Child Trafficking and Mind Control in the Heartland- My Cost of Child Advocacy New Article for Winter Edition

Child Trafficking and Mind Control in the Heartland- My Cost of Child Advocacy New Article for Winter Edition

Please check out and Ron Patton for a hard copy of this article- as well as other fantastic past editions of Paranoia Magazine.

This Christmas Eve, I share company with a person who is often a complete stranger to me: myself. I often wonder what lies behind the mask I have constructed to hide the very thing that has resulted in me finding myself alone this family holiday after being forced to finally choose between my relationship of 20 years and my advocacy work. After a slow, arduous shift of growing apart and turning away from each other, I’ve lost my soul mate.

As surreal as my advocacy experience has been (and that’s an understatement), I am in no doubt that my calling to expose the corruption that has dominated so much of my life is inspired by God. Thus despite my heavy heart and losses, I am comforted by the fact that I am on the right path. My crusade continues. Fly into the sun and parts are burned away until only the core survives. Grief, despair, and loss seem to be necessary when it comes to ripping away veils of ignorance.

As a result of writing Rabbit Hole: A Satanic Ritual Abuse Survivor’s Story, both my partner and I had to suffer death threats, dead animals left in our yard, vandalized cars, and every crazy person coming to me with tales of distraction and even secret recording devices to record everything being said in our house. All of these events served as catalysts that no doubt led to the end of our relationship.

But it goes back much further than all of that, so I’ll start at the beginning of my investigation into a huge, concentrated, connected pedophile ring web that has made billions and mutated into a pandemic of child profiteering.

My own personal rabbit hole began when I started making YouTube videos requesting information about a man who came in search of his missing daughter in the summer of 1976, only to be murdered by my family that was deeply connected to a pedophile ring systematically abducting, raping, selling, and murdering children in Omaha from the 1950s to the mid-1980s. After I uploaded “You Need to Know Why I Still Need Help in Solving a Murder,” a woman named Rachel Begley introduced me to a website called that put me in touch with the people publicly connected to the Franklin Scandal that still permeates Omaha. Over time, I realized that was what I call a sponge or honeypot site: attracting and befriending survivors/victims, then extracting information and turning on the survivors and discrediting them.

Rachel had been a media figure because in 2007 she began to investigate the 1981 murder of her father Ralph Boger near the Cabazon Indian Reservation outside Indio, California. When Rachel wasn’t investigating what came to be known as the Octopus1, she was monitoring with “RBeck.” Through him and Rachel, I was introduced to former FBI Agent Ted Gunderson (1928-2011). Initially, Ted reminded me a lot of my father in speech and tone, so I had a soft spot for him. One of the first things he told me was that he had been burned by a microwave weapon. At the time, I thought he sounded completely bonkers, but a few months later CNN discussed the very weapons Ted had spoken about: apparently, the Democratic National Convention wanted to employ microwave weapons but couldn’t because it wasn’t cost effective at the time. Ted was a compendium of information on a plethora of subjects. He called me “a great American citizen.” I didn’t completely trust him, but it was hard not to like him.

Noreen Gosch drove us apart. Noreen is the mother of Johnny Gosch, who was abducted on September 5, 1982, one of three boys taken in West Des Moines, Iowa. Although heralded as a great child advocate, Noreen is not to be trusted as she is being used as a distraction to deflect and discombobulate real Omaha events. MSNBC’s December 16, 2012 “Missing Johnny” documentary2 shows Noreen and her husband snickering over something right after openly grieving families, which is exactly how I personally experienced her and her husband’s character.

Mistakenly, I trusted and defended her. We came know each other online and then had lunch together with John DeCamp, another “champion” of abused children. (I had been trying for years to get in touch with him with no success, and this would be the only time I was in his presence.) Looking at the floor as if dismissing what he was saying, DeCamp remarked that the military was working on creating some sort of “psychic warrior,” at which point I assured him that was exactly what they were looking for during the mind control training I underwent as a child. Although DeCamp has gone on record over and over on radio shows claiming that everything that I was talking about was the truth, I still came to distrust him. The more I learned about Omaha and the cover-up surrounding what happened here, the more I questioned the official story—all of which generally originated from three people: Noreen Gosch, John DeCamp, and Paul Bonacci.

