Whitey Bulger America's Most Wanted Gangster and the Manhunt That Brought Him To Justice (43 page)

It was a glum affair,
the tenth anniversary of Whitey’s life on the run in December 2004, marked by the FBI with a press conference detailing the efforts of investigators, showcasing belongings of Whitey they had seized, and pledging their continuing commitment to find him. They showed off the silver skull ring Whitey had worn, the coin collection, knives, and Irish passport that were seized from his girlfriends’ homes and safe deposit boxes around the world. They had the travel books, Alcatraz memorabilia, and a journal he had left behind, but the actual news of the day was considerably less impressive: The last credible sighting of Whitey, the agents conceded, was in London in 2002. Task force maps and charts detailed a log of Whitey’s travels during his first couple of years on the run, before the trail went cold. In the past year alone, they had pursued leads on five continents—in Australia, Singapore, Thailand, South Africa, Mexico, and Canada—and in nearly every state. Agents visited an Irish pub in Cambodia and resort towns in Uruguay. They had launched Internet and billboard campaigns. At the US Attorney’s insistence, the state police and the DEA abandoned their own manhunt and assigned investigators to the FBI-led task force. FBI agents were rotated in from around the country for stints on the task force. But the all-points frenzy of the pursuit did little to dampen the perception that the FBI wasn’t really looking very hard. “All of us on the task force believed that we could catch this guy and we would catch this guy,” said William Chase, who oversaw the task force as assistant special agent in charge of the FBI’s Boston office from 1998 to 2003. In fact, he said that the FBI believed it was imperative that Whitey be caught—to restore public confidence in the bureau. “If we caught him, that would lift some of the suspicion the office was under.”

Task force investigators complained that they were in a no-win situation: They were criticized for chasing tips to popular resort destinations—more a golf vacation than a fugitive hunt, some charged—yet there was the constant fear that if they didn’t follow every lead they could miss the real one.

Some leads, however, were, unaccountably, not pursued. In 2008, a Las Vegas man called
America’s Most Wanted
saying he had spotted Whitey on the Santa Monica Pier talking about Boston with a young passerby who was wearing a Celtics shirt. The man’s tip, name, and number were passed along to the FBI, but he never got a call.
⁴⁵
That same year, off-duty Santa Monica police sergeant Gary Steiner overheard a man trying to sell a gun with an obliterated serial number at a gun shop in Newhall, California. When the store clerk said the weapon was illegal and urged him to turn it over to police, the man said he was afraid to do that because it belonged to a relative who had once been Whitey Bulger’s bodyguard. Steiner called the sheriff’s office and held the man until a deputy arrived and seized the gun, and then he alerted the FBI. But he said that the FBI never pursued the tip; nor did the sheriff’s department.
⁴⁶
Another off-duty officer also complained that the FBI failed to aggressively investigate his tip after he reported seeing Whitey at the premiere of
The Departed
in San Diego in 2006.
⁴⁷
The movie was set in Boston, and Jack Nicholson portrayed a character modeled loosely on Whitey. The officer trailed the elderly man from the theater but lost him when he boarded a trolley. By contrast, the reaction was electric when a DEA agent on vacation in the Sicilian resort of Taormina shot a video in April 2007 of a couple he suspected was Whitey and Greig. He did not confront the couple and instead returned home and turned the video over to agents from the Bulger Task Force, who jumped on a plane and combed hotels, marinas, bars, and ferries in Sicily, to no avail. The FBI posted the video on its website and publicized the hunt for Whitey on television in Europe. After FBI agents appeared on a German crime-watch show, a viewer identified the couple strolling through Taormina as his parents, a German couple.

On September 3, 2008, as Whitey celebrated his seventy-ninth birthday a free man, the FBI increased the reward for information leading to his capture from one to two million dollars—the largest the bureau had ever offered for a domestic fugitive.
⁴⁸
After thirteen years of hunting him, they had no clue where he was, no idea at all that Whitey was living stateside in quiet comfort, hiding in plain view.

Two months later, sixty-eight-year-old John Connolly shuffled into a Miami courthouse, shackled, handcuffed, and wearing a red prison jumpsuit. It was a routine he had followed for the eight weeks that his trial for the murder of John Callahan had dragged on. His old friend Franny Joyce, Bill Bulger’s former senate aide, stood outside the courtroom and handed the court officers a hanger with a fresh change of clothes. Minutes later Connolly emerged through a side door and walked to the defendant’s table. His finely tailored Armani suits were gone, replaced by a modest dark suit coat and tan pants. His jet-black hair had reverted to prison gray. His complexion was pallid, the product of more than three years in solitary confinement awaiting trial. When the jurors walked in to deliver their verdict, Connolly searched their faces, but they kept their eyes averted, and he had been in enough courtrooms to know what that meant. “Guilty of murder in the second degree,” Judge Stanford Blake said.

