17

BOSTON, 1982

“I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

I recited the FBI oath on a warm fall day at the age of twenty-five with the rest of my graduating class in the Old Post Office Building in 1965. It was a cavernous space and our voices echoed, reverberating in a din kind of like PA-speaker feedback. I remember hoping J. Edgar Hoover himself would be there, but he wasn’t. I remember listening to similar words spoken during the introduction to those old radio shows. It should have been a happy moment, and I guess it was. But it was tinged by melancholy. Thoughts of my mother and memories of the Mount, how cold the concrete floor felt in winter. I don’t know why I thought about that then, but I did.

But my melancholy swiftly vanished with my first posting in New Orleans in 1965. My supervisor, John Reynolds, commanded the #4 squad which was made up of about eighteen agents ranging from me, a shave-tailed twenty five year old, to Regis, a senior twenty plus veteran who was assigned to the JFK assassination case in New Orleans.

Reynolds used to yell across the glass partition, “Fitzpatrick, get your ass in here!”

Wry smiles flashed on the faces of my brother agents; we were all male agents back then in 1965, always a step away from a “whupping” by Reynolds, reputed to be the toughest supervisor in the FBI.

“I know you were a social worker in your other life,” he said. Reynolds had thick bushy eyebrows and spoke in a voice permanently hoarse from cigarettes. He had a picture of his family framed on his desk but sometimes, when the discussion grew especially unpleasant, he’d turn the picture away so that his family wouldn’t bear witness. “But, dammit, you’re an agent now and these pabulum reports tell me you better get on the ball! You’ll have to testify to this and the jury could care less about how you feel! Facts are facts and, dammit, from now on your reports will only contain facts. Do you read me, Fitzpatrick?”

The only thing I could mutter was, “Yes, sir.”

“Then get the hell out of here!”

For all of the bluster, John Reynolds taught me how to write a report; an FBI report, one that would hold up in court under the best scrutiny. As a first office agent this was part of my indoctrination and probationary period. Hoover made sure all new agents went through such a probationary period, extending from training school to the first-year evaluation. Some agents were let go even before their first-year-evaluation rating, several more afterwards.

The fact that my initial reviews were positive led to my first bump up the ladder to an assignment as a lookout; specifically for two cop killers out of Oklahoma who had escaped from prison and were on the lam. The identification order claimed they liked to hang out around YMCAs, hitting the customers in violent smash-and-dash robberies. My assignment was to surveil a certain YMCA and watch for suspicious vehicles or persons.

Along about ten or eleven one night, lo and behold, two guys drove into the YMCA parking lot and took a position in a darkened corner diagonally across from me. After a few minutes, I sneaked up and grabbed the license plate number which, unbelievably, matched a car stolen by the Oklahoma escapees a few days earlier.

I crept toward the car and IDed two men in the front seat, apparently asleep and drunk. The driver had a gun in his left hand at the ready while the other guy’s hand was hidden from sight. I staked out the car and called for backup. The case agent arrived and I briefed him on the facts at hand. A plan was drawn up to take the individuals down. The case agent, a hard-nosed FBI lifer named Ziggy, would make the arrest, while I covered him from the driver’s side.

Being a brand new agent, I’m sure the seasoned agents were covering me, throwing me a bone as a gesture for alerting them to this potential grab. As Ziggy approached the car he wrapped on the window, startling both fugitives. When he yanked the passenger door open, the fugitive on that side made a sudden movement that ended when Ziggy stuck a gun in his face. The fugitive I was eyeballing slowly raised his hand, and I immediately wrapped on his window pointing my gun directly at his head.

“Gun!” I yelled, keeping with protocol.

The apprehension team responded in a flurry of movement that left the two fugitives squirming facedown on the ground.

Later, I was given the assignment and honor to fingerprint the fugitive cop killers. Still a little drunk and hostile, they fought my attempt to photograph and fingerprint them. The third time they resisted I gave one last warning. When they still refused to cooperate, I looked to a senior agent who nodded, the implication of his gesture clear. I pulled the third finger of one of the fugitives back until I heard a pop! as it broke. After howling and jumping up and down he settled in to be fingerprinted. The other fugitive offered no resistance at all.

