by Bob Hamer
Ten-year-old Jeffrey Curley met with Jaynes, accepting the bait used to lure him for sexual seduction. After a short drive, the 250-plus-pound Jaynes tried to sexually assault Jeffrey, who resisted. “Don’t fight it, kid, don’t fight it,” said Jaynes, according to Sicari. But Jeffrey kept fighting, and when he refused to submit, Jaynes suffocated the ten-year-old with a gasoline-soaked rag.
Sicari and Jaynes then drove the body to Jaynes’ Manchester, New Hampshire, apartment. According to Sicari, it was there that Jaynes sodomized Jeffrey’s dead body. Sicari then helped Jaynes prepare the body for disposal, placing it in a cement-filled Rubbermaid container and using lime to speed decomposition. They drove Jeffrey’s body to South Berwick, Maine, and disposed of him in the Great Works River.
When Jaynes was arrested, police found receipts for items purchased on the day of Jeffrey’s disappearance: a Rubbermaid container, cement, lime, and a bicycle. They also found eight copies of the NAMBLA Bulletin.
Following the three-week trial of Sicari, a Middlesex Superior Court found him guilty of first-degree murder and kidnapping and sentenced him to life in prison. A month later, Jaynes was convicted of second-degree murder and kidnapping. He was also sentenced to life in prison. (It may seem as if Jaynes got off easier, but because Massachusetts has no death penalty they faced the same punishment. The Curley case brought the death penalty issue to a head. A measure to reinstate capital punishment failed by one vote in the State House of Representatives.)
The case, however, didn’t end with the criminal verdict. The Curley family filed a $200 million wrongful death action against NAMBLA and its individual members. They charged, in the twenty-one-count lawsuit, that NAMBLA incited Jaynes to commit the crime. The suit alleges that NAMBLA “encourages its members to rape male children . . . and serves as a conduit for an underground network of pedophiles in the United States.” The suit also claims that “as a direct and proximate result of the urging, advocacy, conspiring, and promoting of pedophile activity by . . . NAMBLA . . . Charles Jaynes became obsessed with having sex with and raping young male children.” After a lengthy legal process, the civil lawsuit was dismissed in April 2008.
Jaynes joined NAMBLA in the fall of 1996 and allegedly viewed the Web site shortly before murdering Jeffrey Curley. The family claims the NAMBLA Web site provided psychological comfort for what Jaynes was planning. These claims are bolstered by Jaynes’s diary, in which a handwritten entry reads, “This was a turning point in discovery of myself. . . . NAMBLA’s Bulletin helped me to become aware of my own sexuality and acceptance of it.” The lawsuit cites a statement from the Bulletin that says, “Call it love, call it lust, call it whatever you want. We desire sex with boys, and boys, whether society is willing to admit it, desire sex with us.”
Affidavits filed in support of the lawsuit include one by Mike Echols, whose Web site I accessed in researching my role as a boy lover. He described NAMBLA as a “quasi school for training its members on how to profile children,” how to gain the confidence of children, and how to have sex with children without being detected by parents or police.
Fairfax County, Virginia, police detective Thomas Polhemus filed a separate affidavit in which he described his membership on the NAMBLA steering committee.
The ACLU agreed to defend NAMBLA, citing First Amendment free-speech and freedom-of-association issues. According to ACLU attorney Harvey Silvergate, “There is room in this country for people who believe man/boy love is okay. There is room for people who believe it, who say it, but not who do it.”
The lawsuit named individual members, many of whom I encountered at the conferences.
Despite all the public relations embarrassments and legal battles of the past several years, few arrests resulted. As I sat among the members of NAMBLA and listened to their sickening conversation and self-justification, I had to wonder, would my results be any different?
