Free Betrayal: Whitey Bulger and the FBI Agent Who Fought to Bring Him Down by Jon Land, Robert Fitzpatrick

informant, Whitey?”
    “Know what?”
    I didn’t answer him.
    “I took on plenty of guys like you,” he continued anyway. “Turned out they weren’t so tough either.”

 
    8
    BOSTON, 1981
    I had to make a decision. My questions were getting blown off and redirected. How he had kept the wool over Connolly’s and Morris’s eyes for so long I didn’t know, nor did I particularly care at that point. My intention going in had been to get into areas of investigation, mostly drug investigations and cartel intelligence that he was supposedly supplying. Bulger, though, didn’t answer a single question in either regard and it was obvious to me why.
    My research in the office indicated that Whitey was not being truthful about street drugs and how they got there. He evaded anything to do with drug cartel connections, cartel distribution, entry points, and when braced on these issues, he grew angry. My judgment was that he was not being honest and truthful, and that negated his purpose as a TE informant. Since trust was and is the prime ingredient of informant relationships, how could the FBI continue to rely on Bulger when clearly he was a man not to be trusted?
    I’m going to close this son of a bitch, I muttered to myself.
    Bulger thought he was gaming me, pulling the tough guy act to show that whatever he had to say he’d say to Connolly or Morris, not the new guy on the block who hadn’t earned his respect. I didn’t have to earn anything from Bulger, though; he had to earn it from me. I showed no frustration over his continued refusal to answer any of my questions over our thirty-minute interview. Instead I grew more and more relaxed, casual, letting him think he had beaten me down and the dark night belonged to him.
    In college, part of the curriculum to fulfill my dual major in psychology and sociology involved on-site study at Rockland State Hospital in New York where I observed countless subjects who’d been adjudged psychopaths by psychiatrists and mental health experts. I knew I was looking at a psychopath now, and realized that the whole time I was assessing him, Bulger was assessing me, too. And since I didn’t have sunglasses on, as he did, he had a much better shot of reading me than I did of reading him.
    When I left the Quincy condominium, I didn’t extend my hand and Bulger, again, didn’t extend his. I could feel his eyes burning into me all the way through the door.
    “So,” John Morris said, as I slid back into the passenger seat, “did you like him?”
    “No, John, I didn’t.”
    Morris seemed shocked and surprised, perhaps having been assured by Bulger that he intended to put on a good show for me. “You didn’t?” was all he could manage.
    “We’re going to close this guy.”
    Without missing a beat, and suppressing his surprise, Morris responded, “No, you’re not.”
    “What do you mean?” I challenged, holding back my anger.
    “You’ll never close Bulger,” Morris said defiantly.
    I felt my blood course at his impertinence and, seething with anger, did not want to discuss this any further with him at that point. I had just assessed Bulger and watched as his handler Connolly lurked by his side at the scene. Now I had to listen to Morris, Connolly’s direct superior, tell me what I could and couldn’t do. Morris’s response had caught me equally by surprise, and I tried to calm myself as he drove me back to my office. I made some mental notes to speak with the SAC as soon as possible, though not in the presence of Morris.
    After Morris dropped me off, I spent all night working on a detailed report that I presented to Larry Sarhatt the following morning. My unequivocable recommendation was to close Bulger as an FBI informant, not just for his propensity for violence, but because he definitely could not be trusted. Telling the complete truth was paramount to me, and in my usual idealistic manner, I thought this was the best and most professional thing to do. I dictated my