We brought the first fugitive before the magistrate in New Orleans. The subject immediately protested that I had brutally broken his finger. The magistrate questioned me about it and I told him these cold-blooded killers wouldn’t let me do my job. I cited that I had to establish identity in making sure that the subject was indeed the shooter since we recovered the gun that allegedly killed a police officer. The magistrate agreed that force was necessary and refused to concede that I had committed police brutality.

*   *   *

I’d graduated the Bureau’s Training Academy certain that as long as I was an agent, I’d never lose sight of the FBI oath’s words or its meaning. In my mind, that’s what the whole Bulger mess was about. Agents were plainly violating that oath and sometimes much worse. But for me to have turned a blind eye to what was going on, to have not continued to pursue Bulger and his enablers at all costs, would have run counter to everything I tried to stand for as an agent. Some would call that stubborn, Irish stubborn, as they say. Some would call it simply tenacious. Bucking the system, while some would just call it stupid.

I call it simply right and it explains why I wasn’t going to stop until the mess was cleaned up, no matter what. Until I was transferred to the Boston FBI office in 1981 I never had reason to question the integrity of a fellow agent or even the FBI as a whole. My fifteen-year tenure with the Bureau up until this time was marked by a steady climb, experiencing major roles in a series of high-profile and successful investigations. My assumption, based on that experience, was that all agents were like me. They had taken the oath, too, hadn’t they?

Not John Connolly, apparently.

The culture of the Boston FBI office allowed him to set the tone and act as if he were in charge. This was best exemplified by a “point shaving” case involving the Boston College basketball team. A wiseguy by the name of Paul Mazzei was convicted for his involvement in a basketball scheme featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated. There were three groups involved: a Pittsburgh connection that involved a student named Tony Perla; a Boston College player named Rick Kuhn; and a New York connection with gangsters Henry Hill (from the movie Wiseguy who became an informant for the FBI in 1979 when I was in Miami) and James Burke, a Westie from Hell’s Kitchen who ran away from Mount Loretto when I was there. The gangsters created “protection,” and the players received $2,500 per game in exchange for ensuring that Boston College did not beat the point spread in games where the betting gangsters wagered against the team.

While this took place during the 1978–79 season, the trials came to a head early into my tenure as Boston ASAC. I was sitting in my office when my secretary buzzed to tell me that a high-ranking official from Boston College was on the phone. Perplexed, I took the call.

“What can I do for you, sir?” I asked politely.

Making small talk, the official said he was happy to chat with the FBI head in Boston and congratulated the office for a fine job cleaning up the town.

“So what I can do for you today?” I repeated.

“John Connolly said you might be able to do the school, and me, a favor.”

“John Connolly?”

“Well, these kids are fine boys, but sometimes they get into trouble. Boys, you know.”

“Pardon me, but are you talking about the Boston College basketball betting scandal?”

“These are good boys, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“The case is currently being investigated by the FBI.”

“Agent Connolly thought you might be able to help us out a bit.”

“Agent Connolly is on one of the squads I manage, but he’s not involved in the Boston College investigation.”

“He said maybe there is something you can do.”

“Bringing the boys into my office for a chat would be fine.”

“I was hoping for something more.”

I found it hard to believe that this official was hinting, on the suggestion of John Connolly, that I could make the case go away. I was both dumbfounded and livid at the thought. In spite of all my interactions with him and the clear displeasure I’d expressed over his job performance, Connolly still thought I was ripe for the taking. In Connolly’s Boston and in Connolly’s FBI, that was the way things were done.

I called John Morris, Connolly’s supervisor, and ordered him in for an interview. I went up one side and down the other, leaving no doubt he and Connolly were in trouble before I got around to the Boston College official’s thinly veiled request.

“Is this guy stupid or what?”

“No,” Morris replied, somewhat indignantly, “the guy’s an important man.”

As if that’s the way things were done in Boston, business as usual, as if I could be sucked into the culture of corruption. You go along to get along, right?

Not a chance.

