Black Mass: The Irish Mob, the Boston FBI, and a Devil's Deal by Dick Lehr, Gerard O'Neill Page A
Authors: Dick Lehr, Gerard O'Neill
Tags: Social Science, Sociology, True Crime, Political Science, Anthropology, Cultural, Urban, Law Enforcement, organized crime
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headquarters in Washington, D.C. The bureau’s guidelines and regulations for handling informants required no less.
Had the dance ended so abruptly?
Hardly. Morris and Connolly had something else in mind.
The January memo actually marked the start of an era of creative record-keeping that Morris and Connolly would adopt when it came to the FBI’s files on Bulger and Flemmi. It was nothing short of cooking the books. Morris may have appeared to be the no-nonsense career agent—his guarded manner, thin-lipped face, and small size combined to give him the look of a pencil-pushing stickler for the rules—but all this concealed another side. Looking around the office at the likes of the flashy Connolly and, before him, the silver-haired Paul Rico, Morris was like the team manager jealous of the jocks who started and starred in the big game. And not long after transferring to Boston in 1972 he’d even sought to show that he too had the right stuff.
He was toiling on a stubborn loan-sharking investigation and had made little headway trying to persuade a wiseguy named Eddie Miani to become a cooperating witness. Having failed one on one, Morris and two other agents one night went to Miani’s house and crawled around under his car. “It was a wire and a blasting cap,” Morris said later, “as if you were going to rig an explosive device on it.” Then they left and hurriedly placed an anonymous call to the local police reporting unknown persons monkeying with a car outside Miani’s house. The police went to the scene, roused Miani, and showed him the mangled bombing device. The very next day Morris was back in Miani’s face: See, I told you. Your “friends” are trying to kill you. Get smart. Come with us. The FBI is your only hope.
Miani told Morris to get lost, and the dirty car bomb trick remained the agents’ secret. But the bit of law-breaking had given Morris a taste for the wild side, so that by the time he assumed command of the Organized Crime Squad he’d already developed the flexibility that made him a fitting match with Connolly. Next to faking bombs, fooling with the FBI’s paperwork was lightweight; starting with the race-fixing case, the lies they wrote seemed to come easy.
For example, Morris’s 1978 memo might have reported that Bulger was out of the informant business, but Bulger was never told about his putative change in status, and Connolly continued to see him as if nothing had changed. Moreover, Morris flat-out lied in a later document saying that during the race-fixing probe Connolly had “discontinued contacts.” It was just not true. Then, in the 1980s, there would be a three-year period when Flemmi was closed down as an informant. But no one ever told Flemmi, and during those three years Connolly would file forty-six FBI reports of contacts he and other agents had with Flemmi during the supposed shutdown. No FBI manager would ever ask Connolly to explain the large number of contacts he and other agents were having with a closed informant. As long as the paperwork appeared in order, all was well.
For his part, Morris at the time had other, more pressing concerns than someone else’s race-fixing case. The ambitious supervisor was determined to have his Organized Crime Squad devise a plan to do what no police agency had yet been able to accomplish—put a bug in Gennaro Angiulo’s North End office. More immediately, Morris was up to his eyeballs overseeing another investigation already under way.
This one involved the widespread hijacking of trucks in New England. The joint probe between the Boston FBI and the Massachusetts State Police was given the code name Operation Lobster. Dozens of agents and troopers had been assigned to the case, which was built around an undercover FBI agent, Nick Gianturco, who had become Nick Giarro. He’d been brought in for the job from the FBI office in New York to minimize the chances of detection by the local hijackers. In fact, John Connolly was
Had the dance ended so abruptly?
Hardly. Morris and Connolly had something else in mind.
The January memo actually marked the start of an era of creative record-keeping that Morris and Connolly would adopt when it came to the FBI’s files on Bulger and Flemmi. It was nothing short of cooking the books. Morris may have appeared to be the no-nonsense career agent—his guarded manner, thin-lipped face, and small size combined to give him the look of a pencil-pushing stickler for the rules—but all this concealed another side. Looking around the office at the likes of the flashy Connolly and, before him, the silver-haired Paul Rico, Morris was like the team manager jealous of the jocks who started and starred in the big game. And not long after transferring to Boston in 1972 he’d even sought to show that he too had the right stuff.
He was toiling on a stubborn loan-sharking investigation and had made little headway trying to persuade a wiseguy named Eddie Miani to become a cooperating witness. Having failed one on one, Morris and two other agents one night went to Miani’s house and crawled around under his car. “It was a wire and a blasting cap,” Morris said later, “as if you were going to rig an explosive device on it.” Then they left and hurriedly placed an anonymous call to the local police reporting unknown persons monkeying with a car outside Miani’s house. The police went to the scene, roused Miani, and showed him the mangled bombing device. The very next day Morris was back in Miani’s face: See, I told you. Your “friends” are trying to kill you. Get smart. Come with us. The FBI is your only hope.
Miani told Morris to get lost, and the dirty car bomb trick remained the agents’ secret. But the bit of law-breaking had given Morris a taste for the wild side, so that by the time he assumed command of the Organized Crime Squad he’d already developed the flexibility that made him a fitting match with Connolly. Next to faking bombs, fooling with the FBI’s paperwork was lightweight; starting with the race-fixing case, the lies they wrote seemed to come easy.
For example, Morris’s 1978 memo might have reported that Bulger was out of the informant business, but Bulger was never told about his putative change in status, and Connolly continued to see him as if nothing had changed. Moreover, Morris flat-out lied in a later document saying that during the race-fixing probe Connolly had “discontinued contacts.” It was just not true. Then, in the 1980s, there would be a three-year period when Flemmi was closed down as an informant. But no one ever told Flemmi, and during those three years Connolly would file forty-six FBI reports of contacts he and other agents had with Flemmi during the supposed shutdown. No FBI manager would ever ask Connolly to explain the large number of contacts he and other agents were having with a closed informant. As long as the paperwork appeared in order, all was well.
For his part, Morris at the time had other, more pressing concerns than someone else’s race-fixing case. The ambitious supervisor was determined to have his Organized Crime Squad devise a plan to do what no police agency had yet been able to accomplish—put a bug in Gennaro Angiulo’s North End office. More immediately, Morris was up to his eyeballs overseeing another investigation already under way.
This one involved the widespread hijacking of trucks in New England. The joint probe between the Boston FBI and the Massachusetts State Police was given the code name Operation Lobster. Dozens of agents and troopers had been assigned to the case, which was built around an undercover FBI agent, Nick Gianturco, who had become Nick Giarro. He’d been brought in for the job from the FBI office in New York to minimize the chances of detection by the local hijackers. In fact, John Connolly was
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