Capturing Whitey: It Might Have Happened Like This
07/13/2011
I have the privilege to be writing a summer series on famous crimes for the Patriot Ledger. The following articles will be fictional accounts of how I think crimes could have happened.
Theresa looked forward to the end of the holidays and then maybe a trip to somewhere warm. It had been a hectic time. Not only the frenzied Christmas shopping but their constant traveling. The vacation had not been very relaxing with trips to Ireland, England, Italy and other countries that now blurred together in her fifty-seven year old mind. At each stop, especially those in the major cities, they enjoyed the many sites. She couldn’t however quite understand the need for Whitey to go off by himself. Once he allowed her to accompany him. He took her to a bank.
As she sank into the overstuffed leather sofa located just outside the glass-enclosed office of a man obviously in command, she viewed her companion of many years quietly conversing. The man to whom he was talking obviously wasn’t one of the tellers or some other minor bank minion. No, this impeccably dressed official with the imperious air and pencil thin mustache was in charge. When he caught her too intrusive eyes however, she noticed a man not of confidence but of uncertainty. Perhaps even a hint of fear. Whitey tended to have that effect on people, even the well adjusted.
They spoke for a short while, disappeared into a private area and then returned. They shook hands and were done. Theresa knew not to question Jim, she never called him Whitey, no one close to him ever did. Instead they left and headed for a water taxi that took them to Murano where she purchased wineglasses for some friends in Southie.
Months of living like this tired her. While she was loathe to admit it, she had less energy and less of a desire to do things of which she grew bored. She again suggested- again- that it was time to go home. She missed her family and kids and just because he had no children was no excuse to force her to forsake hers. He finally agreed and they arrived home shortly after Thanksgiving. She once again missed a family gathering. Christmas would be different though.
As the snow slowly trickled down on December 23rd, 1994, the streets of Copley Square glowed in the evening wetness despite the scurrying of shoppers rushing about, intent on finishing their mission. Returning to their illegally parked car on Boylston Street, Theresa noticed a darkly dressed bundled up figure leaning against the front drivers door. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Instinctively she grabbed for Bulger’s hand, which was already reaching for the pocket in which she knew he kept a gun. As they slowed their pace and approached, the voice by the car spoke up. “Boss, I gotta talk to ya.”
She recognized the voice before she recognized the man. It was Kevin, Bulger’s trusted lieutenant. After opening the door for Theresa and depositing the packages in the rear seat, Bulger grabbed Kevin’s elbow and guided him away from the car. Whatever Kevin whispered in Bulger’s ear caused the boss to jerk up, turn around and quickly return to the car. He only uttered, “We gotta get outa here.” With that, the car jerked away, leaving Kevin standing there watching the car disappear into the night.
Although he knew this day would come and had planned for it, the suddenness of the events chilled him. Get in the car and drive, he thought. If I’m driving they won’t catch me. So he and Theresa zigzagged across the country. After two weeks though, Theresa tearfully told him she could not go on. She was too old to travel thousands of miles without going anywhere. Happy to be back in his car, Bulger leisurely returned to Massachusetts, stopping at various banks along the way.
Dropping Theresa off near a friend’s house in Hingham, Whitey said he’d call. Theresa watched as he sped away, certain she’d never see him again. Bulger drove to a pre-arranged location, where he met Kevin, who, as earlier ordered, supplied his boss with younger models of both a car and girlfriend. Catherine was 42, blond, attractive and not one to ask questions, even of the man who murdered her former brother-in-law two decades ago.
Catherine threw her three bags in the trunk and got in the car. It would be a familiar routine. In the first two years they traveled 150,000 miles, never staying more than one month in a single location. Over the years the stays became longer. Bulger toyed with the idea of leaving the country but as he put it, “That’s what they think I’ll do. I’ll fool ‘em. I’ll hide in plain sight, right under their noses.”
And it worked. The older couple looked like every other older couple. Maybe she was a bit young for him, but they never drew stares. They went about their day, doing little.
Until Catherine grew tired of the routine. Five years, ten years, fifteen years. Always on the go, never seeing her family, especially her twin sister, who she missed greatly and called surreptitiously using a scheme Whitey cleverly devised. It was the one bone he threw her.
Her dissatisfaction grew as did their arguments. She wanted to go home. He said he’d put a bullet in her head if she did. She knew he would. The one time he fell seriously ill, she prayed he’d die. She hoped his three-day hospital stay would raise suspicions. It didn’t.
For the last month they hadn’t been speaking. Bulger was wrong when he thought the move to California would placate her. It didn’t. It made her even more restless, especially when a close friend fell ill with cancer. Catherine wanted to see her one last time. Bulger wouldn’t hear of it.
She couldn’t bear it anymore. Her small world was shrinking by the day. She told Whitey she was going to the store to get some milk. When she got there, she picked up the pay phone. “Operator, can you get me the FBI.”