I was called down to FBIHQ about this time for a special assignment designed to stop the leaks and, more important, the informant killings. HQ didn’t let on but they were leery of the information about cases getting out. Continue working me as a “Serpico” was one idea, in that I’d be bypassing the traditional chain of command to make sure my reporting itself didn’t fall victim to the same kind of leaking that plagued the office. So an even more secure system was set up whereby all of my communications with HQ would be through secret and clandestine contacts in person or by secure, coded teletype communications. Soon after the meeting FBIHQ sent out an “All Employees” warning to report all allegations of impropriety and criminal misconduct immediately. These requirements were usually a yearly edict to constantly remind all FBI personnel to report misconduct and breaches of FBI rules and regulation to FBIHQ. Failure to do so would be a serious matter, but equally important was an unwritten rule second only to the oath itself: Don’t embarrass the Bureau.

You won’t find that written anywhere, but it’s imbedded in the minds of all agents. As much or perhaps even more than the military, the FBI is an insular organization that polices itself and expects everyone to toe the party line. Problems are dealt with from within the system and by the system. Of course, nothing like the problems in Boston had ever surfaced before, and I intended to solve them by sticking to established procedure and protocol in doing my job.

A job that was about to become even more difficult.

Larry Sarhatt’s tenure as Special Agent in Charge came to an end right around the time of John Callahan’s murder and my subsequent trips to headquarters in Washington. He’d had enough, although some said he was “pushed out” by HQ. In late November 1982, he was replaced by James Greenleaf, whom I’d met a few times back in HQ but didn’t know that well. Greenleaf had been an assistant director at HQ in the Inspection and Planning Division, so his coming up to run the Boston office took plenty by surprise. After all, Boston was a coveted job, a top ten office amid a hotbed of activity. I knew that much from my tenure as chief of the Transfer Unit when I saw how many SACs coveted the top job there, to the point where some of them actively criticized Greenleaf’s appointment as an “in thing” move.

I picked Greenleaf up at Logan Airport and we drove to Portland, Maine, where he hailed from, an opportunity for him to inspect the resident agency there. Our drive started out with small talk about our common acquaintances and experiences in Washington. Greenleaf was tall; an inch or two over six feet, blessed with an athletic build and a not unpleasant demeanor that should have made him the kind of public relations asset the Boston office was sorely in need of. I kept an open mind, even though chatter and rumor had Greenleaf involved with less than savory sorts in and out of the Bureau. I was warned in house by several agents to watch him because he was “a company guy.” They provided me with several examples that put his character in question and spoke of possible involvement in ongoing criminal issues at HQ.

Greenleaf intimated that Sarhatt was forced out as Boston SAC because the feeling at HQ was that he wasn’t running the office well enough, resulting in embarrassment and a tarnished image for the FBI in Boston. Could this have had something to do with the fact that Sarhatt agreed with me that Whitey Bulger should be closed as an informant? Dick Bates, my old SAC pal, thought so.

Before we got around to discussing Bulger or anything else of substance, Greenleaf asked me to stop at a liquor store where he purchased a six-pack of dark Heineken beer that he proceeded to drain during the course of our drive north. I thought this odd since drinking on duty was strictly prohibited by Bureau rules and regulations, but I gave my new boss a pass since he needed time to settle in. We talked about how the Boston office was set up, the different personalities and politics. At the time, all ten squads under me were making great strides in taking down all classifications of crime, since many of the operational and organizational changes I’d put into place were finally taking hold in the form of collars and convictions.

The difference between Sarhatt and Greenleaf, meanwhile, couldn’t have been more pronounced. Sarhatt lived and breathed the Bureau; it dominated his life, all he ever talked about. Not so with Greenleaf. For him, taking over as SAC in Boston was just another rung to mount on his laddered career path.

“Jim, how exactly did you get Boston?” I asked him. “Everybody wants Boston.”

He laughed and acknowledged it was a who-you-know proposition. This was apparent, since Greenleaf didn’t have a lot of field or case experience and wasn’t used to supervising squads or agents. His strengths were technical and procedural; he’d never really distinguished himself in the capacity of on-the-scene leadership that would be required of him in any SAC position. But he was savvy enough, politically anyway, to make a point of revealing HQ’s perception that I was “combative” and “bellicose.” Even though I didn’t view his comment as confrontational necessarily, I did regard it as a thinly veiled threat that my dogged pursuit to close Whitey Bulger wasn’t about to be tolerated any longer.

In that respect, maybe James Greenleaf was actually the perfect guy for the job—living proof of an unspoken message from HQ about Boston that I never quite read right. Could be it was about choosing sides, and his assignment clearly indicated HQ wasn’t choosing mine, no matter what they said to the contrary. Clear now, but not nearly as so then.

