by Tim Wood
This informant was a professional. And by that I mean he was in it for the money. The Secret Service didn’t have a lot of money to throw around at snitches; most of our informants were arrestees that were working “off the beef,” arrestees who agreed to provide information to us against the other members of the conspiracy, in exchange for leniency from the US Attorney. Working with a professional informant was always a little dicey for us…we couldn’t pay these guys much and there’s no telling what he expected. The DEA was known for paying big money to informants for drug seizures, but you have to remember we were investigating counterfeit currency; and counterfeit money is worthless, it has no value. So seizing a million dollars of worthless counterfeit was not the same as seizing a million dollars worth of cocaine. I had to be careful and up front with this guy.
It turned out the professional didn’t really care. He had just run into a guy named Joe Mullane at a local bar and Joe was looking for a guy to bankroll a printing operation and he picked the wrong guy to confide his plans in. The ATF informant had never seen this guy before and he could give a shit about him and his counterfeit operation. The informant said he would gladly make an introduction of my guy to Joe for one hundred dollars and then he wanted out of the picture.
The ATF informant got in touch with Joe and told him he knew a guy that might have some money to invest, “Give him a call, he owns a bar in Henderson and he’s always looking to make a buck. His name is Mike.” The snitch gave Joe our undercover telephone number and I paid him one hundred dollars. Then we waited for Joe to call.
I was sitting in the Beaver’s office and we were discussing an antelope hunt in east central Nevada, up near Ely. The Beaver had a permit for one antelope on a rare summer deprivation hunt on a rancher’s property. It seemed the rancher’s alfalfa fields were being destroyed by a small herd of antelopes and the State didn’t take kindly to ranchers being annoyed by antelope. The Nevada Department of Wildlife put eleven permits out for a lottery draw. The Beaver drew one and I didn’t, but I was going with him to keep him out of trouble. We were supposed to leave the next weekend on Sunday, and hunt Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.
We heard the undercover telephone ringing down the hall and dashed to the room. I closed the door just as the Beaver pushed the record button and said hello. It was Joe. He said he understood “Mike” was a businessman and he had a business proposal. He wanted to meet with “Mike” at the sports book bar at the Desert Inn. Joe said he would be sitting at the bar wearing a Cubs ball cap. He said he had some samples of his proposition to show “Mike.”
One thing we didn’t want Joe to do was control the investigation. We didn’t have time to get our act together to run over to the Desert Inn, so “Mike” said he was working but he could meet him around six o’clock that evening at the parking lot of the First Interstate Bank Building on Paradise Road. “Mike” said he was driving a white IROC-Z Camaro and he’d park on the south side of he lot. “And wear your Cubs cap,” added the Beaver as he winked at me.
Secret Service agents are privileged to drive government cars, with home to work authority and we all knew the cars weren’t ours, but a guy does get attached to his G-ride. I’ve seen some crazy arguments and backstabbing over the years when new G-rides arrive at an office. Donnie was always trying to get my Camaro back—it had once been assigned to him. I looked at the Beaver and reminded him we had an undercover car specifically for these types of meets. The Beaver reminded me that he was a businessman in this undercover assignment and he couldn’t drive that piece-of-shit sedan that screamed “Law Enforcement officer” to a meet.
About an hour before the meet, Donnie went over to a three-story parking garage that overlooked the south side of the meet site and picked a nice spot in the shade to see if Mullane had any countersurveillance planned.
The boss parked across the street in the Citibank branch lot, and I took the surveillance van and parked on the south side of the First Interstate Bank building, nose in with the rear, facing south. The Beaver was supposed to pull in opposite my location and park facing south. At six o’clock on a weekday, the parking lot would be empty, with plenty of room for us to maneuver.
The Beaver got all wired up and drove to the meet site. As he drove toward our positions he was talking to me through the UHF transmitter and it was loud and clear. He pulled into the lot at about five minutes to six; he got out of the car and sat on the hood of my Camaro. All 280 pounds of him. I could see the hood bending under is butt. If you put a permanent dent in the hood of my Camaro, you can eat cheeseburgers with Donnie. Joe pulled in at a few minutes after six.
