them with suppressed anger. "So he's clever. I wonder how tough he is."
"Find out," Hoover requested.
In June of 1934, Bill Cochrane entered the National Police Academy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He neared completion of the five months of training that had a dropout rate of 43 percent. He drew excellent marks in all fields: crime scene analysis, visual memory, forensic chemistry, firearms, description, identification, unarmed attack, and selfdefense. From his days as a U.S. Army ordnance officer, he knew enough about high-level explosives to practically teach a course himself. He struggled with judo and bordered on mastering it. But one criticism remained.
"You still behave," Alan Farber, the academy's assistant judo instructor remarked sourly to Cochrane one afternoon, "like some piss-elegant Southern gentleman. Every time you throw somebody you're always saying, 'Sorry'!"
"Is that right?" asked Cochrane.
"You bet it's right, boy. And you can bet your pansy ass that it'll be in my report on Friday when I write it."
"Which hand do you write with?" Cochrane asked.
"Right! Why? What's it to you?"
"Just wondering. Sorry."
“That’s what’s wrong with you. Always apologizing!”
The next day, in a self-defense session, Farber's right hand was broken by an overzealous student who threw the assistant professor nine feet in the air during a drill on knife attacks.
"He's starting," typed Alan Farber with his left hand in the final report, "to look like an outstanding recruit. Maybe some good hard field work would roughen up a few of the smooth edges. It would also measure how good an agent he might someday become."
So upon graduation, Cochrane was sent to Kansas City, where he was soon going cheek-to-jowl with a gang of railroad-yard thieves. Then he was reassigned to Chicago, where he passed an engaging six weeks. Some Sicilian gorillas were edging into the funeral-home business at the expense of some honest German-American undertakers on the North Side, making substantial contributions to the overall funeral industry at the same time.
In both situations, Cochrane worked under the command of one Richard Wheeler, known as "Big Dick" throughout the F.B.I. outposts of the Midwest. Wheeler, a big, affable Missourian, was already a rising star of the Bureau and making himself a legend.
Wheeler did not allow petty legalities to stymie an investigation. Once, at 3 A.M. on a rainy Chicago morning, Wheeler had posted Cochrane as a lookout as Wheeler, bearing a screwdriver in his teeth, had climbed a telephone pole. At the summit, Wheeler joyously invaded a junction box, rearranged things, and for the next two weeks manned a pair of headphones in a nearby apartment that tied into the funeral home of one Vito DeMaria.
Previously, in Kansas City, also with Cochrane under his bearish arm, Wheeler demonstrated how two federal agencies could work closely for the greater good of the public: he removed twenty-five dollars a week from Bureau petty cash and passed it along to the mailman who had railroad yards. In this way, Dick Wheeler read his victims' mail every morning before they received it.
"How can you do that?" Cochrane asked, the new boy on the block.
"I can't," said Wheeler. "So I do it anyway." When Cochrane grimaced, Wheeler expanded. "Very common practice, Bill," Wheeler said. "Look. Those bad guys out there do whatever they want. So I do, too."
"Apparently," Cochrane answered.
"One thing you'll learn if you stay on this job long enough," said Wheeler instructively. "No one argues with results."
"Apparently," Cochrane repeated.
Then Bureau headquarters in Washington sent Cochrane swimming into some deeper water. He went to New York posing as a County Antrim gunrunner for the Irish Republican Army. In lower Manhattan and Brooklyn, Cochrane put together a good infiltration effort among the Jewish mobsters along Delancey, Hester, and Canal streets—Meyer Lansky, Waxey Gordon, and Whitey Krackauer—and
"Find out," Hoover requested.
In June of 1934, Bill Cochrane entered the National Police Academy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He neared completion of the five months of training that had a dropout rate of 43 percent. He drew excellent marks in all fields: crime scene analysis, visual memory, forensic chemistry, firearms, description, identification, unarmed attack, and selfdefense. From his days as a U.S. Army ordnance officer, he knew enough about high-level explosives to practically teach a course himself. He struggled with judo and bordered on mastering it. But one criticism remained.
"You still behave," Alan Farber, the academy's assistant judo instructor remarked sourly to Cochrane one afternoon, "like some piss-elegant Southern gentleman. Every time you throw somebody you're always saying, 'Sorry'!"
"Is that right?" asked Cochrane.
"You bet it's right, boy. And you can bet your pansy ass that it'll be in my report on Friday when I write it."
"Which hand do you write with?" Cochrane asked.
"Right! Why? What's it to you?"
"Just wondering. Sorry."
“That’s what’s wrong with you. Always apologizing!”
The next day, in a self-defense session, Farber's right hand was broken by an overzealous student who threw the assistant professor nine feet in the air during a drill on knife attacks.
"He's starting," typed Alan Farber with his left hand in the final report, "to look like an outstanding recruit. Maybe some good hard field work would roughen up a few of the smooth edges. It would also measure how good an agent he might someday become."
So upon graduation, Cochrane was sent to Kansas City, where he was soon going cheek-to-jowl with a gang of railroad-yard thieves. Then he was reassigned to Chicago, where he passed an engaging six weeks. Some Sicilian gorillas were edging into the funeral-home business at the expense of some honest German-American undertakers on the North Side, making substantial contributions to the overall funeral industry at the same time.
In both situations, Cochrane worked under the command of one Richard Wheeler, known as "Big Dick" throughout the F.B.I. outposts of the Midwest. Wheeler, a big, affable Missourian, was already a rising star of the Bureau and making himself a legend.
Wheeler did not allow petty legalities to stymie an investigation. Once, at 3 A.M. on a rainy Chicago morning, Wheeler had posted Cochrane as a lookout as Wheeler, bearing a screwdriver in his teeth, had climbed a telephone pole. At the summit, Wheeler joyously invaded a junction box, rearranged things, and for the next two weeks manned a pair of headphones in a nearby apartment that tied into the funeral home of one Vito DeMaria.
Previously, in Kansas City, also with Cochrane under his bearish arm, Wheeler demonstrated how two federal agencies could work closely for the greater good of the public: he removed twenty-five dollars a week from Bureau petty cash and passed it along to the mailman who had railroad yards. In this way, Dick Wheeler read his victims' mail every morning before they received it.
"How can you do that?" Cochrane asked, the new boy on the block.
"I can't," said Wheeler. "So I do it anyway." When Cochrane grimaced, Wheeler expanded. "Very common practice, Bill," Wheeler said. "Look. Those bad guys out there do whatever they want. So I do, too."
"Apparently," Cochrane answered.
"One thing you'll learn if you stay on this job long enough," said Wheeler instructively. "No one argues with results."
"Apparently," Cochrane repeated.
Then Bureau headquarters in Washington sent Cochrane swimming into some deeper water. He went to New York posing as a County Antrim gunrunner for the Irish Republican Army. In lower Manhattan and Brooklyn, Cochrane put together a good infiltration effort among the Jewish mobsters along Delancey, Hester, and Canal streets—Meyer Lansky, Waxey Gordon, and Whitey Krackauer—and
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