Noreen showed me pictures of her son as well as one of Lt. Colonel Michael Aquino of U.S. Army Military Intelligence. A few months before, “RBeck” had directed me to a video of Aquino, the flesh-and-blood man of my nightmares. Aquino had been my main handler when I was a child. As founder and high priest of the Temple of Set, Aquino is known for Satanism, but in his military career he is known for PSYOPS/ psychological warfare.3

As I said above, at first I was a fierce defender of Noreen. I published email correspondence with ex-Omaha Chief of Police Robert Wadman in Rabbit Hole, and I wrote John Gosch Sr., implicated by Noreen as having sold their son more than once. My own parents had been part of the Omaha underworld in which parents were being coaxed to sell their children for sex, so it was not hard for me to fathom.

It was when I began to question the official Omaha story and the events encapsulated by the failed savings and loan called Franklin Credit Union that things began to change between Noreen and me. I could not understand why certain key elements had been left out of the investigation. I questioned the fact that Paul Bonacci—the first person ever to go on court record as a multiple personality disorder (MPD)—could know so much about events at Bohemian Grove, rooms in the White House, and houses in Iowa that supposedly housed abductee Johnny Gosch, and yet have absolutely no idea about the events in Omaha, his own hometown.

I put up a video on YouTube called “A Walking Tour Through Pedophile Omaha” in which I detailed the downtown events concerning prostitution, abductions, and out-in-the-open pedophilia concentrated solely in Omaha’s gay subculture and areas like the Old Market and leading to the downtown Omaha Police Department, then over to the Greyhound bus station. Prostitution of young boys was taking place openly around the jail in a two-block radius called “the Run” (not to be confused with the bar of the same name that had “open hours” between one and four in the morning where underage teenagers were able to party unabashedly until dawn).

Suddenly, people on who had been supportive began to attack me, calling me names and implying every false accusation they could think of against my character. Noreen, who once emailed me that we were indeed friends, suddenly turned rabid.

The next thing I knew, my oldest sister’s children were online making absurd accusations against me, basically because it was my belief that my oldest niece and my sister’s now-deceased husband had murdered my sister three weeks after the death of our father to keep her from talking to me about our family’s past. (She had consistent and long-ranging memories of not only her abuse but mine.) Considering that she had told everyone, including her doctors and nurses, that her husband and daughter were going to murder her (Adult Protective Services got involved, as well), I had good reason to be suspicious. After her demise, her case worker enraged my sister’s children by simply asking where her diabetic needles were, implying that someone—namely my now-deceased brother in law and my sister’s oldest daughter from a previous marriage—could have pumped her full of air to give her a heart attack. I was never able to get a consistent story out of them, and when my niece denied a conversation we had, I came to the conclusion that there is a good reason to suspect foul play, especially considering my investigations into my past.

Over open chat with Noreen (“LukeJ”) on, Rachel exposed my family’s social security numbers. Because of the unpopular stance I was taking on investigations into Omaha and my belief that the official story was a smoke-and-mirrors distraction to deflect from what was really happening here, I was banned from the site. (I was able to read but not to respond.) Taunted by Rachel and lied about continuously, I was constantly crucified over the coals and could make no response.)

Considering the fact that my family—at least one of my nieces—was on during that time, I pretty much figured that my stepmother gave out my father’s social security number and mine. I reported the breach of privacy to Homeland Security, which did absolutely nothing. I fumed over the violation, once again reminded that my father’s family knows no boundaries, something I have never been able to do anything about.

Gunderson played both sides until I caught him at it and directly asked him where he stood, to which he replied that he was an “information gatherer” and it was his job to stay on the good side of everyone in order to gain the intel he desired. I bid him a not-so-fond farewell.

It was during this period that I tried in public emails to get Aquino to respond to my accusations, taking no consideration of my safety. (Most people I have talked with are flat-out scared of him.) As a child, he had tortured me with electromagnetic weapons, which he considered to be parts of my “training.”

Suddenly, I was experiencing a constant ringing in my head, like a mosquito in my brain: a high-pitched series of erratic and maddening buzzing sounds preventing me from sleeping. I hoped it was tinnitus, but when I left the house, the sound would dissipate completely, followed by 20-30 minutes of extreme nausea. Given my PTSD and slight agoraphobia at the time, I rarely left the house and so became imprisoned by the sound. My partner couldn’t hear it but had to watch me not sleep for two and a half weeks and descend into such a state that I had to hospitalize myself for the first time in my adult life.

The doctors and nurses believed that psychological reasons lay behind my lack of sleep and breakdown, not government targeting. Strangely, a woman with the surname Gosch was admitted at the same time I was. Claiming she was Johnny Gosch’s cousin, she told my partner and me that Johnny had been physically abused and had run away; he had not been abducted as his parents claimed. But the timing was strange and further proved that I was onto something.

