Casey Sherman - Hunting Whitey: The Inside Story of the Capture & Killing of Americas Most Wanted Crime Boss
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For my darling Kristin, thank you for embarking on lifes journey with me, for Bella and Mia, and in memory of my beloved stepfather, Kenneth Dodd, a trusted editor of my work and a kind and gentle soul.
Casey Sherman
For Jessica, thank you for the love, support, and daily conversations about writing, news, and life that inspire me to do what I do. And to my amazing children, Danielle and Jackson, you guys are everything to me and I love you both.
Dave Wedge
Perseverance, secret of all triumphs.
Victor Hugo
March & April 1973Michael Milano, Al Plummer, William OBrien, James Leary, and Joseph Notorangeli
December 1973James OToole
February 1974Al Notorangeli
October 1974James Sousa
November 1974Paul McGonagle
June 1975Edward Connors
November 1975Tommy King, Francis Buddy Leonard
December 1976Roger Wheeler
December 1976Richard Castucci
Late 1981Debra Davis
May 1982Brian Halloran, Michael Donahue
August 1982John B. Callahan
July 1983Arthur Bucky Barrett
November 1984John McIntyre
Early 1985Deborah Hussey
SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA, 2010
I TS DUSK IN S ANTA M ONICA and a gentle breeze blows off the Pacific Ocean near the famed Santa Monica Pier. One hundred and thirty feet above the platform, a giant Ferris wheel turns slowly while nearby a steel roller coaster rumbles along at thirty-five miles per hour to the delight of screaming passengers.
On the beach nearby, Whitey Bulger is strolling hand in hand with his longtime girlfriend Catherine Greig just beyond Pacific Park. Both are dressed in white and are illuminated against the pinkish hue of the setting sun. They look like any other retired couple enjoying a warm evening outside. They also look vulnerable.
Whitey savors these nightly walks, as they give him a sense of freedom that he lacks while being cooped up most days inside their two-bedroom apartment at the Princess Eugenia less than a mile away. But Bulger senses that something is wrongthat they are being followed. He notices a vagrant walking a few paces behind them, studying their every move.
Is it an FBI agent working undercover? Bulger thinks to himself. Is it finally the end of the line? The living on edge, always prepared for someone to recognize him, these were realities that Bulger had grown comfortable living with ever since he fled Boston just before Christmas in 1994. His vigilance was constantit was how hed survived on the run for so longit didnt matter whether he was sleeping in his Santa Monica apartment or strolling on the beach.
After a few more steps, a homeless man senses an opportunity and rushes the couple.
But instead of pulling out a badge, he shows them a knife.
Give me your fucking money, old man, the robber shouts while holding up the long, steel blade.
Bulger smiles, rubs the white whiskers of his neatly trimmed beard, and lifts his arm slowly. Hes holding a gun close to his body.
Kid, never bring a knife to a gunfight, Whitey snarls.
Bulger, the avid movie buff, has no doubt lifted the line from the Brian De Palma film The Untouchables about the most legendary mobster of allAl Capone.
The threat works.
The vagrant puts his blade away and disappears into the night.
And Whitey continues on his way.
N OREEN G LEASON CARRIED A CARDBOARD box bulging with personal and professional mementos up the elevator and into the Boston office of the FBI. It was February 3, 2008, her first day on the job as assistant special agent in charge of the criminal division (ASAC), and as she stepped off the lift, she walked past a bullpen of agents who were glued to their computer screens or reviewing stacks of files dedicated to the one case that had haunted the office and the city for decades. The agents kept their heads down, going about their work without passion or energy. The New England Patriots had just lost the Super Bowl the night before to the New York Giants, ending their bid for a perfect season. There was reason to be glum. But the feeling here was different.
Gleason studied their mannerisms and recognized the problem immediately.
These agents look haggard and beat down, she said to herself.
Gleason placed the box on her desk, sat down, and took a deep breath. Gazing around her office, she realized how far shed come from her strict, military-style upbringing in her sleepy hometown of Hawthorne, New Jersey, and the seven long years shed toiled as a trooper in the state police there.
Her desk phone rang.
Mr. Bamford will see you now, the secretary informed her.
Mr. Bamford was Gleasons new boss, Warren T. Bamford, the special agent in charge (SAC) of the Boston field office. Gleason walked confidently into Bamfords office, where he stood by the window with arms folded, staring out at Government Center and City Hall. He didnt waste time.
I have one job for you, Agent Gleason, he said. My top priority is capturing James Bulger and bringing him to justice.
Gleason didnt respond right away. She needed to process the statement for a moment. By this point, James Whitey Bulger had been on the run from the FBI for more than thirteen years. In that time, hed become something of a ghost story, a larger-than-life criminal whod been written about in books and mythologized on the big screen, whose exploits had become crazier than fiction. His ability to evade capture had grown his legacy into infamyinstead of being a mob murderer and henchman, hed become a folk hero.
Bamfords decree was nothing new. Every SAC of the Boston field office had made similar pledges before. His predecessor, Kenneth Kaiser, had pumped out his chest after taking the job in 2003 and promised that hed do everything in his power to arrest the fugitive crime boss on his watch.
I will do whatever it takes to get this guy, Kaiser told reporters then. I dont care who catches him; I just want it over and done with. My goal is to have him caught and move on.
That didnt happen.
But Bamford was a quiet leader, and more methodical than the bombastic Kaiser. As a kid, Bamford watched the Efram Zimbalist Jr. television drama The FBI, and knew thats what he wanted to be when he grew up. A native of Lowell, Massachusetts, and a former US Marine, Bamford had served on the FBIs Hostage Rescue Team and was sent as a sniper to the deadly standoff at Ruby Ridge and the siege at David Koreshs Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. Tellingly, Bamford did not fire a single shot at either tragic event.
Bamford understood that cooperation between all the agenciesthe FBI, state police, US Marshals, and US Attorneys officewas imperative in ending the now thirteen-year-old manhunt for Americas most wanted mob boss. Bamford also needed someone who was smart and action oriented to lead the effort. He believed that hed found the perfect candidate in Noreen Gleason.
You were a state trooper in New Jersey and I think youll have a good rapport with our counterparts. Theyll respect you. We need everyone rowing in the same direction if were going to pull this off.
If catching Bulger is the priority of the office, thats what Im gonna do, she told her boss.
Like Bamford, Gleason had always dreamed of a career in law enforcement. She entered the New Jersey State Police Academy in 1985 and served as a road trooper for the next seven years, eventually becoming an instructor teaching state police cadets defensive tactics, physical training, and water safety.
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