by Bob Hamer
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.
39
LOSING IT?
As 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.
By 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.
With the CIA passing and the FBI in a hiring freeze, I knew I needed to find a job. I would be out of the Marine Corps on August 15 and the summer was quickly coming to an end. I finally accepted a position in Los Angeles with a small broadcasting company. The exact job description was never completely spelled out, but my enthusiasm for the position was still less than what the employer deserved.
My parents came out to California the second week of August for vacation and stayed in our tiny three-bedroom home. During the job search, I was frustrated with my wife. I really didn’t want to take the L.A. job and wanted her to understand. She enjoyed being the wife of a Marine and secretly wanted me to stay in. She was frustrated with me because after six years of marriage—two while I was in law school and four while I was an attorney in the Corps—I was now making an about-face on the job front. Although I wouldn’t characterize our talk that evening as an argument, it is fair to say we each expressed our frustrations with
the other.
We were letting my parents stay in our bedroom. My wife slept with our one-year-old daughter in the spare bedroom and I slept on the couch. That night, before going to bed, I gave it all up to God: “Okay, God, I really don’t want to take this job in L.A. The pay’s good, so your 10 percent will be more than if I got the CIA job or the Bureau hired me, but I really don’t want to do this. I’ll leave it in your hands, but I sure wish the FBI or the Agency would call.”
The next morning, I was—how can I put it?—seated in the place where I do most of my best reading, when the phone rang. My wife answered, then hollered into the bathroom that it was for me. We were selling our VW van to another Marine at the time, and I assumed that was what the call was about. I yelled, “It’s Larry; tell him it’s five thousand dollars.” She then cracked open the door and said, “It’s the FBI.”
As quickly as possible I ran to the phone. I was told a spot had just opened in the September academy class and was asked if I could report by September 17. There was no hesitation in my response.
God truly answered my prayer with that phone call. I reflected often on that evening in those frustrating days when the legal and administrative hurdles seemed overwhelming. I am convinced God had a purpose in putting me in the FBI. Maybe it was to expose the boy lover agenda—or just to get a few bad guys off the street.
When I next spoke with David Mayer, I had to raise an issue that concerned me. Going into the conversation, I felt as if I were walking on eggshells. Sam Lindblad committed to the trip, and he was one of several persons David did not want me to invite, fearing Sam’s three-time-loser status and recent release from prison might put him and everyone with him on the law enforcement radar screen. Knowing what I knew about his activities since his release, I wanted Sam arrested. I was concerned, however, that David or Todd would learn from one of the others Sam was coming and react badly, jeopardizing the cohesiveness of my group of targets. It made more sense for them to hear it from me rather than through the back door, which would likely arouse even more suspicion.
I presented it to David Mayer and the others as “good news, bad news.” The good news was we had ten travelers; the bad news was I invited Sam and he accepted. David was not thrilled with the news, even if it meant our group was at ten and it included Dick Stutsman. David said, “My heart bleeds for him. . . . There, but for the grace of God, goes each of us.” Nevertheless, David’s knowledge of the law and experience counseling registered sex offenders made him very uncomfortable with Sam accompanying us. Had I gone too far? Would David back out and take Todd with him? Would my greed destroy the investigation? I quickly went into my reassuring sales pitch, and even though the topic would reemerge, David seemed to be somewhat at ease by the end of our conversation.
Despite his misgivings about Sam, David was pleased so many would be joining us, referring to the trip as a mini-convention, minus “Peter, Tim, and the insane.” David even questioned whether he was still in NAMBLA. He had not heard from Peter or the organization, nor had he received a Bulletin since the conference. He thought Peter might have kicked him out.
We spoke more about his sexual travel adventures. In the Thailand “boy bars” he saw a five-year-old working, and in Mexico, he told me, he did not tip for specific sexual favors. Instead, he would pay for meals in exchange for sex and tip fifty to seventy-five dollars for several days and nights of nonstop company. He described some of his adventures as “one-night stands” and others as “one-hour stands.”
As was typical of all our conversations, the criminal admissions rolled off his tongue. It just seemed too easy. Was I the subject of some study by the Department of Health and Human Resources or maybe David’s doctoral dissertation?
I was still struggling with health issues including a nagging cough, sore throat, and insomnia. At this point, even two or three hours of uninterrupted sleep was a lot. I would wake thinking of the dozens of individuals we were targeting and the particular issues surrounding each of the three undercover investigations. Keeping it “real” in my undercover role, I mentioned the sore throat to Todd and David in an e-mail, using it as an excuse to beg off scheduled three-way phone calls. This provided a convenient dodge, because at this point in the investigation, each contact meant one more opportunity to lose the case rather than win it. The evidence was there; the only nail left for the coffin was the pedophiles’ arrival on the West Coast, confirming their intent. A slip in a phone conversation or e-mail could mean our whole house of cards tumbled. I wanted to avoid that if possible—especially given my deteriorating health.