These were heady, productive times for the Boston office, and Greenleaf’s performance reports on me graciously reflected that. He continued to write me up as an exceptional ASAC, in spite of some clear areas of conflict that drove a wedge between us. Very early in his tenure, the new SAC instructed me to close a case at the Bath Shipyards in Maine, territory that fell under the Boston office’s “resident agency” status. The case involved multimillion-dollar kickbacks and bribes by government officials. We identified a DOJ employee through informants showing he was involved in the bribery matter and we were close to presenting the case for prosecution when Greenleaf ordered me to close the investigation.

“I can’t do that,” I told him.

“I don’t think you heard what I just told you.”

“I heard you.”

He hesitated before responding, clearly not used to be challenged. “Close the case, Fitz.”

“Is that an order?”

“You bet it is.”

“Then I respectfully decline to follow it.”

Another heated pause, after which he asked, “What’s it going to take to get you to close this case?”

I said that if the Director of the FBI advised me in writing to close the case I would close it. Amazingly, the next day I received a teletype from Director William Webster instructing me to do exactly that. My oath was on the line and this order was unprecedented in my FBI career. To me it was tantamount to case fixing. But the order was approved by Washington, so I guess that took Greenleaf off the hook.

Greenleaf’s next questionable decision was to replace John Morris as head of the Organized Crime squad with an agent named Jim Ring. On its own this was a fairly innocuous move, but Greenleaf also changed the office’s chain-of-command structure whereby Ring would report directly to him, bypassing me entirely. Almost immediately Ring coddled up to John Connolly and, thus, Whitey Bulger. The implication of the move was as clear as the signal it provided: I was being taken out of the Bulger business. Nobody, from HQ on down, wanted to hear anymore that Bulger should be closed as an FBI TE.

Despite the success the office encountered under my stewardship, there were so many leaks and infractions of policy under this new regime that the office became paralyzed by in-house investigations. I had my suspicions that Greenleaf was behind at least some of the problems, but it was nothing I could prove or chose to pursue further. Since I was now officially working undercover, reports to HQ and the Director’s Office were made confidentially in person and by written or verbal communication to HQ personnel outside of Boston. That should have assured the sanctity of the information I was providing. But I later learned through court testimony and federal appellate court briefs that Greenleaf had been fully briefed on my confidential status from the beginning in stark contrast to my stated mandate.

On one occasion the Department of Justice’s U.S. attorney asked to speak with me privately. We met behind closed doors and he informed me he had knowledge that an agent was “on the take” and leaking info to LCN. This involved a $17,000 kickback from the wiseguys that was disclosed during an audit revealing missing informant money. Morris was not known at the time to have taken money himself from the wiseguys, but as the drug coordinator, this was his domain and his responsibility. Morris’s response: telling his agents to watch their collective ass. I advised SAC Greenleaf and he took no action. In fact, I later learned that he, too, warned the agents of a possible investigation!

When I asked this particular U.S. attorney why he didn’t just report this crime to SAC Greenleaf, he replied, “Because I don’t trust him.”

It’s no wonder that the office became even more corrupt, instead of less. Agents know their job and are excellent investigators. Because the FBI is a militarylike organization, though, there remains a direct line of order, passing from one to another upward in a strict protocol. Every agent is reluctant to deliver the news that spells corruption, especially if it happens to involve the boss. Even my old pal and former SAC of Boston Dick Bates underestimated how bad things had gotten. He never spoke of the true gravity of the situation, thinking it would pass. Perhaps he had seen it all before and now in retirement he had no desire to watch the same show again.

Headquarters should have taken the drastic action required, both before SAC Greenleaf’s arrival in Boston and after. As the former transfer agent at HQ, and one who previously handled every major case of this kind prior to coming to Boston, I knew that Morris and Connolly should have been transferred to another division to avoid any hint of impropriety and for preventative reasons. It was far more than a hint at this point. Informants’ lives had already been lost and more certainly would be if something wasn’t done.

What message was HQ sending by giving Greenleaf the Boston office? I thought a hefty part of it was about getting me to back off Bulger. Back then I took my undercover status as a sure sign of HQ’s commitment to make things right in Boston. Now I see it more as a means to keep the information I was funneling under control.

