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Authors: Mark Olshaker John Douglas
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presume—graded before being burned in the metal trash can.
Despite this kind of silliness, we were all idealistic about fighting crime, and we all thought we could make a difference. About halfway through new-agent training, I was called in to the office of the assistant director for training, Joe Casper, one of Hoover’s trusted lieutenants. People in the Bureau called him the Friendly Ghost, but the nickname was definitely used ironically rather than affectionate ly. Casper told me I was doing well in most areas, but that I was way below average in "Bureau communications," the methodology and nomenclature through which the diverse elements of the organiza tion communicate with each other.
"Well, sir, I want to be the best," I responded. Guys this eager were described as having blue flames coming out of their asses. This could help you get ahead, but also made you a marked man. If a blue-flamer succeeded, he was headed for the top of the world. But if he screwed up, the crash and burn would be very long and very public.
Casper may have been tough but he was nobody’s fool, and he’d seen many a blue-flamer in his time. "You want to be the best? Here!" whereupon he threw the entire manual of terms at me and told me to have them all memorized by the time I got back from the Christmas break.
Chuck Lundsford, one of our class’s two Academy counselors, got the word on what had happened and came over to me. "What did you say when you went in there?" he asked me. I told him. Chuck just rolled his eyes. We both knew I had my work cut out for me.
I went home to my parents’ house for the holidays. While the rest of the family was making merry, I had my nose buried deep in the manual of communications. It wasn’t much of a vacation.
When I got back to Washington in early January, still sweating out the consequences of my blue-flame performance, I had to take a written test of what I’d learned. I can’t express how relieved I was when our other counselor, Charlie Price, told me I’d scored a 99 percent. "You actually scored a hundred," Charlie confided to me, "but Mr. Hoover says no one’s perfect."
About halfway through the fourteen-week program we were each asked our preference for a first field-office assignment. Most of the FBI was dispersed among fifty-nine field offices around the country. I sensed there must be some games manship in the choosing—a giant chess match between the new recruits and headquar ters—and as always, I tried to think like the other side. I was from New York and had no particular interest in going back there. I figured L.A., San Francisco, Miami, possibly Seattle and San Diego, would be the most sought-after postings. So if I selected a second-tier city, I’d be much more likely to get my first choice.
I chose Atlanta. I got Detroit.
Upon graduation, we were all given permanent credentials, a Smith & Wesson Model 10 six-shot .38 revolver, six bullets, and instructions to get out of town as fast as possible. Headquarters was always terrified that the raw new agents would get in trouble in Washington, right under Mr. Hoover’s nose, which would reflect badly on everyone.
The other item I was given was a booklet entitled "Survival Guide to Detroit." The city was among the most racially polarized in the country, still reeling from the repercus sions of the 1967 riots, and could claim the title of the nation’s crime capital, with more than eight hundred murders a year. In fact, we had a gruesome pool in the office, betting on exactly how many homicides would be chalked up by year’s end. Like most new agents, I started out idealistic and energetic, but soon realized what we were up against. I had spent four years in the Air Force, but the closest to combat I’d been was in a bed in the base hospital next to wounded Vietnam vets when I had my nose operated on for football and boxing injuries. So until I got to Detroit, I’d never been in the position of being the enemy. The FBI
Despite this kind of silliness, we were all idealistic about fighting crime, and we all thought we could make a difference. About halfway through new-agent training, I was called in to the office of the assistant director for training, Joe Casper, one of Hoover’s trusted lieutenants. People in the Bureau called him the Friendly Ghost, but the nickname was definitely used ironically rather than affectionate ly. Casper told me I was doing well in most areas, but that I was way below average in "Bureau communications," the methodology and nomenclature through which the diverse elements of the organiza tion communicate with each other.
"Well, sir, I want to be the best," I responded. Guys this eager were described as having blue flames coming out of their asses. This could help you get ahead, but also made you a marked man. If a blue-flamer succeeded, he was headed for the top of the world. But if he screwed up, the crash and burn would be very long and very public.
Casper may have been tough but he was nobody’s fool, and he’d seen many a blue-flamer in his time. "You want to be the best? Here!" whereupon he threw the entire manual of terms at me and told me to have them all memorized by the time I got back from the Christmas break.
Chuck Lundsford, one of our class’s two Academy counselors, got the word on what had happened and came over to me. "What did you say when you went in there?" he asked me. I told him. Chuck just rolled his eyes. We both knew I had my work cut out for me.
I went home to my parents’ house for the holidays. While the rest of the family was making merry, I had my nose buried deep in the manual of communications. It wasn’t much of a vacation.
When I got back to Washington in early January, still sweating out the consequences of my blue-flame performance, I had to take a written test of what I’d learned. I can’t express how relieved I was when our other counselor, Charlie Price, told me I’d scored a 99 percent. "You actually scored a hundred," Charlie confided to me, "but Mr. Hoover says no one’s perfect."
About halfway through the fourteen-week program we were each asked our preference for a first field-office assignment. Most of the FBI was dispersed among fifty-nine field offices around the country. I sensed there must be some games manship in the choosing—a giant chess match between the new recruits and headquar ters—and as always, I tried to think like the other side. I was from New York and had no particular interest in going back there. I figured L.A., San Francisco, Miami, possibly Seattle and San Diego, would be the most sought-after postings. So if I selected a second-tier city, I’d be much more likely to get my first choice.
I chose Atlanta. I got Detroit.
Upon graduation, we were all given permanent credentials, a Smith & Wesson Model 10 six-shot .38 revolver, six bullets, and instructions to get out of town as fast as possible. Headquarters was always terrified that the raw new agents would get in trouble in Washington, right under Mr. Hoover’s nose, which would reflect badly on everyone.
The other item I was given was a booklet entitled "Survival Guide to Detroit." The city was among the most racially polarized in the country, still reeling from the repercus sions of the 1967 riots, and could claim the title of the nation’s crime capital, with more than eight hundred murders a year. In fact, we had a gruesome pool in the office, betting on exactly how many homicides would be chalked up by year’s end. Like most new agents, I started out idealistic and energetic, but soon realized what we were up against. I had spent four years in the Air Force, but the closest to combat I’d been was in a bed in the base hospital next to wounded Vietnam vets when I had my nose operated on for football and boxing injuries. So until I got to Detroit, I’d never been in the position of being the enemy. The FBI
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