Los Angeles, 1991
Michael’s surprise phone call in 1991 wasn’t my first experience at assuming the identity of a contract killer; several years earlier, I was hired by an attorney to kill his father and a business associate. I always derived a special satisfaction from nailing any attorney who stepped outside the law, and I enjoyed that brief undercover stint. I offered the attorney several ways of satisfying the contract: an ice pick through the eardrum to the brain (“not easily detected,” I told him) or a gunshot (always sure to send a clear message). He chose the clear message and, upon my insistence, even furnished an automatic weapon to do the dirty deed. Following several meetings, he told an associate I had “killer eyes.” I’m sure that was what drew my wife to me as well. The attorney was convicted by a federal jury who quickly rejected his claim that he had a brain dysfunction stemming from hyperactivity.
All these memories cascaded through my mind as I thought about Michael’s call. It was going to be fun to play a killer again.
Later that evening, with my recorder running, I placed a call to Michael. He didn’t disappoint me. In unambiguous terms he laid out his desires. A former girlfriend had sicced some gang members on him to collect money for a debt he presumably owed her. The collection efforts went beyond a mere “please and thank you” and Michael wanted payback as soon as possible. He was also the object of a local police search of his apartment for narcotics. He suspected one of his small-time drug clients of ratting him out and providing probable cause for the warrant. He wanted both of them killed and thought that either I could do it or could at least arrange for it to be done through my street gang affiliations.
When we met the next day, Michael’s face was bruised from the recent collection efforts. He reiterated that he wanted the female killed but modified his position on the informant: he just wanted him “hospitalized.” When the issue of money arose, I was incredulous when he asked that I kill on his behalf for free. He explained that if I did so, I could count on his lifetime loyalty.
Apparently, my new “client” had watched the The Godfather one too many times. As I pointed out to Michael in no uncertain terms, my generosity did not extend to contract killings. I had no problem with his request but I expected to be compensated for my efforts. Besides, I knew the case would be much stronger if money actually exchanged hands or a quid pro quo was negotiated. Michael’s cash reserves were minimal. No surprise there; if he’d had money he would have paid off the collectors before they inflicted the beating. I wasn’t sympathetic to his plight and was preparing to leave when he arrived at a possible solution.
He knew two guys who were attempting to move twenty kilos of cocaine. He would introduce me and we could split the profits. He would then use his profits to pay me for my “work.” I had trouble concealing a wicked smile and he noted the upturned curve of my lips. “You like that idea, don’t you?” said Michael.
He was right, I did. What started as a failed cocaine transaction over a year ago morphed into a contract killing that led us back around to cocaine and possibly would ensnare more perpetrators.
Michael seemed content to hold off on the killings pending the completion of the drug deal, so my FBI associates and I believed we were justified in foregoing any warnings to his intended targets. It isn’t always wise to believe convicted felons or soon-to-be-convicted felons, but I was confident Michael was too weak to pull the trigger himself nor would he seek to employ someone else to do his bidding. This was especially true because he had no funds to pay another hit man.
We decided to move quickly with the drug deal for two reasons: the most pressing was to preclude the opportunity for Michael to find someone else to kill his intended victims; second, we wanted to begin negotiations with the drug traffickers before they found a more suitable customer. Michael agreed to introduce me as soon as the others agreed.
Within a day Michael arranged for the meeting with his two associates, Noel and Steele. Michael admitted doing drug deals with Steele in the past and assured me both of his associates were righteous cocaine traffickers with international connections. Michael and I agree
d to rendezvous before the face-to-face with his associates. He surprised me when he brought a shotgun. Since Michael was vouching for his associates, I wondered why he thought he needed to bring that much firepower. Something wasn’t right, and my already high caution level ratcheted up a notch.
Although I had no money, we were to begin negotiations for the deal that day. Still, this first meeting was more than merely a meet-and-greet. All parties expected to get to the nuts and bolts of the transaction.
Michael and I returned to the Denny’s restaurant across from Fox Television Center. I had previously transacted an undercover deal on the lot. Since I was posing as a TV producer I thought meeting across the street from “my office” would provide that extra touch of authenticity that might sell the case. This was before 9/11 and studio security was more relaxed. Just to make sure, prior to the meeting I attempted to enter the lot by merely waving to the gate guard and driving through the employee entrance. It worked twice, so I thought I might take a chance with my newest targets.