Joe was driving a beat-up old Datsun two-door with the right rear taillight smashed in and he had a woman with him. The Datsun coupe was a sun-faded blue that looked almost white. A few coats of wax and some shade would’ve done that Datsun some good when it was still shiny blue. The Vegas sun is brutal on car finishes and you could tell Joe didn’t take care of it. The woman looked to be about eighteen to twenty years old. I had a great view out the back windows of the van; the Beaver was just across the parking lot, directly opposite the surveillance van. The parking lot was completely empty, just has we had guessed it would be. Bankers…what a great job; you get to go home Monday through Friday after an eight-hour day and you don’t work weekends.
Joe parked right next to the surveillance van. With the height advantage, I could peer out the side windows on our surveillance van directly inside the Datsun at the girl sitting in the passenger’s side. She sat there looking bored as Joe met with the Beaver over by my Camaro.
Joe said he worked at a Las Vegas print shop and he was an experienced printer. He said he was going to print counterfeit money at the print shop where he worked, after everybody else had left for the day. Joe looked to be in his early twenties, not much older than “Trixie” sitting in the Datsun. Years of experience. I’m sure you do. And a Cubs fan to boot. Joe said he needed three hundred dollars to buy some high-quality paper in order for the bills to be passable. Joe told “Mike” he was going to print $100,000 in twenties.
The Beaver looked at Joe and asked, “How the hell do you print counterfeit money?” Joe proceeded to give “Mike” a quick lesson on the art of counterfeiting; and he was right on target with his description. The Beaver played dumb and wanted to know how anybody could pass that stuff, and said, “Does it look that real?”
“I’ve got a sample with me,” Joe told the Beaver, “one that I printed before I left Chicago.”
Joe walked over toward the passenger’s side of the Datsun. His back was blocking my view from the side window of the surveillance van. I could tell he was talking to the girl. I was worried she might be giving him a gun, so I narrated the movements of Joe for Donnie and the boss, “S-one said he had a sample in his car. He’s walking to his vehicle,” I said, “Stand by.” But when Joe turned to go back to Beaver, I could plainly see his hands and all he had was one bill. I glanced over and saw Trixie zipping her purse. “S-two handed him one note. S-one walking over to our guy, all clear. Stand by.”
Joe handed the Beaver a counterfeit five-dollar bill. “Looks pretty good, are you sure this is counterfeit?”
“Oh, yeah,” Joe bragged, “I’m really good. And with the high-quality paper they are completely undetectable! I can print anything.” I love a crook that brags, especially when it’s on tape. The Beaver wanted to know what was in it for him, if he were to provide the three hundred dollars for the paper.
Joe said he would print “Mike” one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of counterfeit twenties for ten thousand real cash. “You could sell those for twenty-five to thirty cents on the dollar, easy,” said Joe, “You could triple your ten-thousand-dollar investment.”
“Mike” said that was a pretty good return on his money, but he wanted to know where the print shop was located. “No offense, Joe,” said the Beaver, “but I just met ya and this seems too good to be true.
Are you a cop?”
“No, no, no,” said Joe, “I just need to make a little cash. I just need an investor. My cash flow is a little low right now. The print shop is over on Highland and I can take you by there and show you. I’m legit. We can go right now,” said Joe. He was obviously anxious to seal this deal.
The Beaver told Joe that he had to get going; he had things to do tonight, but he’d meet him tomorrow night at around nine at the print shop and give him the three hundred dollars. The Beaver added, “Can I keep this five?”
“Sure,” said Joe. “The shop is just north of Spring Mountain Road, across from Walt’s Bar.”
The boss and Donnie followed Joe as he drove south on Paradise Road. The Beaver watched Joe exit the parking lot, got in my Camaro, and drove north on Paradise Road. I stayed put in the van until Donnie called me on the radio to report Joe was eastbound on Tropicana and clear of the area.