The day I got out of the hospital—so drugged out that I could barely form words—someone who had been involved as a police officer at the time of the Franklin scandal warned me that if I didn’t stop, my partner would be targeted next. It scared me so bad that I took everything down off the Internet and quit my investigation cold turkey in hopes of sparing my husband.

I see now that this period was the beginning of the end of my relationship with my partner. He could not for the life of him understand why I would deal with such unstable and nefarious people. The only answer I could offer was that I felt compelled to understand that what I once believed to be my own personal madness was not madness but probable when it came to what I and so many others had experienced.

My sabbatical lasted for close to a year, at which point I decided that I could not let God and myself down. I sat down and wrote Rabbit Hole: A Satanic Ritual Abuse Survivor’s Story. Originally entitled Confessions of an Anti-Christ,” the first manuscript of 144,000 words detailed what I had gone through with my investigation up to that point.

At two in the afternoon of the day after I sent the manuscript to my marketing team, I was once again assaulted with the mosquito sound, now accompanied by microwaves that made me feel like my insides were going to implode. Allowing myself a week and a half of insomnia this time and fearing that I might die before finishing my task, I uploaded the Confessions of an Anti-Christ onto my website, then checked myself into a clinic. As I lay in the waiting room, I was dismayed when the mosquito sound and internal pressure I had thought were limited to my house had found me. When the clinic staff found that my blood pressure was 210/90, I was rushed to Creighton University Medical Center where doctors tried to ascertain why a healthy individual with a healthy heart was at heart attack/stroke level.

The difference this time was that I had a manuscript. I directed doctors, psychiatrists, and social workers to my website and to my manuscript and demanded that that they document everything, no matter how crazy it seemed. I opened more than one person’s eyes to the reality of a targeted individual, and more importantly what I was up against. One social worker and I even shared stories; she was as active in the gay life as I was back in the days I was investigating, though she wasn’t involved in the nefarious situations I had been in.

Once released, I decided to go back to Last Hope Recovery Center because I was terrified of going home to find myself under attack once again; my three-day stay in the Creighton ICU ward had been free of assault and I was desperate to avoid further assaults. During my week in the special needs ward, the nurses commended me on my writing ability as I was demanding that everything I was experiencing be documented. At the end of my stay, the head nurse gave me a hug and told me that I was an inspiration and a God-send to children. Again, I had opened people’s minds. I had neither been disregarded nor overmedicated but was listened to and actually heard by people who really needed to know the truth of what can happen when one goes up against the Establishment such as I was attempting to do.

Since I returned home, I haven’t felt or heard that noise again. Here is a list of torture patents used against TIs:

USP# 6,488,617 (12/03/2002) A method and device for producing desired brain states.
USP# 6,239,705 (05/29/2001) Intra oral electronic tracking device.
USP# 6,091,994 (07/18/2000) Pulsating manipulation of nervous systems.
USP# 6,052,336 (04/18/2000) Apparatus and method of broadcasting audible sound using ultrasonic sound as a carrier.
USP# 5,539,705 (07/23/1996) Ultrasonic speech translator and communication system for converting radio frequencies and audio signals to the human mind.
USP# 5,507,291 (04/16/1996) Method of manipulating associated persons emotional state remotely.
USP# 5,159,703 (10/27/1992) Silent subliminal presentation system (Look up Silent Sound Spread Spectrum on YouTube).
USP# 5,017,143 (05/21/1991) Method and apparatus for producing subliminal images causing hallucinations.
USP# 4,877,027 (10/31/1989) Remote hearing system.
USP# 3,951,135 (04/20/1976) Apparatus and method for remotely monitoring and alternating brain waves.
USP# 6,506,148 (01/14/2003) Manipulation by electromagnetic fields from monitors.

While working on getting Rabbit Hole edited and published, I twice ran into my stepmother Joanne C. Shurter, who was intimately involved in my father’s crimes. We ran into each other at a local Mexican restaurant and ignored each other; then a few weeks later we again ran into each other at Nebraska Furniture Mart. At this point, she approached me, no doubt to gloat on getting away with being a murdering pedophile. While asking me about the most inane things, I couldn’t escape her Cheshire cat smile that showed her fangs. Anxious to escape, I later regretted not telling her about my book and website. In fact, my partner and I almost got into a fight over him demanding that I avoid her rather than goad her in any way. Initially, I agreed, but there she was when I came out of the restroom, at which point I suggested she check out my website Though it wiped her smirk right off her face, my victory was short lived.