In my two separate meetings that day with Noel, he played the tough guy role even better than I. He threatened me and said if I turned out to be a cop, he’d be my “worst nightmare.” He seemed tense, and I thought it best to put him at ease. I suggested we drive onto the lot and I’d show him around the sound stages, where we could continue our negotiations without the constant distractions of the Denny’s employees and customers. We climbed into my car and made our way to Fox. I waved to the gate guard and drove through the employee entrance. I drove around the lot, pointing out Vicki Lawrence’s parking spot before I parked. We quickly hopped out of the car, and I showed him the Mama’s Family soundstage. He didn’t seem too impressed, so we returned to the car.
I was driving a seized BMW I was only using for this investigation. Unfortunately, I really hadn’t thoroughly checked out the vehicle, other than searching it to make sure it was clean of any government-issued paraphernalia and to familiarize myself with most of the bells and whistles. I did not, however, notice a microphone just above the driver’s-side visor. To this day, I’m not sure what it was for. While sitting in the car, Noel noticed the device above my head. His face reddened as he pointed to the microphone.
“What’s that?”
I looked up and thought quickly. “It’s a speaker for my car phone, what do you think it is?”
“Where’s the phone?”
Cell phones were just coming into vogue and I didn’t have one for this case, but I still had to make my bluff stick.
“The stupid thing never has worked right. I sent it back to the dealer.”
Inwardly, I was kicking myself for not being more careful. Noel had caught me; I had no idea what the device was, and until he pointed it out, didn’t even realize it was in the car.
He said again, “If you turn out to be a cop, even if I get ten years, my people will get you.”
Although menacing, his bravado was hardly anything new. I had been threatened by the Mafia on more than one occasion. You never get used to it, but having survived in the past made it easier to handle Noel’s bullying.
As is often the case in a drug deal, the negotiations broke down when I refused to show him the cash and he refused to show me the cocaine. Neither of us was experiencing that warm fuzzy feeling.
Subsequently I continued to talk with Michael and Steele, leaving Noel out of the loop. The first transaction is always the toughest, as each party waltzes around the details and attempts to force the other to show his cards first. I have found this minuet to be typical regardless of the quantity of the purchase. I couldn’t really expect the three to deliver twenty kilos merely on the word of an untested buyer. The most we could hope for would be that I could convince them to have the entire amount readily available for delivery once I purchased a smaller sample I found to be of sufficient quality. Once again, I had to play the sophisticated buyer who would be unwilling to show the entire pay out before seeing the negotiated quantity.
I agreed to initially purchase two kilos of cocaine. Upon delivery of the two, they would produce the remaining eighteen, once I showed them all the money. The only problem was, once again, I had no money. Contrary to what is seen every evening on prime-time television, getting buy money or even show funds for a buy-bust can be an administrative nightmare, and even those officials willing to accommodate the street agent realize the paperwork can be daunting. I didn’t think my boxing-glove ploy would work this time, so I kept to the usual stall tactics: “My offshore banker is on vacation”; “My money guy is out of town until Saturday”; “I’ve got to sell off some stock to raise the cash.”
After completing our negotiations dance, we settled on May 6 as the date to finalize the twenty-kilo purchase of the cocaine Michael, Steele, and Noel claimed to possess. The cost was $400,000.
We geared up for the May 6 buy-bust. That morning I briefed the arrest team, consisting of FBI agents and officers from our Beverly Hills Police Department task force. A surveillance team tailed Noel and Steele. The plan was simple: We were to meet at the Denny’s restaurant at 10:00 AM. I would demand the sellers show me the two-kilo sample before I showed any cash. Once I saw the sample, I would give the arrest signal, indicating I had seen the cocaine, and the arrest team would pounce. We planned on picking up Michael later, since for some unexplained reason he didn’t want to be present for the transaction.