I met the Beaver in the parking lot at our office and we walked inside to wait for Donnie and the boss to return. I ran the license plate on the Datsun and it came back to a Michelle Edison, on Sierra Vista, Las Vegas. When Donnie and the boss walked in, they said Joe and the girl drove to an apartment complex on Sierra Vista, got out, and walked into one of the units on the main floor of the building.
The four of us sat in the boss’s office and listened to the tape recording of the meeting. The Beaver said, “I don’t know about this guy, he’s awful anxious and fidgety. He’s a drug addict no doubt.”
The boss said, “We have to be careful with this one guys, this smells like a setup.”
At nine o’clock the next night, Donnie, the boss, and I set up a surveillance to cover the Beaver at the print shop. Beaver waited out by my Camaro and Joe walked outside to meet him. “Come on in,” he said to the Beaver. “I’ll give you a tour.”
“Hey listen,” said the Beaver, “Something came up and I can’t stay long. But run this by me again would you. If I pay you ten thousand dollars, you’ll print and sell me one hundred thousand dollars in counterfeit twenty-dollar bills? And I have to buy this paper you need?”
“Oh yeah, absolutely. Good, high-quality funny money!”
“Well, as a businessman, it seems I’m taking all the risk. How do I know you won’t just take my money and run?”
“Normally I don’t operate like this,” said Joe, “But I just started this job and haven’t got my first paycheck yet. I wouldn’t fuck ya. I swear I wouldn’t.”
The Beaver handed Joe three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and said, “Here is three hundred dollars. I want you to call me second you get the paper. And if I don’t answer, leave me a voice mail. Then call me when you’re ready to start printing.”
“Oh yeah, thanks Mike. I will, I will. We’re partners now.”
* * *
On Sunday morning the Beaver and I took off for Ely. His pickup was crammed full of our camping gear and coolers, some for beer and some for antelope. We figured we would get up there early and do what we do best, knock on the door of the rancher’s house, introduce our selves, and say hello. Might as well make a new best friend, especially if he had lots of acreage for hunting. You never know; fall was around the corner and he might have mule deer, elk, turkey, pheasants, and quail. This place could be our hunting heaven. We surmised he was a Mormon, as a lot of folk in the rural areas out west are. The Beaver, being a Catholic from Utah, told me not to worry. A lot of his pals in the PD back in Salt Lake City were Mormons and he said he knew the secret handshake.
The rancher’s name was Ethan and he was a good guy, friendly as hell, as most folks who live in the middle of nowhere are. Ethan invited us to camp on his ranch and showed us a good spot down by a spring, right in the center of his alfalfa fields. Great spot; we could wake up and wait for the antelope to come to us. Sunday evening he stopped by and had a beer with us. He must be a Jack Mormon.
Monday morning we were up early and I was thinking a good hot cup of coffee was just what we needed to take the chill off. There was a frost on the ground and I was shivering, it had been close to one hundred degrees Sunday afternoon and now I was freezing. It was a new moon and it was darker than shit. I stared at the eastern horizon as it was just starting to glow pink. Come on sun…get up! I started to build a fire for the coffee pot, when the Beaver said, “Cover your ears!”
There was an antelope forty feet in front of us, I could just barely make out his shape in the darkness, the Beaver shot, and I was standing right next to him. Jesus fucking Christ! I didn’t get my hands up to my ears and now they were ringing to beat the band. I could barely see the outline of the antelope as he ran away. “You asshole!” I said, “How could you miss that shot, Beaver?”
“Ethan said there were about thirty of ’em in here,” said the Beaver. “I’ll have plenty more chances.” It took a couple of hours before my hearing returned too normal.
We didn’t see another antelope until Wednesday. As Monday and Tuesday progressed, I was counting the shots in the distance. The other hunters, the ones that didn’t get the prime camping spot on Ethan’s property, were killing antelope left and right. By Wednesday morning, we heard shot number ten ring out. Now it looked like “Mr. Number Eleven” was the last hunter standing. Ethan stopped by our camp about lunchtime to see how we doing. It wasn’t going too good, we had not seen an antelope since Monday morning. “Go to the far south end of the ranch,” he said, “And glass up alongside the hillside to the west. During the hot part of the day, you’ll see their horns poking up over the sagebrush as they try to cool down in shade.” And believe me, that desert was hot that day.