Soon after, I found myself facing a protection order. Joanne’s cousin Gerry Fredricksen, who was my family’s lawyer, filed the paperwork and thus I found myself in Judge Marlon Polk’s courtroom. Gerry is instrumental in hiding my family’s crimes and money, and if there is anyone shadier than Joanne, it is her cousin/lawyer. I discovered that Bob Frank, the Nebraska State Patrolman I had reported my family to, had helped my stepmother file police reports on me that I knew nothing about, especially regarding a card I had sent her six years before reminding her of the man our family murdered. It was a kangaroo court and not an ounce of justice was to be had. (See showing the court details. In Douglas County, Nebraska, officials and politicians do not favor real victims in any way, shape, or manner.)

So I published Rabbit Hole and continued to write the truth about my family’s role in crimes of the past on my website. Take my brother Stephen, for example: a pedophile as well as a photographer. During the Franklin Credit meltdown, photographer Rusty Nelson went to jail, but my belief is that there were two photographers, and that my brother—who looked a lot like Rusty—was the second one. Two years after Stephen died in Ocean City, Maryland, a man named Larry King Jr.—not the “pimp” Larry King who was held responsible for the $40 million bilked out of the Franklin Credit Union but a different man with the same name—was busted in Ocean City with a collection of ritualistic, satanically inspired child porn pictures, which I believe may have been my brother’s souvenirs.

Also, the year before my father died several people identified Stephen as being at an unannounced conference in Florida where Noreen Gosch was the main speaker. By then, my brother was homeless and sick, but he may have shown up because my father was coming clean about his crimes against children. I believe that my father was speaking literally when he said he had “skeletons in his closet” (which I speak about in Rabbit Hole), plus the fact that he had rebuilt his entire closet and had a soundproof room built in his house. In fact, at his funeral his hospice nurse told my older sister to look at his daily notes at Methodist Hospital hospice department to see what he had been telling people. When I tried to check his medical records, I discovered that Joanne had had them sealed, leaving only herself with access.

It is no secret in our family that our father abducted children. Ricky Chadek was 11 when he was abducted in Omaha on March 23, 1986; my father’s sister lived in West Des Moines where three paperboys, including Johnny Gosch, were abducted; my siblings lived in Minnesota around where 11-year-old Jacob Wetterling was abducted on October 22, 1989. Are these “coincidences”? Hardly. This is a pattern, especially considering the fact that my family owned three vehicles identified in abductions: a big blue utility truck, a white Cadillac, and a Ford station wagon with wood paneling.

It is also suspicious that when we were on the run and discovered in 1976 by the man looking for his daughter, whom I was forced to light on fire at 10 years old, the Oakland Child Killings were going on in my father’s home state of Michigan. The Oakland County Child Killer was never found. His nickname was the Babysitter, given that the two boys and two girls were taken care of before they were killed and posed in a ritualistic manner within a lunar year timeframe. My father was a pilot and constantly flew to Michigan (and to two mines he and my stepmother owned in Dyre, Nevada). By re-directing attention to Michigan, my father and his group of child-killing friends would divert attention away from Omaha crimes.

Eventually, however, it became inevitable that someone had to take the fall for things happening in Omaha so that key elite members and their henchmen would never serve time. Take Todd Bequette, abducted at 13 on April 18, 1974 at the Old Market of Omaha, then forced to help abduct other children until a private detective named Danny Whalen found him. Terry Holman, the man who abducted him, was NEVER ONCE CHARGED for crimes against children in Nebraska, let alone Douglas County. Todd died at 52 on July 23, 2013.

Everything here has been so blatant that it defies explanation as to why it has not been looked at with a closer eye. Situations such as the death on June 28, 2003 of Peter Citron—a columnist and my mother’s best friend who went to jail for felony sexual assault of young boys—who supposedly committed suicide by drinking Drano. Most in town think that it was a mob hit to silence what he knew about the child trafficking, etc. in the Franklin days. Makes me wonder yet again just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

I think it was the fights on Amazon that pushed me over the edge to become the miserable person I eventually became. The fights were with the False Memory Syndrome Foundation (FMSF) which I have renamed the False Memory Pedophile Protection Squad. Their modus operandi is to do everything they can to dismiss and discredit survivors of abuse. Claiming that Satanic ritual abuse and government projects such as MK-Ultra don’t exist, they troll the Internet and mercilessly attack anyone who goes against the contention that memories of abuse such as mine are products of bad therapy or implanted in the brain by evil therapists. The research behind this “false memory syndrome” is so shoddy that official therapeutic consensus does not recognize it as any kind of “syndrome.” The FMSF is actually the lair of accused pedophiles protecting and offering legal assistance to other accused pedophiles. It does its best to confuse and distract from the real facts; its psychological “woo woo” tactics are designed to passively and aggressively confuse the issues with circular arguments.