John Connolly stared straight ahead, knowing that the judge’s words meant he could die in prison. A jury in Miami was willing to accept what a jury in Boston would not: that he had helped Whitey kill a prospective witness. The key difference was that this time Flemmi was part of the prosecution, blandly describing Connolly as a virtual member of their gang. Whitey and Flemmi had given Connolly $235,000 over the years, he testified, and the agent had to know he had, in effect, given them a license to kill. “When you give us information on one person and they got killed, when you give us information on a second person and they get killed, when you give us information on a third person and they got killed,” said Flemmi, before pausing, “I mean, he’s an FBI agent. He’s not stupid.” After the jury and judge left the room following the verdict, Connolly stood with his brother, a retired DEA agent, his sister, a retired Boston schoolteacher, and Franny Joyce. “I’m gonna fight on,” he told them. “What can I do?”
⁴⁹

A few hours after Connolly was convicted, Fred Wyshak, the prosecutor, DEA agent Dan Doherty, and state police lieutenant Steve Johnson sat at a patio table on a sidewalk outside a faux Irish bar on South Beach, nursing beers. It was supposed to be a celebration, but the mood was subdued. Connolly was finished. But nothing had happened to the other FBI agents and supervisors who had winked and nodded and patted him on the back, and who had taken gifts from Whitey. The statute of limitations had run out on all of them. Worst of all, Whitey was still out there. “He’s probably in a place just like this,” Steve Johnson said, gazing toward the darkened beach across Ocean Drive.
⁵⁰

As usual, Steve Johnson was right.

15

St. Monica’s West

I
n the fall of 1996,
after nearly two hectic years on the road, Whitey and Cathy Greig were looking to settle down. They had zigzagged the country by car and train, with long stops in Louisiana and short visits to Texas, Arizona, and Wyoming, among other states. The weather in Southern California had drawn Whitey before, and now he was looking to stay. Indeed, as Whitey and Greig strolled along Palisades Park in Santa Monica, a hip, affluent beachfront city surrounded on three sides by Los Angeles, they thought they had found the perfect place. All they needed was the perfect cover.

The park stretches for blocks along a sandstone bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, offering panoramic views of rolling surf, sandy beach, sunsets, and the glittering Santa Monica Pier. Its breathtaking vistas, walking paths, rose garden, and shuffleboard courts, shaded by towering palm trees, make it a popular destination for visitors and locals. Amid the moneyed tourists and the modest strollers, the homeless and the alcoholic, the mentally ill and the drug-addled also meandered, asking for change, talking to themselves, passing time. Most people averted their eyes, trying not to draw the attention of the scruffiest characters on the walkway above the crashing waves. Not Whitey Bulger. He was trying to meet the people everyone else was trying to avoid. He had a business proposition to discuss.

Charlie Gaska was homeless and suffering from severe mental health problems when Whitey approached him. At first, Gaska wanted nothing to do with him and waved him off. But Whitey was persistent, saying he could make it worth his while; all Gaska had to do was let him use his Social Security number. Whitey wore Gaska down and, not long after he pocketed the other man’s identification, he and Greig were standing in the manager’s office at the Princess Eugenia apartment complex on Third Street, just a couple of blocks from Palisades Park.
¹
Whitey peeled off hundred-dollar bills to put a deposit down on Apartment 303, a two-bedroom with a balcony. They filled out a few forms, signing their new names: Charles and Carol Gasko. Whitey had changed one letter in Gaska’s name, a variation so subtle it would not arouse suspicion.

As a boy,
Whitey had ignored his mother’s entreaties to spend his free time at St. Monica’s, the church just down the street from the family home on Southie’s Logan Way. Jean Bulger was convinced that her rambunctious son would settle down if he would, like his brother Bill, let Father Dwyer, the parish priest at St. Monica’s, work his magic. There was some irony, then, in the fact that Whitey thought he’d found safe haven in the California city named for Monica, the patron saint of difficult children. The city had everything he wanted: the sun, the ocean, and the anonymity of living in a vibrant place that attracts transients and vacationers. Their distinct Boston accents drew little attention. Being from somewhere else meant little here. The assumption was you had come for the same reasons as everybody else.

Whitey and Greig hadn’t believed their luck when they’d first spotted the “apartment for rent” sign posted outside the Princess Eugenia complex, a modest white three-story building at 1012 Third Street. It was a nice place, reasonably priced, and, best of all, rent-controlled. There were twenty-seven units in all, with balconies framed with green wrought iron, affording a view of palm trees and the elegant Mediterranean hotel across the street. The vacant apartment was just two blocks from the beach and a short walk to one of America’s most famous landmarks, the Santa Monica Pier. The only drawback, in Greig’s eyes, was that the Princess Eugenia did not allow pets. She had been infatuated with animals and had even groomed dogs as a hobby, but she would have to adapt.

