used words like “nourish,” “growth,” and “treasure.” Abuse was alleged when a boy was prevented from experiencing a freely chosen, loving relationship that allowed him to develop his “unique personality and sexuality”—regardless of his age or the age of his adult partner. Prohibiting this experience was seen as an infringement of the child’s natural rights.
Interestingly, girls are not given the same freedom in these contexts. The reasoning goes that boys by nature are “hunters,” while girls are “nesters.” Boys need to “explore” their sexuality and the boy lover is all too willing to participate in that exploration. I began to grasp the psychological and philosophical leanings of the BL.
I also came across the NAMBLA Web site. I was casually familiar with the organization but had never done any in-depth study of their philosophy. Now, though, I was interested. It wasn’t immediately clear how large the organization was, but it appeared to be the largest organized group of boy lovers in the United States. I assumed that those who traveled with the Hollywood-based travel agency would or could be members; maybe the travel agent was a member. I decided that joining the organization would give me much-needed credibility. It would also put me on the mailing list for the NAMBLA Bulletin , their semiregular magazine, which I assumed would provide more insight into the boy-lover mindset.
I was working with Patti Donahue, the Assistant United States Attorney overseeing the Los Angeles aspect of the Innocent Images National Initiative, an FBI-sponsored program targeting online predators. Patti was a well-respected federal prosecutor and I welcomed her counsel. She approved my joining the organization.
On July 31, 2001, I sent a letter stating,
I’m ready to join. Enclosed you’ll find a money order for $35. I’m a little nervous about adding my name to your rolls. I don’t trust the government but I just read where another coach was arrested for having consensual sex with a player. I’m tired of this.
I mailed the letter and money order to the San Francisco post office box listed on NAMBLA’s Web site.
Within a few weeks, I received a form letter signed by “Peter Herman” from a Midtown Station post office box in New York City. My name was handwritten in the salutation, giving the impression this massive organization had little time to personalize its communications. I remained unimpressed. My letter, welcoming me to the organization, appeared almost to be an afterthought.
Welcome to NAMBLA! We have received and processed your application. Thank you for joining us. You have taken a courageous step, and we congratulate you. . . .
NAMBLA is a political and educational organization. We do not conduct, participate in, or support any illegal activity. We strongly condemn sexual abuse and all forms of coercion, while making a distinction between coercive and consensual activities. We expect all of our members to be aware of this. . . .
Membership and participation in NAMBLA are your right under the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment and the Bill of Rights. . . .
<
br /> Congratulations on your decision to join us and take part in an historic campaign to defend personal freedom in America.
Joining the organization was as simple as that. I was hoping to at least receive a membership card to flaunt at my fellow undercover agents, but I had to make do with a letter praising my “courageous step.”
I began to contact the travel agent. Believing the e-mail communications he had with the case agent were from me, the travel agent spoke with me at length in one of our early conversations of my interest in an upcoming trip and my desire for a younger “clientele.” He mentioned an opening on an October excursion. I specifically told him of my desire for “a ten-year-old mocha teddy bear.” He balked at that comment and strongly cautioned me about talking so openly on the phone. However, he didn’t hang up. We continued the conversation, and he instructed me to mail the application and deposit with a copy of my passport, which I told him had expired and I was getting renewed.
On August 13, I sent a four-hundred-dollar postal money order and the following letter:
Here’s my deposit and application. . . .
You’re right about the phone. Sorry, if I talked too much. It’s just sometimes I get depressed and need somebody to talk with. I guess 10 is unrealistic but I hope 12–14 years old won’t be a problem. I just want my boys young and “mocha.” If it’s a problem I’ll understand. Just return the money, no “hard” feelings. Thanks for being so understanding. . . .
I was surprised when on August 23 the travel agent returned the $400 money order, tour application, and letter. He had underlined in red “10 is unrealistic” and “12–14 years old” and added the following notation: “This would be a problem. Sorry, but I did not realize you were looking in that neighborhood. . . . We cannot [help].”
I assumed our case was dead and that, for one of the few times in my career, I had lost. I pushed too hard on the phone and was over the top with the written letter.
I would soon discover, however, that this case was far from over.
19
RUB-A-DUB-DUB
In October 2002, as the time drew near for our first face-to-face meeting with the “world’s premier body modification expert,” the case agent and I did run into one administrative hurdle, clearly form over substance. The case agent administratively opened a file and classified my undercover wife as an informant. At that time, the FBI had two designations for what some departments categorized as a single classification. An informant was someone who provided information to the FBI without ever revealing that fact to the outside world. A cooperating witness, on the other hand, was an individual who sought to hide his or her identity during the course of an investigation, but was willing to come forward and testify should testimony be required. As the case agent and I were meeting with the SAFE Team supervisor and the FBI Assistant Special Agent in Charge, the ASAC balked at using my undercover wife in such a potentially dangerous situation, exposing the Bureau to potential liability should something go wrong. I could not understand his reluctance as he reviewed the written plan. I explained that throughout my career I often worked with CWs—cooperating witnesses—in more dangerous situations. But my UC wife was not a CW, he explained, she was an informant. With the stroke of a pen and some additional paperwork, we converted my wife from an informant to a cooperating witness. She was unaware of the modification to her status—again, form over substance. But the ASAC was satisfied and the operation was approved.