Just to keep the channels of communication alive and not arouse suspicion, on February 1, I sent an e-mail to Todd and David detailing a dream that never occurred.
I have to tell you about a funny dream I had last night. I dreamed we bought the B and B in Mexico. David was working the front counter and Todd was practicing dentistry in one of the rooms. I said to Todd, “You don’t have a license,” and he said he was licensed in Texas. I said, “This is Mexico.” Todd said that Texas used to be part of Mexico so he could still practice. We decided to have our fall conference at the B and B but didn’t invite Peter. Then I woke up. By the way, I got my voice back. Sorry, guys, but it looks like I’m gonna live . . . Daddy
Later that day, David responded.
Daddy Dearest,
I would have written sooner, however, I was so distraught at the thought of your terminal, er, sore throat, that I went out and started buying lots of black ensembles—in cashmere, along with a few trinkets from Tiffany’s. Just in case I needed to wear something to a memorial service, & for the probate reading (you do have the correct spelling of my last name? Do you need a Social Security #?) . . . however, with your full recovery . . . which of course, I cannot begin to tell you how thrilled I am about that . . . I will have to return all my items . . . including the new BMW. . . .
I will try and call Paul tonight and see how he is doing. Remember, all of this is very overwhelming for him . . . this is someone who has never been on an airplane! Anything new with “David” . . . has he heard from the future first lady?
Got to run—talk to you this week.
David
Todd also replied.
I would love to own a B and B. I’ll leave my dental equipment behind in Dallas this trip, but next time I could bring my stuff and you guys could be my assistants. This could augment the modest income the boys would bring in. . . . I could sing on the side and . . .
I spoke briefly to Greg Nusca, aka David R. Busby, one more time before the February 12 trip. On January 30, he called to say the travel agency received the application. He again expressed his excitement and appreciation for being invited.
The chickens were all coming to roost. Now, if I could just keep it together long enough to close the door to the chicken coop. . . .
40
KEEP THOSE PLATES SPINNING
On February 1, I experienced one of those moments that can happen to an undercover agent while participating in multiple operations. In addition to posing as a NAMBLA member and an international arms merchant targeting Chinese, Russian, and Iraqi organized crime figures, I was the undercover agent in a San Diego investigation of Vietnamese drug traffickers. That afternoon, I was negotiating a crystal methamphetamine transaction with the Vietnamese. I was between meetings, sitting in a parking lot with my San Diego case agents, when the phone rang. I assumed it was my Vietnamese target and prepared to record the call.
To my surprise, it was Dick Stutsman from South Carolina. The call was pure dynamite, erasing any defense he might even hope to mount during a trial.
Dick was a talker and I let him talk. Maybe my ego should have been bruised, but he didn’t remember me from the Miami conference. With only seventeen members present and me having actually talked with him on several occasions, you would have thought I would have made an impression. Apparently not.
Dick was going on the “fishing trip,” he said, but he was scare
d. “I can’t resist temptation, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Back in the mid-eighties, I was the target of a sting operation. So I’m a little bit hypersensitive to the possibility that this is a sting operation. . . . Even if there is a one chance in a thousand that it is, it really wouldn’t be worth the risk.”
When I responded by telling him I wasn’t sure I would back out knowing the odds were that much in my favor, Dick said, “If you do something this risky a thousand times in your life, you’re gonna get caught. . . . I don’t want to lose my freedom. . . . I’m almost sixty and something like this could just ruin the whole rest of my life.”
I expressed my appreciation for his caution and said that if I did not completely trust my friend, “Sean,” I would not be going on the trip either.
Dick continued to express his concern. As part of the NAMBLA pen-pal and holiday card program, he corresponded with twenty prisoners, many of whom were incarcerated through various sting operations. In a conversation that was almost unbelievable, Dick said,
You know that Bush passed a law that modified and made stronger the law that Clinton passed in ’94. Bush signed a law in 2003 that further criminalizes people going overseas to do stuff illegal that might even be legal there. . . . Apparently, though, the way sting operations work, you don’t actually have to commit the crime. You only have to have exhibited intent. So now, here’s a scenario. Somebody is going to offer a . . . let’s say a sex tour. And you send them a deposit check with your signature on it. And they get on the phone with you, and they ask what kind of person would you like to have sex with? You specify, “Well I’d like . . . a fourteen-year-old kid, maybe.” Now, you’ve expressed intent to commit a crime. I think that might be all that’s necessary in a sting operation. So then, we all gather at, say, some meeting place, where other people have [sic] similarly have been invited and have the same kind of thing, and we all write checks for the rest of the amount. And while we’re all there, a paddy wagon drives up, and we all get on it. We’re all under arrest. I can see that . . . that’s why I’m scared. . . . If I were a member of the Justice Department who wanted to catch people like this, this is how I would do it . . . ten people at a time. That’s still gonna make the news, and it’s gonna get votes for the administration.
