by Bob Hamer
Not long after the Scottsdale incident, my home phone rang, late one evening. It was Dave, calling collect from jail. He had been arrested for possession of a kilogram of cocaine and was being held in the Orange County Jail in Santa Ana, California. In light of his refusal to do a line in Scottsdale I was surprised by the possession arrest. Dave asked if I could help “raise bail.” I promised to do all I could and immediately called my case agent. With a series of calls throughout the night, we were able to “raise the bail” to $1 million. I know that wasn’t Dave’s intent, but you have to admit, we did follow his spoken request to the letter.
The next day, as we continued to insure Dave would not be released, my wife became an important part of the investigation. Although the FBI was not new to undercover operations, we lacked some of the sophistication developed during the course of my career. For one thing, cell phones were nonexistent at this time. The number I provided the bad guys was merely a “cold” number at the FBI office subscribed to by my undercover company. I would have calls to that number forwarded to my home so there was no way anyone could identify where I lived, yet I would always be accessible. While I was in the FBI office, working with other agents on Dave’s arrest, my wife received a call at home. I had forgotten to stop the call-forwarding feature on the office cold phone, and my wife, unsuspecting, answered the phone. The caller asked for me. She said I was “at the office.” When the caller asked for that number, my wife had the sense to ask who was calling. The caller identified himself as a friend of Dave. Fortunately, she kept her cool and asked the caller for a number and told him I would call him later that evening. Had she not been so perceptive and instead given him the number of the FBI office, the case would have ended as soon as somebody at the Bureau answered the phone. My wife was developing the street smarts of an undercover agent. We also learned from that incident, and once we moved to L.A., we had two phones installed at the house. My children called them the good-guy phone and the bad-guy phone; I was the only person allowed to answer the bad-guy phone.
So there was Dave, my first undercover target, sitting in jail, no doubt trying to figure the circumstances by which his bail had gone up to a million dollars. As bad as his short-term prospects were, his long-term prospects were about to get even worse.
A subsequent search of Dave’s storage facility resulted in the recovery of over $1 million in stolen property, including the antique clocks. Dave was sentenced to ten years in prison, after pleading guilty to charges of transporting stolen property across state lines. I never learned if he took up the Christian Science religion. And thanks to a very savvy case agent who negotiated the plea, Dave never learned I was an undercover agent. He and his associates thought I had slipped past the long arm of the law.
Operation Ruffcut, as we named the investigation, was only beginning and continued without me when I transferred to Los Angeles. Dave’s arrest allowed me to bow out gracefully. We closed the Sorrento Valley undercover office and reopened one in another section of San Diego. Other undercover agents replaced me, targeting Dave’s associates, and took the operation beyond anything we ever dreamed. Building upon my initial contributions and the continued outstanding work of the other undercover agents, the FBI broke a major interstate theft ring specializing in heavy equipment, art, gems, and weapons. In addition, the agents identified a cocaine trafficking ring operating out of Denver; over thirty individuals were indicted when everything was said and done. I was saddened by my inability to be a part of that portion of the investigation, but proud of my efforts at getting the investigation started and allowing it to proceed with such success. More importantly, I had become an undercover agent and was successful in my first foray into the criminal world.
New York NAMBLA Conference
As we weaved through molasses-slow New York traffic, the ever-constant blaring of horns and what I assumed to be curses in Arabic from my Middle Eastern cab driver interrupted my mental preparation for the NAMBLA encounter, but the moment of truth was quickly approaching. He pulled up in front of Grand Central Station, and it was time for me to meet my “fellow” pedophiles.