On October 10, two months after the initial telephone call, my “wife” and I made our way to Todd’s estate, a beautiful home set on a large piece of land surrounded by the houses of actors and professional athletes. I had my wife stay in the car as I approached the residence. I politely knocked on the door several times with no response. I then pounded. As I began to question whether the target suspected an undercover sting and decided to cancel our meeting, the door opened.
Before me, stood a five-foot-eight-inch, forty-year-old man with a protruding paunch. He was barefoot, shirtless, and sported earrings, pierced nipples, and tattoos. Todd wasn’t exactly the picture of professional competence I might have expected should I truly be seeking someone to perform such a delicate procedure on my daughters.
It was late in the afternoon and he excused his appearance by stating that he had performed a procedure that lasted all night and was just now awakening. I signaled for my wife to join us and we followed Todd into his expansive kitchen, almost as large as my first house. As the three of us sat at the kitchen table, a female who appeared to be in her early twenties entered the kitchen and stood by the refrigerator, almost at a parade-rest position, her arms folded behind her back. She was extremely thin but reminded me of the actress Jennifer Garner.
Todd was not the least bit hesitant in discussing his activities and readily answered our questions. My biggest problem was controlling my wife, who peppered him with queries, often interrupting him as he was about to make incriminating statements. She was a perfect undercover wife, and her sincere inquiries added to our overall credibility. However, I needed evidence: verbal admissions that he performed the procedures in the past and was willing to perform them on our underage daughters. Todd, however, was careful and skated around the law in his explanation of the procedures he performed. He agreed to do the procedures on our daughters but would not acknowledge having done them on juveniles in the past.
I was shocked when Todd interrupted one of my questions by loudly snapping his fingers and demanding a soft drink. Robyn, the pretty female standing near the refrigerator, grabbed a can of soda and marched over to the table. She squatted down, kissed the can, and ceremoniously presented the can to him using both hands. She then rose, took one step backward, executed an about-face, and returned to her position guarding the refrigerator.
Did I just see what I thought I saw? I wanted to snap my fingers and see if I could instigate a repeat performance, but I was too stunned to move.
Within a few minutes, Todd demanded that Robyn “bring the notebooks.” She returned with four huge notebooks crammed with hundreds of eight-by-ten photos of procedures he had done, including male and female circumcisions, piercings, and genital modifications. Every photo was of an adult and Todd, who only admitted to “dabbling in college” and didn’t claim to be a licensed medical professional, was not violating federal law by performing the procedures. His patients were consenting adults and the FBI had no desire to legislate morality. Had he refused to perform the surgery on our “daughters,” we would have thanked him and moved on—but the afternoon was far from over.
I expressed concern for my daughters’ safety, trying to elicit an admission that he had safely performed surgery on underage females in the past. I even suggested a child’s anatomy was different from an adult’s. Todd skillfully avoided answering the question with any criminal admission and once again emphasized the illegality of the procedure. He assured us, however, that his methods were safe. To reinforce his emphasis that no harm would come to our daughters, he asked us to accompany him to the downstairs bedroom. As the three of us got up, Robyn meekly asked permission to sit at the kitchen table, now that we were leaving. He granted her request. But the theater of the absurd was only beginning.
Todd walked us toward a large bedroom with a king-size, four-poster bed. He matter-of-factly explained that this was where he performed his procedures. He tied patients to each of the four posters, restraining them as he operated. He then escorted us into the bathroom. On the bathroom vanity, I immediately noticed several sanitary napkins soaked in blood, but as I turned the corner I was confronted by a scene few would ever believe: two people sitting naked in a bathtub of bloody water!
I had no idea how to react and there is no way any undercover school could have ever prepared me for such a sight. Before me was a large white woman in her late thirties wearing glasses. She had purple hair, the largest breasts I have ever seen—not intended as a compliment, by the way—and both her nipples were pierced. The other person w
as a thin white man in his mid-thirties, tapping away on his laptop computer.
I managed to hang on to my composure as Todd explained that he had performed procedures on both of them throughout the night. They were sitting in an herbal preparation that encouraged rapid healing. Rather than bandaging the incisions, his patients were allowed to bleed into the herbal bath. By now my curiosity took over and I inquired about what procedures were performed. The female had circumcision, the same procedure I wanted for my daughters, he said, and the male had his urethra re-routed so he could urinate out an opening in his scrotum. The naked male, calmly working on his laptop computer while bathing in blood, told us he reasoned that if sperm and urine came out of the same orifice, the sperm might be contaminated, thus creating the possibility of diseased or disabled children.
I am not making this up.
The fact that men have been siring children since Cain and Abel by means of a single, multipurpose opening didn’t seem to enter his calculations. I suppose the moral of the tableau is that a fool and his money are, indeed, soon parted.
As our meeting ended, I thanked Todd for his hospitality and promised him my wife and I would discuss everything. I told him I was certain we would be speaking again. After all, who knew what sort of sideshow he might provide next time around?
After my initial, failed overture to the gay travel agency in 2001, I decided to make one more try. I called the travel agent and apologized for the misunderstanding. We spoke briefly and apparently my mea culpa worked. I must have come across as a naïve pedophile. By the end of the conversation, he said he could “satisfy” all my needs, but I could not talk about such matters over the phone or put my requests in writing. Such statements became evidence for inquiring law enforcement officials, he warned. We agreed to meet in the near future.
