Have read DeCamp's work on this,not Nick's who actually starts off as a non believer....
I was in rural Nebraska charging up Highway 81 in a rented GMC Envoy—our destination was Madison, Nebraska, ten miles due north. An early evening August sun cascaded shafts of sunlight onto seemingly infinite tracts of cornfields, and a faint breeze tugged gently on the tall shafts of corn. The temperature was an ideal 75º Fahrenheit and no clouds blemished the azure sky. The speed limit was 65 MPH —my speedometer read 70. A sensible person in my shoes would have second thoughts about even slightly breaking the speed limit, but I felt a sense of urgency.
Gazing into my rearview mirror, I noticed the flashing red and amber lights of a Nebraska state trooper. My fight-or-flight response flared—I felt a burst of adrenaline and I was also smacked by a swell of anxiety. I abruptly swerved onto the shoulder, ripped my New York driver’s license from my wallet, and dredged the rental paperwork from the Envoy’s glove compartment. The trooper wore opaque sunglasses, and a smirk creased his well-tanned, square face. I handed him my license and rental agreement before he said a word.
After he gave my documentation a cursory glance, he inexplicably escorted me to his “cruiser.” He called in for priors—I came up clean. I was also clean-shaven, and my hair was neatly trimmed above my ears. I wore an immaculate Joe Boxer T-shirt, beige khaki shorts, and new Nike running shoes—Air Max. I looked like the Platonic ideal of an upstanding citizen.
He was unimpressed with my pristine record and appearance; so I tossed out a few polysyllabic words—smirk intact, he remained unimpressed. When he pulled out a pencil and a pocket-size notebook and started asking questions, I had a bad feeling —a really bad feeling. He wanted to know my whereabouts for the past week. I told him I’d been “mountaineering” in Colorado. The trooper seemed to have little concern for my Constitutional rights, but I felt the predicament dictated that I refrain from ACLU buzzwords and comply. He jotted down my answers and left the car.
The trooper talked to my passenger for ten minutes or so before returning. He scribbled my passenger’s name—Rusty Nelson—in his notebook. As he furnished Nelson’s name to the dispatcher, I sensed that the situation was on the verge of becoming ugly—seriously ugly. The dispatcher reported that Nelson was a “registered sex offender,” and then she barked out a flurry of numbers. Though I had no idea what the numbers meant, I felt confident they weren’t nice numbers. A second state patrolman pulled up behind us in a gray SUV.
The trooper twisted to his right and gesticulated like a football referee indicating a bobbled reception: He said Nelson’s story and mine didn’t “match up.” He then exited the car and spoke to the other trooper for a few minutes. Returning to the car, he opened the passenger’s door, poked his head into the vehicle, and again remarked that our stories didn’t “match up”—once more making the gesture of a football referee. He slammed the door shut and trotted over to my vehicle.
His backup ran over to the Envoy with a shaggy brown mongrel of a dog, and they took two or three laps around the vehicle. The dog sniffed at the tires and every little crevice. After the dog started to appear bored, the first trooper escorted Nelson from the Envoy. Nelson’s facial expression was taut with fear—his eyes repeatedly darted back and forth. The trooper deposited him between the cruiser and State Patrol SUV to keep us separated.
The trooper then made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: He said they could arrest us, impound the vehicle, and search it or they could simply search it on the spot. I gestured to the Envoy, grimaced, and said, “Knock yourselves out.” The troopers then meticulously searched every inch of the vehicle and ripped apart all of our possessions—I think it probably took them about thirty minutes to completely scour the Envoy, but it seemed interminable as I watched and waited.
Sitting in the cruiser, flooded with fear, I had difficulty imagining how our stories didn’t “match up,” even though Nelson has a habit of speaking in ambiguities and asides. We weren’t exactly “mountaineering” in Colorado; nevertheless, I was absolutely certain that Nelson hadn’t told the trooper the motives behind our trek— he’s definitely not stupid. I’ve heard a number of unbecoming adjectives applied to Nelson but “stupid” wasn’t one of them.
Nelson was the admitted former “photographer” of a nationwide pedophile network I’d been investigating for over three years at that time. The ring pandered children to the rich and powerful and had access to the highest levels of our government. Before we made our trip to Colorado, I thought I could prove the network’s existence, its cover-up by federal and state authorities, and make a case for CIA involvement and blackmail. However, I felt it would be next to impossible to name names without pictures, because of the pedophiles’ lofty social status. I was confident that society would never take the word of damaged victims, who had themselves become predators and felons, over the word of seemingly well-adjusted politicians and affluent businessmen. Nelson told me he had blackmail pictures stashed in the mountains of Colorado. I was incredulous, but had to give it a shot.
https://exploringrealhistory.blogspot.com/2019/07/part-1-franklin-scandala-story-of.html