I hobbled from the cab using my crutch—my cover identity involved being a handicapped, “grandfatherly” type of independent financial means—and began the long walk around the train station. Even though the invitation said we would be meeting at 6:30 PM in the lower-level dining concourse, I wanted to be fashionably late. I continued walking around the upper level, with its fifty-plus retail specialty shops, and admiring the 125-foot vaulted ceiling, painted to resemble the evening sky. I ducked in and out of shops as commuters hustled home for the weekend. They were seeking refuge after a long week of labor; my job was just beginning
I glanced at my watch; it was well past 6:30. It sounds like a tired, B-movie cliché, but I really did say to myself in a barely audible voice, “It’s showtime!” More than twenty restaurants encircled the lower level, our prearranged meeting spot. I had no idea for whom to look or what to expect. Other than a few grainy photos of suspected or known members I found on the Internet, I wasn’t even sure I would be able to identify the group.
NAMBLA wasn’t the Mafia, so I wasn’t looking for Al Pacino look-alikes congregating in a corner. Nor were they members of an outlaw motorcycle gang “flying colors,” or an L.A.-based street gang like the Crips or Bloods, adorned in their respective blue or red. Instead, NAMBLA was an organization of men seeking to legitimize their sexual attraction to boys, and most members sought to hide their affiliation. What if I couldn’t identify the group? What if they had already identified me as a special agent with the FBI and this was all part of an elaborate scheme to expose me as an undercover agent? Even if that were true, I didn’t feel my life was in danger, not on this assignment. No, the risks of this investigation were far more subtle than dodging bullets.
3
CHINA WHITE
In the late eighties my partner and I were warned by an informant that a street gang had put out a contract on our lives. Word was disseminated throughout the hood that a financial reward awaited anyone who was willing to “blast on the two white dudes in the green Grand Prix.” We fooled our adversaries by the less-than-sophisticated and clever ruse of switching cars. While I was undercover, members of the L.A. Mafia had on several occasions threatened to break my legs, run me over with a car, or bury me. Several men I arrested threatened to kill me once they completed their prison sentence—threats that never materialized but caused anxiety for my family when the men were released. The point is, I’d experienced enough real physical danger that I wasn’t too worried about what a group of pedophiles might do. I was more afraid of being mugged in the subway than being attacked by NAMBLA members, and yet, apprehension gnawed ceaselessly at my stomach. The simple fact was, I didn’t know if I was going to be able to play this part well enough to pull off the assignment. The prospect of acting and thinking enough like one of these child molesters to be taken for one of them was making my skin crawl.
The crowds seemed to grow larger as I limped toward the lower level. How would I recognize the targets? I couldn’t exactly expect a big sign reading “NAMBLA MEETS HERE!” Although FBI agents from New York were covering me, I had little chance of communicating with them should I fail to spot the quarry.
Ten or fifteen steps down the ramp alleviated all my identification questions. My eyes were immediately drawn to several men congregating near a wooden bench. Central casting, send me some perverts! At first glance, they seemed so obvious—white men, poorly dressed, unshaven, overweight, some even wearing cheap, black, horn-rim glasses. But upon closer examination, not everyone fit my stereotypical image of a child molester. In fact, several of the men looked normal, not like creeps or monsters. They could have been your son’s teacher, coach, or neighbor. But the group stood out like blue jeans at a formal dinner: clusters of men, chatting with each other—and not so subtly gawking at the occasional teen or preteen boy racing for a train. They reminded me of a bunch of fraternit
y guys at a wet T-shirt contest—except the objects of their hungry scrutiny were young men and boys, rather than gyrating, oversexed females. They were obviously out of place with the well-attired businessman or day laborer walking purposefully toward the subway. Their mere presence screamed “probable cause!” in my cop brain. I laughed inwardly at being so anxious about finding my new “soul mates.”
Instead, I began to fear the group was so obvious the beat cops patrolling the area would hassle us on general principle and blow the entire operation before it ever got going. In fact, four uniformed police officers stood within twenty-five feet of where most of the NAMBLA members had gathered. The cops were probably talking about the Jets or the Giants, failing to even notice the boy lover assemblage congregating in their presence. At any moment, though, I expected the uniforms to swarm.