Everyone was in place and we waited. Patience is not one of my virtues but most drug deals are waiting games; that morning we waited. At 10:00 the surveillance team had Noel and Steele under their watchful eye as the two were meeting with a third party, a Colombian. Our deal was definitely not happening at ten. I eventually left Denny’s and waited on a side street. Finally at 11:30 AM, Steele contacted me and said they would be ready at noon. I returned to Denny’s. At 12:45, they still had not arrived. I called Steele and said I was calling it off if they couldn’t put it together. Steele said they were loading the car then, and would be there shortly. I knew from the surveillance agents they were not loading a car but had, in fact, met with the Colombian, who was now in the area.
Shortly after one, Steele and Noel arrived at Denny’s. The mood was tense. Both Noel and I were trying to “out-bad” the other. He demanded to see the money and I demanded to see the powder. Since I didn’t have $400,000, I had every incentive to be demanding. Noel relented and the three of us left the restaurant for his car. Steele went directly to his pickup, which seemed odd.
Noel and I sat in the front seat of his car. I was wearing a transmitter and a recorder; only later did I learn the transmitter wasn’t working. Noel portrayed himself as a major player in the L.A. coke trade, but his car certainly didn’t reflect that: it was a Volkswagen Jetta. His sample also didn’t reflect the big time. The cocaine was wrapped in duct tape and plastic, not the fiberglass packaging often seen with coke directly shipped from South America. His package looked more like something that could have been stepped on. Continuing to play up my macho image, I complained about the packaging. Noel didn’t back down; he told me it came “packaged all different ways.” I wanted him to continue his taunts and his brags, telling me how much he knew about drugs and how naïve I was. His expertise would play well with a jury.
“This is the reina !” he insisted. Reina is Spanish for “queen,” a street term indicative of the highest-quality goods.
Finally, I acquiesced and told him I’d accept the sample. We agreed to go to my office to complete the deal. I exited the Jetta and headed toward my car where they thought I had the $400,000. And then, things began to go quite awry.
Noel jumped out of his car and screamed toward Steele. Steele gunned his engine and came barreling toward me in his pickup truck as I crossed the parking lot.
14
SEXUAL ADDICTION
As Steele’s pickup bore down on me in the parking lot, my training took over. I pulled my five-shot .38 revolver from beneath my shirt and fired once, striking Steele in the neck. His vehicle veered
to the right. Almost simultaneously I heard the screeching of tires and turned to see Noel’s car racing toward me. I fired two more shots, and then jumped out of the way. Noel sped off, leaving the parking lot and his wounded companion, now lying on the pavement. I rushed over to Steele, blood pouring from his neck.
Mike, an FBI agent and a member of the arrest team, ran over to Steele and with no regard for his personal safety—especially in light of the AIDS epidemic plaguing L.A.—cradled Steele and applied pressure to the neck wound; Mike wasn’t wearing gloves. Sirens wailed in the background as LAPD units and paramedics responded. Mike’s quick action saved Steele’s life.
Within minutes an LAPD unit reported they found Noel, who wrecked his car several blocks from the scene. One of my rounds penetrated his chest, bounced around inside, and punctured both lungs. Both he and Steele were rushed to the hospital.
Controlled chaos prevailed at the shooting scene as FBI agents, police officers from Beverly Hills, and LAPD officers conducted their respective shooting inquiries. As policy dictates, they took my gun from me but left my recorder. So, as I sat in a surveillance van, waiting for various investigators to interview me, I called Michael.
“Everything went great,” I told him. “I got the entire load. I know I can move it quickly; come on over and I’ll give you your cut now. Oh, by the way, just to avoid any problems, meet me a few blocks west of the restaurant. That way, if any heat is hanging around, they won’t put us together.”
Once again, greed prevailed over fear and Michael hustled to our prearranged location. News copters and police units surrounded the parking lot of Denny’s; every passing motorist and pedestrian strained to view the commotion—every driver, that is, but one. Michael drove past the scene in his distinctive black Firebird, oblivious to the law-enforcement presence, as I watched from the surveillance van. Greed and stupidity proved his downfall. When he arrived at our meeting spot, he was quickly taken into custody. The Colombian, who had been under surveillance by FBI agents since meeting with Noel and Steele earlier in the morning, was also arrested a few blocks from Denny’s.