The FMSF poster boy is Doug Mesner, who also goes by Lucien Greaves, his Satanic chosen name in his little club called the Church of Satan. Basically doing his best to normalize Satanism in the public eye, Mesner/Greaves has pulled such stunts as “tea-bagging” the grave of the wife of the gay-bashing Westboro Baptist Church minister4 and demanding that statues Satanic in nature be legally able to stand beside those depicting the Christian side of the argument. Mesner/Greaves jokes about Satanism—much as Lt. Colonel Michael Aquino did on Geraldo and The Oprah Winfrey Show back in the 1980s and 1990s—but with an admitted flair that only Mesner/Greaves can muster. He and his squad of false memory pedophile protectors are nothing more than a smoke-and-mirror distraction to diminish the belief that such abuse exists, despite the facts that show it plainly does.

My other half always asked why any of this matters 30+ years later, to which I replied that what happened in Omaha with Franklin Credit only evolved and crept into the shadows of other institutions. Take Penn State and Jerry Sandusky, for example. Does any rational person actually believe that all of those complicit people risked their livelihoods and reputations to protect one pedophile? During the Franklin Scandal, prosecuting attorney Gary Caradori and his 8-year-old son were blown out of the sky on July 9, 1990; in the Penn State case, Ray Gricar was the investigating prosecutor disappeared along with his hard drive, never to be heard from again. If Hong Kong-based editor-at-large Yoichi Shimatsu is correct, 24-year-old Internet activist Aaron Swartz was targeted because he uncovered information about a Satanic child trafficking ring connected to MIT and its affiliate child charities.

I feel compelled to trudge forward with my advocacy work not only because what happened in the past was wrong but because the practice of abducting and selling children has mutated and spread into even more nefarious forms.

The loss of my other half brought me to the brink of such despair that I became self-destructive. But now that I am alone, having made the choice to keep going with my advocacy work, I have come to the conclusion that I must release the anger and despair that has been such a part of my past and focus on the healing and hope that the future holds for those strong enough to face their darkness. I want to learn how to shift my personal perception so that my work enriches instead of drains me. I know other survivors can relate.

I will be changing my focus to one of hope instead of anger, thus closing the “investigative” part of my advocacy work. Like my 20-year relationship that has ended in a way, so has the part of my work that has involved only darkness and eventual despair. I am done parroting the same old things. I now cleanse myself of these events and seek to release myself from the chaos that has been such a part of my past. Healing and hope must become my new focus. I have been presented with an opportunity, if not a necessity: to reinvent myself as someone who inspires.

For those contending with governmental targeting in whatever form (“bullying on steroids”), there is hope. Check ouit Renata Murray, who runs the website, also takes calls every Sunday as a forum for people to openly and honestly discuss issues of harassment, from organized stalking to electronic and microwave-based targeting. Every Sunday at 5pm EST, the number to reach is 724 444 7444, and the code is 114616.

The second call I highly recommend is Badbaby, also on on Friday nights at 10 EST as well as an occasional Sunday call at 8pm. The code for the call is 46333. The information and support these calls offer is consistently top notch information-wise as well as diverse and entertaining.

As for Omaha, my past, and my father’s family, it is time to disengage and leave the offenders to their own devices. Joanne C. Shurter is nothing more than a bad memory for me, and as was true when my father passed, she too will meet the makings of her own doing in the end, as will we all. Most of those connected with the Omaha of 30 years ago are dead and dying, but don’t forget: the whole child trafficking and sexual exploitation epidemic that the U.S. must now face had to have originated somewhere. As Sherlock Holmes surmised, when nothing else remains, the improbable becomes probable.


1. See Andrew Rice, “The Octopus Conspiracy: One Woman’s Search for Her Father’s Killer.” Wired magazine, February 4, 2011.

2. “MSNBC to Air MISSING JOHNNY Documentary, 12/16,” Broadway World, November 30, 2012.

3. See “From PSYOP to MindWar: The Psychology of Victory” (1980) by Col. Paul E. Vallely, Commander, and Major Michael A. Aquino, PSYOP Research & Analysis Team Leader, Aquino’s self-stated status until his so-called military intelligence retirement in 1994 was Top Secret/Special Intelligence Access.

4. Andres Jaurigui, “‘Pink Mass’ Has Made Westboro Baptist Church Founder’s Mom Gay In Afterlife, Satanists Claim.” Huffpost Gay Voices, July 18, 2013.

Leave a Reply