Rather than marching directly toward the men, I made my way to the restroom. As I stood at the urinal, a snatch of a Bible verse went through my head: the passage where Moses tells Joshua, as he leads his people toward the Promised Land, to not be afraid, since God would always be with them. I smiled and thought, “God, you and I are going to the NAMBLA convention.”
As I walked out of the restroom, an FBI agent I recognized from the briefing sidled up to me. “They’re in the middle of the concourse,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. I gave an understanding nod but didn’t need his help. They were pathetically obvious. I moved toward the belly of the beast.
By now about twenty men were gathered, all of them trusted NAMBLA members who had been with the organization at least three years and were specifically selected to attend this year’s conference. I thrust out my hand and began greeting my new friends. Although I could tell I was viewed with suspicion, everyone returned the greeting. I did, however, keep an eye on the uniformed cops standing almost within earshot of our gathering. As an undercover agent, I was concerned they might disrupt the operation, but I also wanted to appear nervous about the law enforcement presence being so close. A member noticed my anxiety and tried to put me at ease. “Relax. They’re looking for muggers and terrorists.”
Maybe I had passed the first test.
Most undercover operations are initiated with an introduction by what law enforcement calls an informant, a source, a cooperating witness, or—a term I try to avoid—a snitch. This person’s motivation may be revenge or money. More typically, though, the individual is “working off a beef” and has agreed to cooperate as part of a plea agreement. Even though informants can mean tremendous administrative and investigative headaches, they represent the lifeblood of many law enforcement operations. An informant can provide much-needed street “cred” and create the necessary inroad into a criminal organization. Informants have covered my backside in many undercover operations, vouching for my authenticity and my reliability. A good informant can be a valued partner, and I often found myself siding with my source over some bureaucratic bungler who had little concept of what it means to work the streets and risk your life. For the NAMBLA operation, I had no informant to make the introduction or accompany me to the conference. It was up to me to sell myself to the targets; I could rely on no one if I made an untimely slip.
Amid the buzz of Grand Central Station, I took a seat on a nearby wooden bench and conversed with several of the NAMBLA members. I was amazed at how open the men were, not in discussing criminal activity, but in talking about previous conferences, renewing old acquaintances, and making the occasional lewd reference to young boys who strode past.
I talked with Floyd, an older, white-haired man who walked with a distinct limp. He looked grandfatherly, and his tattered clothes belied his intellect. I listened intently to the conversations of Rowan, Ted, and Jim, all East Coast residents, longtime members . . . and retired schoolteachers. No one used last names in the informal introductions.
After listening to several long-winded reminiscences of previous conferences, I asked if Peter Herman was around. One of the men pointed to a short, thin, older man who looked almost professorial. I immediately recognized Peter from a Web site photo I saw in researching my role as a boy lover. “Peter Herman” was an alias for Peter Melzer. I knew quite a bit about him going into the conference, and here he was in the flesh—maybe not the Babe Ruth of BLs but certainly a member of the NAMBLA Hall of Fame. His appearance and stature hardly measured up to his notoriety.
Part of the thrill in assuming any undercover role is preparing to such an extent that I can pass myself off as knowledgeable in the chosen cover. I don’t necessarily need to be an expert but I do need to “pass.” By the time the subjects of our investigation have figured out I don’t know what I’m talking about, I hope to have a nice, neat indictment to shove in their faces. I’ve had to learn about drugs, weapons, Western art, antique clocks, screenwriting, stunt work, real estate, import/exports, investments, horse racing, and, for this role, boy lovers. The Internet has been an invaluable tool in the last few years. In the early eighties I would spend hours at the library researching the various topics. Thanks to the Internet, most of that research can now be done in front of a computer screen.