Don’t embarrass the Bureau.

Meanwhile, I turned my focus to the other major cases assigned to the Organized Crime squad I was running. There was no shortage of them. In fact, shortly after James Greenleaf’s arrival, I had seven leak cases relating to corruption, graft, extortion, payoffs, and organized crime, several of them extremely high profile.

The LCN case fell under my domain and I was determined to bring down the Angiulo mob through traditional means and technical assistance, not relying at all on the bogus intelligence supplied by Bulger. I never took my eyes totally off Whitey, still determined to see justice done. But the atmosphere between rival agents in the office had become so venomous that my original mandate was just that. Agents knew I’d lost two informants who could have given me Bulger, and as the new guy in town, it was easy to side against me in favor of imbedded agents like Connolly and Morris. And it was becoming alarming to me which side SAC Greenleaf came down on.

But I had more important things on my plate than him. I was in the process of organizing the last remnants of the takedown of the Boston mafia. Gennaro Angiulo, the head of the Boston mafia, had run the Boston mob for a generation, having been installed as underboss by the head of the New England LCN, Raymond Patriarca out of Providence, Rhode Island. He was the son of Italian immigrants and served four years in the navy during World War II. The man loved boats and had actually just purchased a yacht he christened the St. Gennaro as we prepared to move on him.

On the day of September 19, 1983, I was about to serve his arrest warrant and I ordered some agents to dine at a small Italian restaurant called Francesca’s in Boston’s North End, a major ethnic section of the city. The agents were to nonchalantly order a meal and mix in among the other patrons. Angiulo dined there regularly and we had a tip that he’d be in the restaurant that evening.

After he arrived, the agents inside surreptitiously cautioned us that there was no unusual activity predisposing Angiulo’s imminent arrest. So I entered the restaurant with “side-arm” agents and walked directly to Angiulo’s table. The mafia chief’s lieutenants sensed the potential calamity first. As Angiulo looked up to see the cause of the alarm, we looked squarely into each other’s eyes. His scowl, a flinty-eyed sneer, fell over his face as he recognized me. My demeanor was a directed, businesslike look that showed determination and authority, but I still remember the red-and-white-checkerboard tablecloths.

“Angiulo,” I said in a firm voice, “I’m Bob Fitzpatrick, ASAC with the FBI, and you are under arrest!”

I flipped my FBI creds on him and held out a gold badge with black casing identifying myself as the ASAC of the Boston FBI office and chief of Organized Crime in New England. He was shocked, to say the least. I made it a point to tell everyone at his table that only Angiulo was under arrest. For now, at least. I then informed Angiulo of the charges, a multitude of them, including conspiracy to murder. He looked shaken, with pasta stains mixed with the blood draining from his pale cheeks. Before he could react, I hustled him from the table and directed him toward the door, politely explaining that I would not cuff him until we were outside unless he caused an embarrassing scene in the restaurant. He nodded and put up no fuss whatsoever. Apparently mob guys don’t want to be embarrassed in public anymore than the FBI does.

The plan was swiftly and skillfully executed. The only people eating in the restaurant that knew of the arrest were my agents secreted among the many diners. Angiulo’s own lieutenants were left speechless and flabbergasted. Outside, we slapped on the bracelets and rushed Angiulo across the sidewalk. The familiar pat on the head prior to getting in the car caused him some consternation but it quickly passed.

I advised Angiulo of his constitutional rights and, as he listened, he looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. His eyes, no longer enraged, were glassy. He still had a bit of spaghetti sauce on the side of his mouth. I thought I could hear his stomach grumbling instead of the usual mouthing off I’d become well acquainted with thanks to the secret wire that had led to his arrest.

“You got nothing on me,” he managed feebly.

“Angiulo,” I said, “don’t be pissed. You know it’s your yapping and your voice on the tapes. Maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

This was an allusion to the years of clandestine, court-ordered wire recordings of his house where he’d discussed the “secrets” of his criminal enterprise. The loan-sharking, the extortions, the planning of murders. By grabbing Angiulo we brought his criminal enterprise to a grinding halt. All of his money, all of his property, including houses and cars, were confiscated. Almost overnight he went from being one of the most powerful men in Boston to a virtual ward of the state. I turned Angiulo over to the agents for processing, where he was dutifully fingerprinted, photographed, and brought before the magistrate in Boston’s federal court where John Connolly showed up just to be photographed during Angiulo’s “perp walk,” in spite of the fact I’d deliberately kept him out of the Angiulo bust.