Tenant screening was nonexistent at the Princess Eugenia. The Gaskos were not required to sign a lease, show a driver’s license, submit to a credit check, or provide references.
²
Santa Monica required no income verification for rent-controlled apartments. Not only did Whitey and Greig face little scrutiny, but they were assured that their rent would increase only slightly every year—staying well below market rates. They said that they didn’t own a car and had no need for a reserved parking space in the basement of the complex. But they said that they would store some of their belongings in a storage space in the garage. They moved into Apartment 303 in late 1996,
³
with rent starting at just $837 a month for their two-bedroom, two-bath unit.
⁴
The complex, once home mostly to art scholars at the J. Paul Getty Museum, now drew a mix of retirees and young professionals. Whitey’s apartment came furnished with the modest, functional pieces the Getty had supplied for the student tenants, who had then left them behind.

It was no coincidence that the fugitive couple had surfaced on Third Street. Four years earlier, Whitey’s niece Mary, one of Bill’s daughters, had lived in a small apartment building at 2805 Third Street, just two miles from the Princess Eugenia. Greig let slip to a neighbor that “she had a niece in Santa Monica,” said Birgitta Farinelli, a Swedish immigrant who was one of the property managers at the Princess Eugenia. “That’s why they came over.”
⁵
Bill’s daughter had moved back to South Boston by the time Whitey moved to Santa Monica. Whitey had also visited Santa Monica when he and Teresa Stanley traveled to Venice Beach in 1994, as he scouted places to retire.
⁶

Santa Monica is a place where some people go to reinvent themselves, and that’s exactly what Whitey and Greig set out to do. They became known as just another pair of amiable retirees who loved animals and were known for stopping to pet dogs and cats during their daily walks through the neighborhood. Fox’s
America’s Most Wanted
would devote sixteen segments to the worldwide hunt for Whitey, all in vain, for he had morphed into the grandfatherly Charlie Gasko and nobody recognized him—not even some of his neighbors who had relocated from Boston and knew Whitey Bulger by name and repute. “We were looking for a gangster and that was part of the problem,” said Charles “Chip” Fleming, a retired Boston police detective who spent six years assigned to the FBI-led task force that worked full-time trying to track Whitey. “He wasn’t a gangster anymore.” He was, in fact, mostly a shut-in, someone who spent an inordinate amount of time watching television. He had his favorite shows, including the one that aired all those episodes dedicated to snaring him: He watched
America’s Most Wanted
religiously. He was also a fan of
Brotherhood
, a drama series about two brothers—one a gangster, the other a politician—that was inspired by Whitey and Bill Bulger. Whitey had reservations about the character based on him. “Violent guy!” he remarked to a friend.
⁷

Charlie and Carol were model tenants. They were fastidious and quiet, and they treated neighbors with almost excessive kindness. They paid the rent early and always in cash, but the property managers never questioned it because some other tenants did the same. Every month, about a week before the rent was due, Greig would walk across the street to the property manager’s office at the Embassy Hotel Apartments, an elegant old hotel owned by the same landlord. Birgitta Farinelli would take the white envelope stuffed with crisp hundred-bills from Greig and joke, “Carol, did you rob the bank again?”
⁸
The two would laugh. Greig usually fibbed that she withdrew the money from the bank while running errands. The cash proved too tempting for one former property manager, who pocketed Whitey and Greig’s rent payment a couple of times.
⁹
The theft was exposed, but instead of switching to checks, the Gaskos insisted on leaving their monthly cash payment with the trustworthy Farinelli, who was the same age as Greig. Greig often brought a small gift for her: a box of chocolates, a scarf, blueberries. The two women chatted about the best place to get a haircut or manicure or to shop for a good bargain. “I can’t tell you how incredibly nice these people were,” Farinelli said. “They were very low-maintenance. These people never complained.”

But if the Gaskos acquired a reputation for being thoughtful neighbors and pleasant company, they were also intensely private. They told some neighbors that they were from Chicago and others, who recognized their accents, that they were originally from Boston. They said that they came for the warm weather and didn’t have any friends or family in the area—a plausible explanation for why nobody ever came to visit. When Whitey and Greig moved into the Princess Eugenia, all of the apartments had a house phone, which was an extension line connected to the main hotel across the street. Tenants were billed for calls made, but Whitey and Greig never used their phone. One day, Farinelli knocked on their door and told them that the old system was being disconnected and that tenants needed to get their own phones. “Oh, we don’t need a phone. Charlie doesn’t want any phones in here,” Greig said, as Whitey stood by her side. “We don’t have any family or friends to call. No one is going to call us.”
¹⁰
Farinelli laughed, thinking it was a joke. A few days later Greig dropped by to give her the number of her new cell phone. Buying it fulfilled an obligation to their landlord without the need for a listed phone number.