As part of the preparation for the NAMBLA investigation, I read a sixty-three-page report titled “An Investigation into Misconduct Relating to Pedophilia by Peter Melzer, a Teacher at the Bronx High School of Science,” dated September 1993. The report was thorough, well researched, and well written. Quite frankly, I didn’t even care if it was true. I wasn’t looking for evidence; I needed insight into the boy lover mindset. The investigation of Melzer and his role in NAMBLA provided a valuable peek into the world of the BL.
Melzer had been a teacher since 1963 and joined the faculty of the Bronx High School of Science in 1968, where he taught physics and science. His membership in NAMBLA came to public attention in March 1992. WNBC-TV aired a three-part story on NAMBLA showing him in a leadership role at meetings of the organization’s New York chapter. When the news identified him as a teacher at the high school, the school board reacted quickly.
The written report also related the investigative work of Kevin Healy, a former NYPD detective who met Melzer in an undercover capacity. Melzer admitted to having sexual relations with “a young boy or boys in the Philippines.” The report detailed articles in the NAMBLA Bulletin , their official magazine, when Melzer served as its editor. Articles published under his editorial leadership included one by an author who wrote,
My first suggestion [for initiating a sexual relationship with a boy] is to restrict your sexual involvement and overtures to boys who need you, boys who value you and your friendship. . . . Before risking any direct sexual overture, you can tell a lot about a boy with a few well-placed sexual jokes or comments. . . . Leave a pornographic magazine someplace where he’s sure to find it. . . . Masturbation and pornography go hand in hand. An aroused and adventurous adolescent with a positive view of sexuality may try just about anything to get off. . . . The best way for you to pursue boys is to emigrate from the U.S. . . . to a country or culture where boy-love has greater acceptance. . . . Weigh the pros and cons of becoming involved yourself in sex tourism overseas. Seek and find love from American boys on a platonic, purely emotional level. For sexual satisfaction, travel once or twice yearly overseas. You might get arrested overseas . . . but the legal consequences . . . will be less severe.
The report also discussed a letter in the December 1992 Bulletin that provided advice on touching boys on various body parts, including the penis and the buttocks, and recommended taking warm showers together. Another letter in the Bulletin began, “The penis of an adolescent boy offers the warmth and security of its size. . . . But we cannot place any less prestige in the young penis of the pre-adolescent.”
All this information was running through my mind as I walked up to Peter Melzer, aka Peter Herman. I tried to block out the faces of my son and his Little League buddies on the team I’d coached years before, tried to empty my head of the nauseating suggestions Peter Melzer and his fellow NAMBLA mem
bers would have concocted about how to get such boys to acquiesce to their sexual advances. Instead, I pasted on a smile and stuck out my hand as I approached. “Hi, Peter. I’m Robert, from California.”
Peter was cordial and welcomed me to my first conference. He acknowledged my participation in the holiday card and the pen-pal program for incarcerated NAMBLA members, and my apparent dedication to the organization commenting on two articles I submitted for publication in the Bulletin. We chatted briefly. His voice evidenced a slight Eastern European accent.
As many as twenty-five members had now gathered in the dining concourse. Peter organized us into informal groups based upon what each wanted to do for the evening. The majority chose a tour of Times Square Peter was conducting. Several groups, however, left to go to various residences. Most of those members were either from the New York area and had probably spent a lifetime in Times Square or were hesitant to spend too much time with first-time invitees. I chose the tour and it proved to be an eye-opening experience.
Los Angeles, 1983
Back in the mid-eighties, not long after the arrest of Dave, the marathon-running jewel thief, I was working in L.A. on a mob-run heroin-trafficking ring. During the course of that investigation, we became aware of another trafficker, Darrel, a Canadian citizen living in Los Angeles. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police believed Darrel was responsible for much of the China White heroin trade in the greater Vancouver area. The RCMP was eager to cooperate with us in trying to nail Darrel and his associates.
The L.A. trafficking network utilized various individuals as “mules”: couriers who delivered the heroin from the distributor to various dealers and other buyers. One of these mules was a strikingly beautiful woman we’ll call Heather.