In 2009, a U.S. Navy honor guard would play taps at Jerry Angiulo’s graveside after a funeral at St. Leonard’s Church in Boston’s North End, not far from the restaurant where we arrested him. And, in an ironic counterpoint, Angiulo died on the eightieth birthday of Whitey Bulger, whom the Boston Globe on September 4, 2009, referred to as “a longtime FBI informant who helped the bureau send Angiulo to prison.”

Nothing could be further from the truth.

“You’ll never close Bulger,” John Morris had told me the night I interviewed Bulger at his Quincy condo.

Bulger was thought to be invaluable, a lynchpin in bringing down La Cosa Nostra, a tale propagated by Connolly and Morris and taken in, hook, line, and sinker by FBIHQ. Because of that he’d been protected at all costs, up to and including making the FBI a willing accomplice in the murder of informants who could have given him and his handlers up for prosecution. But now Angiulo was behind bars, the Boston mob was in shambles, and not a single shred of evidentiary material or testimony that had gotten it done had come from the invaluable Whitey Bulger.

I prepared the communication to FBIHQ after calling the Director’s Office to announce the mafia chief’s arrest. This was a big deal in the OC section and the kudos were generous and genuine. The FBI chiefs in Washington were ecstatic. We had taken down the Boston mafia “without incident”; no reprisals, no problems, and no embarrassment to the Bureau. Later, I celebrated with my fiancée Jane over dinner at a North End restaurant and I never felt better. She had brought a light back to my life I feared extinguished forever with the breakup of my marriage, another casualty of the Bulger years.

I later learned that Jane was scared all through her dinner because she couldn’t understand how I could come back to the North End after arresting the mafia chief. We both laughed with a bit of trepidation. She was the director of nursing at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Boston at the time, living in a three-story tenement house we’d bought in Brookline, which was convenient both to the hospital and my office in the federal building.

“Cops marry nurses,” I told her. “We both lead exciting lives and meet all kinds of people under stressful situations.”

“Never thought of that,” she said.

I had accomplished a great portion of what I’d set out to do upon coming to Boston, and was understandably gratified that in this OC “leg” of my assignment I’d pulled off what would’ve been impossible prior to my arrival. But Whitey Bulger was still running free on the outside, while James Greenleaf was still in charge inside. Greenleaf usually made himself scarce in the office, and in court testimony would later repeat that he did not remember or recall, did not know, or flatly denied certain things that were clearly evident. Not surprisingly, Greenleaf could always remember and recall the things he wanted to take credit for. He was chided by agents and nicknamed “Greenleave” by those befuddled by his absentee management style. The Boston office, above all else, cried out for a hands-on approach to leadership. Greenleaf, in stark contrast, seemed adverse to taking charge and offering the kind of direction that was so sorely needed.

Greenleaf, I began to suspect, was in league with the same higher-ups in Washington like Sean McWeeney, head of the Organized Crime section, who had ordered me to report directly to them. In this scenario, they would control the information and he would control me. The fact that my squad had taken down Angiulo in spite of Bulger, not because of him, left them with no cover and further complicated their plight. They were more frightened than ever that the truth of possible FBI complicity in the murder of informants, as well as the enabling and abetting of Whitey Bulger’s rise to the top of the Boston underworld, would be revealed. Ultimately, that’s exactly what would happen years later in federal court, much too late to undue the damage done by such an unholy alliance.

Don’t embarrass the Bureau, the unwritten rule might have said, but that didn’t stop the Bureau from embarrassing itself.

Greenleaf was the right man for the job, all right. I could only think that he’d been assigned to Boston to keep a lid on things, which required keeping a lid on me. As for Sean McWeeney, he continued to ignore the reporting he’d specifically requested I provide him. Several of these meetings were held in Washington with other members of the Organized Crime squad present, where I specifically detailed how leaks from the Boston office had led directly, at the very least, to the murders of Brian Halloran and John Callahan at the hands of Whitey Bulger. But Bulger remained open as an informant, again in spite of my protestations. And if that meant more informants had to die, then so be it.