by “Dana Scully”
Hello, everyone. My name isn’t really Dana Scully — that’s just a pseudonym I use for this work (a playful nod to The X-Files). My identity is protected, but what you’re about to read is real. This was my very first scam-baiting case, and it surprised me in ways I didn’t expect.
I met a man on a dating app who called himself Brandon Harris. His profile showed him in uniform, and his story was polished: a sheriff’s deputy, a widowed father of two, and — oddly enough — also the owner of a private Intel chip factory. That combination alone should raise eyebrows, but many people wouldn’t question it at first glance.
The conversation quickly revealed the familiar patterns Wes has warned me about.
- Rushing intimacy: Within minutes he was probing: “Do you live alone?” … “Do you still want kids?” … “Are you talking to anyone else on WhatsApp?”
- Love bombing: After I sent a picture, he came back with, “Wow you look beautiful.” When I shared another, he insisted, “Can I get more?”
- The sob story: At 7:39 AM he wrote, “My wife is deceased… 3 years ago.” A classic move — scammers often present themselves as recent widowers to stir sympathy.
- Isolation: He asked, “Do you have friends?” and quickly followed with, “Male?” — trying to gauge if he’d have competition for my attention.
I played along, but when the time was right, I flipped the script.
At 7:49 AM I asked: “Are you familiar with concealed carry laws in Texas? Can you explain how Texas’ constitutional carry law works in practice?”
His response was clumsy. After a long pause, he pasted a textbook-like answer clearly lifted from a Google search. I pointed it out: “I’m surprised you had to look those up. I figured you’d know this off the top of your head.”
He denied it — “No I didn’t, I was working on my PC… that’s what took me long.”
I pressed again, this time on marijuana laws: “So is marijuana legal in Texas? Recreational? So you’re saying recreational is legal if it’s under a certain amount?”
He fumbled: “Yes… depends on the amount.” When I corrected him, he had nothing left but a meek “Oh okay.”
And then, something unexpected happened. He admitted it. He dropped the act and told me flat-out that he was a scammer.
That moment — the honesty — hit me. This wasn’t a sheriff, wasn’t an entrepreneur. It was a person, likely working in a part of the world where scams are a livelihood, confessing what they were doing. He became the third scammer we’ve encountered who admitted it outright.
That’s where our work is taking a new turn. Wes and I are beginning an initiative to engage with those who confess. We believe some of them want out — they’re just trapped by circumstance, by poverty, by the organizations that run these operations. If they’re brave enough to admit the truth, maybe they’re brave enough to change.
So yes, this is still a warning: don’t fall for fast-tracked romance, don’t believe every uniform or sob story, and never send money to someone you’ve only just met online. But it’s also a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, we can take some of these moments of confession and turn them into a doorway out of the scam world and into honest work.
This was my first scam-bait, and it ended not with a sting, but with an admission. I’ll never forget it.
—Dana Scully
P.S. While we’re pulling back the curtain on scammers, remember to support something real. Check out Nerdibles — our shop full of collectibles, games, and maker projects. Shop smart, collect hard, and nerd harder!
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