Whitey was wary, consumed with avoiding capture and expert at spotting a tail. The formerly clean-shaven gangster, now in his late sixties, sported a white beard and mustache. When he ventured outside, he wore large, old-fashioned eyeglasses and a fisherman-type canvas hat with the brim pulled low over his face. Greig, in her midforties, seemed more interested in appearing attractive than she did in disguising herself. Whitey seemed partial to blondes, so Greig, who had been lightening her naturally dark blonde hair for years, continued the ritual of buying her own dye and having a hairdresser color her hair, even though the FBI had publicized her habit of doing so. She remained particular about her appearance, never leaving the apartment without make-up, lightly and expertly applied. She ironed their clothes, even their blue jeans. The couple dressed casually but impeccably, generally both in jeans or light-colored slacks and white long-sleeved shirts layered over a t-shirt. Greig often wore all white—a white blouse, white pants, white sun hat.

But if Whitey had methodically abandoned everything connecting him with his old life, there was one thing he refused to give up: his stockpile of weapons. He had collected some thirty shotguns, rifles, pistols, and revolvers, taking advantage of lax gun laws in Nevada to buy some of them at a gun show in Las Vegas while on the run.
¹¹
The firepower was enough to arm a small platoon and more than he would ever need if cornered, but guns had always fascinated him, and he felt more comfortable with an arsenal at hand. He considered his stockpiling of weapons a hobby. “It’s recommended to have a hobby after one retires,” he told a friend half-jokingly.
¹²

He cut several holes in the walls of the apartment, including the walls of the bathroom next to his bedroom, a hallway, and the wet bar. He stuffed the guns, ammunition, and knives inside some and stacked neatly piled wads of cash totaling hundreds of thousands of dollars in others. He covered the gaping holes with mirrors and pictures. Whitey worried about his stash when minor earthquakes struck. All he could do was ride out the tremors and hope that the mirrors wouldn’t shatter.
¹³
For day-to-day expenses, he kept a cash drawer in the kitchen, with neatly stacked rows of bills in denominations ranging from $1 to $100.

Mindful that he might not have time to reach his weapons and money if someone burst into his apartment unexpectedly, he kept a loaded handgun and a stack of crisp bills on a shelf next to his bed. He slept alone in the master bedroom, which had its own bathroom with a shower stall. The bedroom windows were covered with opaque plastic held in place with duct tape, over which hung black curtains. Whitey tucked several loaded guns behind books on a bookshelf. Greig slept in the guest bedroom, which was as bright as Whitey’s room was dark. A white curtain over the single window allowed the sunshine to pour into the room.

Whitey maintained his fitness regimen by working out on exercise equipment inside the apartment. He had a martial arts dummy, shaped like a man’s torso, and when he wasn’t using it for sparring, he tossed a fedora on it and placed it in front of the window overlooking the street. It created the illusion from the street that someone was home, peering out.
¹⁴

The balcony of the couple’s third-floor apartment overlooked palm tree–lined Third Street. Unlike other tenants who sometimes relaxed on their balconies, Whitey and Greig barely used theirs. They had no patio furniture. Greig sometimes ventured onto the balcony to put seed in a bird feeder or to dust the wrought iron railings. For Whitey it served more as a lookout post. At night, he often stood there with binoculars, canvassing the neighborhood for any sign that he was being watched.
¹⁵
Sometimes he’d peer into the windows of the hotel across the street. “I told the maids to be careful when they were cleaning because the little old man across the street was spying on them,” said Enrique Sanchez, the building’s longtime maintenance supervisor.
¹⁶

Using her Carol Gasko alias, Greig subscribed to the
Los Angeles Times
and got Whitey a subscription to
Soldier of Fortune
magazine, which is geared to those interested in weapons and military tactics. An avid reader, Whitey had a collection of several hundred books, many about military history, war, and organized crime. Among the volumes were
Escape from Alcatraz
,
One Bullet Away
,
Turn Around and Run Like Hell
,
The Master of Disguise
, and
American Mafia
. Some, like
Secrets of a Back-Alley ID Man
, offered practical advice for the fugitive gangster on topics such as how to forge identification documents. Whitey used his newly acquired skills to create business cards for Greig under various fictional names. When his former underworld associates back in Boston published books, detailing their exploits with Whitey, he added them to his collection, though he considered them distorted accounts written only to make money.
¹⁷
He was especially angry after reading
Street Soldier
, by Ed MacKenzie, a Southie con man whose wildly embellished tale portrayed him as one of Whitey’s enforcers. Whitey maintained that he had only had two conversations with MacKenzie, one after he ordered him to return Hummel statues MacKenzie had stolen from an old woman’s house. MacKenzie’s version of that story has him robbing a gangster’s house.
¹⁸