I have the privilege to be writing a summer series on famous crimes for the Patriot Ledger. The following articles will be fictional accounts of how I think crimes could have happened.
Theresa looked forward to the end of the holidays and then maybe a trip to somewhere warm. It had been a hectic time. Not only the frenzied Christmas shopping but their constant traveling. The vacation had not been very relaxing with trips to Ireland, England, Italy and other countries that now blurred together in her fifty-seven year old mind. At each stop, especially those in the major cities, they enjoyed the many sites. She couldn’t however quite understand the need for Whitey to go off by himself. Once he allowed her to accompany him. He took her to a bank.
As she sank into the overstuffed leather sofa located just outside the glass-enclosed office of a man obviously in command, she viewed her companion of many years quietly conversing. The man to whom he was talking obviously wasn’t one of the tellers or some other minor bank minion. No, this impeccably dressed official with the imperious air and pencil thin mustache was in charge. When he caught her too intrusive eyes however, she noticed a man not of confidence but of uncertainty. Perhaps even a hint of fear. Whitey tended to have that effect on people, even the well adjusted.
They spoke for a short while, disappeared into a private area and then returned. They shook hands and were done. Theresa knew not to question Jim, she never called him Whitey, no one close to him ever did. Instead they left and headed for a water taxi that took them to Murano where she purchased wineglasses for some friends in Southie.
Months of living like this tired her. While she was loathe to admit it, she had less energy and less of a desire to do things of which she grew bored. She again suggested- again- that it was time to go home. She missed her family and kids and just because he had no children was no excuse to force her to forsake hers. He finally agreed and they arrived home shortly after Thanksgiving. She once again missed a family gathering. Christmas would be different though.
As the snow slowly trickled down on December 23rd, 1994, the streets of Copley Square glowed in the evening wetness despite the scurrying of shoppers rushing about, intent on finishing their mission. Returning to their illegally parked car on Boylston Street, Theresa noticed a darkly dressed bundled up figure leaning against the front drivers door. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Instinctively she grabbed for Bulger’s hand, which was already reaching for the pocket in which she knew he kept a gun. As they slowed their pace and approached, the voice by the car spoke up. “Boss, I gotta talk to ya.”
She recognized the voice before she recognized the man. It was Kevin, Bulger’s trusted lieutenant. After opening the door for Theresa and depositing the packages in the rear seat, Bulger grabbed Kevin’s elbow and guided him away from the car. Whatever Kevin whispered in Bulger’s ear caused the boss to jerk up, turn around and quickly return to the car. He only uttered, “We gotta get outa here.” With that, the car jerked away, leaving Kevin standing there watching the car disappear into the night.
Although he knew this day would come and had planned for it, the suddenness of the events chilled him. Get in the car and drive, he thought. If I’m driving they won’t catch me. So he and Theresa zigzagged across the country. After two weeks though, Theresa tearfully told him she could not go on. She was too old to travel thousands of miles without going anywhere. Happy to be back in his car, Bulger leisurely returned to Massachusetts, stopping at various banks along the way.
Dropping Theresa off near a friend’s house in Hingham, Whitey said he’d call. Theresa watched as he sped away, certain she’d never see him again. Bulger drove to a pre-arranged location, where he met Kevin, who, as earlier ordered, supplied his boss with younger models of both a car and girlfriend. Catherine was 42, blond, attractive and not one to ask questions, even of the man who murdered her former brother-in-law two decades ago.
Catherine threw her three bags in the trunk and got in the car. It would be a familiar routine. In the first two years they traveled 150,000 miles, never staying more than one month in a single location. Over the years the stays became longer. Bulger toyed with the idea of leaving the country but as he put it, “That’s what they think I’ll do. I’ll fool ‘em. I’ll hide in plain sight, right under their noses.”
And it worked. The older couple looked like every other older couple. Maybe she was a bit young for him, but they never drew stares. They went about their day, doing little.
Until Catherine grew tired of the routine. Five years, ten years, fifteen years. Always on the go, never seeing her family, especially her twin sister, who she missed greatly and called surreptitiously using a scheme Whitey cleverly devised. It was the one bone he threw her.
Her dissatisfaction grew as did their arguments. She wanted to go home. He said he’d put a bullet in her head if she did. She knew he would. The one time he fell seriously ill, she prayed he’d die. She hoped his three-day hospital stay would raise suspicions. It didn’t.
For the last month they hadn’t been speaking. Bulger was wrong when he thought the move to California would placate her. It didn’t. It made her even more restless, especially when a close friend fell ill with cancer. Catherine wanted to see her one last time. Bulger wouldn’t hear of it.
She couldn’t bear it anymore. Her small world was shrinking by the day. She told Whitey she was going to the store to get some milk. When she got there, she picked up the pay phone. “Operator, can you get me the FBI.”