We took off in the Beaver’s pickup and drove the three miles down a dirt road that bisected the ranch. We spent a good two hours glassing the hillside and didn’t see shit. Suddenly, I saw a huge plume of dust to the north. What the heck? Somebody was driving very fast in our direction. I put the binoculars up to my eyes and saw it was Ethan on his tractor heading toward us and he had that tractor at full speed. I immediately thought something was wrong—maybe there was an accident? We got in the truck and headed north to intercept Ethan to see how we could help.
Ethan screeched to a halt in front of us and dust went flying like crazy. He looked at the Beaver, “You want an antelope? There’s a big buck in my alfalfa field and he ain’t scared of my tractor, so jump on.” The Beaver slung the rifle on his shoulder, stood on the back of the tractor holding on the back of the seat and off they went back north. I waited a few minutes to let the dust settle and followed in the truck.
When I got back up near the alfalfa field, I grabbed the binoculars to get a good look. The Beaver was covered in light brown dust…I mean covered. He was standing next to that dark red tractor, not thirty yards from a very large antelope. The antelope was grazing on the alfalfa, not even paying any attention to Ethan, the Beaver or the tractor. The Beaver wiped dirt and sweat from his eyes and worked the bolt on the rifle. He was using the tractor for cover and he tried to use the hood of that Massey Ferguson as a brace, but the hood was hot and he jerked his arm off real quick and let out a yelp. Mr. Antelope could have cared less. The Beaver took a deep breath and assumed a nice standing position with the rifle at his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger and the antelope dropped like a dishtowel on the kitchen floor. I could see Ethan sitting on the tractor laughing his ass off.
I walked across the field to see the kill. The Beaver was caked with dust and he was spitting mud, but he finally got an antelope.
* * *
Thursday morning I went in the office early and started checking the incoming message traffic to the office, to see what was happening Service wide while I’d been on leave. The Riverside Resident Agency had sent out a new counterfeit note report to our Counterfeit Division in DC, A new counterfeit twenty had been passed at a fast food place near Ontario, California. The local PD had responded and interviewed the passer. His name was Douglas Henry and he was
from Las Vegas. The Ontario PD arrested Henry for forgery and he was released on bond.
A new counterfeit note…that was interesting. Somebody had a printing operation going and it might just be in Las Vegas. No one else had come in to the office yet, so I locked the door and set the burglar alarm. I jumped into my IROC-Z and drove to the Henry address to snoop around a little. Maybe Joe had printed that counterfeit and maybe he didn’t. You just never knew until you start investigating.
The address listed for Henry was east of the airport off of Hacienda and Pecos Road, a residential area with middle class homes. No cars were in the driveway and no cars were parked in front of the house on the street. I drove to Spring Mountain and made a drive-by of Joe’s print shop on Highland to get some plates from cars in their parking lot, I wanted to see if any one working at the print shop was named Henry or had cars registered to Henry’s address. I came up empty. It was about nine in the morning after I finished running the plates with LVMPD and started to head back to the office. I decided to do one more drive-by at the Henry residence to see if any cars had shown up.
There still were no vehicles at the house and the scene hadn’t changed much since my first visit at around seven that morning, except for a young guy, maybe late teens early twenties mowing the front yard. What the hell, I’ll stop by and introduce myself. As we stood in the front yard under the shade of an old mesquite tree, the kid said his name was Douglas Henry Junior and he was nineteen. He said his dad was at work and there was no mom.
I asked him about the counterfeit note and I could tell he suddenly became extremely nervous. I decided to play nice guy and explained Title 18 United States Code Section 471, and the penalties for printing counterfeit currency. I told him people who cooperate with an investigation have a very good chance, especially if they have no criminal record, of getting the US Attorney to help them out. Not everybody goes to jail. We went into the house and sat in the living room. It was time to get serious…I advised Henry of his Miranda rights and he started talking.
