Robert Wittman - Priceless

Shih was charged in state court, pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to seven to fifteen years in prison. Although we solved the case, it was not yet a federal crime to steal something of value from a museum, reflecting Congress’s belief that art crime was not a priority. Within the FBI’s Philadelphia Division, Bazin’s interest in art theft was considered informal, an interesting sidelight, a hobby. It wasn’t that other agents denigrated what Bazin did. It was just that most didn’t care. They were too busy chasing bank robbers, mobsters, corrupt politicians, and drug dealers. Thefts from U.S. museums were treated as isolated cases—and, like the Rodin heist, one-piece jobs, pulled off by loners or losers. As the eighties drew to a close, art thefts made news as oddities, not as outrages.

In March 1990, all that changed. Thieves hit the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, and made off with a bounty that dwarfed every other art crime in American history.

I was not involved in the initial Gardner investigation.

I was too busy recuperating and mourning a loss. I was also looking for a good defense lawyer.

Cherry Hill, New Jersey, 1989 .

“SIR? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, SIR? SIR?”

The voice in my left ear sounded firm, polite. My eyes bolted open and I found myself staring at the gray seat belt across my chest. I lifted my chin and stared through a cracked windshield. I could see we’d hit a tree, and it had split the front bumper. Instinctively, I checked my hands for blood. Nothing. Wow, that wasn’t so bad. And… I’m alive! I switched off the ignition. I looked to my right to check on my partner and best friend, Denis Bozella. His seat was wedged backward and nearly flat. Denis was moaning.

“Sir? Sir?” It was that voice again. “Sir? What’s your name, sir?”

I turned slowly to my left. A Cherry Hill cop leaned in the window. “Bob,” I said. “I’m Bob. Bob Wittman.”

“OK, sit tight, Bob. We’re going to get you out,” the cop said, warming his hands on his breath. The paramedics and firefighters were only a few minutes away, he said. They were going to have to use the Jaws of Life to get us out. “We’re going to take the roof off and give you a convertible for free.”

I grunted and tried to get a better look at Denis. I started to unbuckle my seat belt and winced at the pain in my left side. I wheezed. I tried to lift the door handle, but it was jammed. Frozen air blew through the broken windows. I closed my eyes and thought about Donna. In the distance, I could hear a siren. Jesus, it was cold.

I heard Denis moan again. I turned but I couldn’t see his face. “Denis?… Denis? Can you hear me, buddy?”

He spoke weakly. “What happened?”

“A car cut us off.”

“My chest hurts. I’m not going to die, am I?”

“No!” I caught the panic in my voice and calmed myself. “We’ll both be fine, partner. We’re gonna be fine.”

I held his hand. I heard more sirens and closed my eyes.

The day had begun with such promise.

IT HAD BEGUN an hour before dawn, as I drew myself out of bed, careful not to disturb Donna or our two sons, nursery-schoolers obsessed with counting the final days until Christmas. Overnight, a light snow had laid a fresh thin layer across the frozen remnants of a week-old storm. I showered, made coffee, and put on my uniform—dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, leather holster, and .357 Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver. As I walked toward the front door I smelled the piney evergreen of the Christmas tree. I plugged in the white tree lights.

I was my happiest in years. I had a dynamic wife, two healthy boys, and a dream job with civil service protection and benefits. Donna loved our three-bedroom home nestled in the Pine Barrens, the burnt orange Southwestern decor, the half-hour drive to the Jersey shore. We’d just celebrated the first anniversary of my first FBI post. Like most rookies, I’d been shifted between squads every few months to get a feel for different work. In the summer, I’d moved from the property theft squad, where I’d partnered with Bazin, to the public corruption squad, where I was paired with Denis. A rising star with brown curly hair and piercing green eyes, he was an extrovert from the hills of western Pennsylvania. His rakish charm easily won over fellow agents, supervisors, prosecutors, witnesses, and the ladies. We bonded when we spent several months prepping for a high-profile police corruption trial, sometimes babysitting witnesses in hotel rooms. It was nearly 24/7 work. You drove the witnesses everywhere, took them to breakfast, lunch, and dinner, to prosecutors’ offices and the courthouse. Denis and I both liked to play piano, and sometimes after work I’d give him an informal lesson. Lately, I was teaching him Jackson Browne’s “The Load-Out/Stay.”

At 7:30 a.m., I kissed Donna, promised to be home for dinner, and stepped carefully out onto our frozen driveway. Balancing a second cup of coffee and Bazin’s old briefcase in one hand, I ducked into my bureau car, a 1989 silver Ford Probe. I flipped on the defroster and rock station WMMR.

That morning, I was headed to Denis’s house to give him a ride to work—his FBI car was in the repair shop again. It was great to spend time with him, even if it meant inching through South Jersey traffic. Denis had recently been promoted to Washington to serve on the U.S. Attorney General’s protective detail and I would miss him when he left in January.

When I got to Denis’s house, he slipped into the front seat as the first chords of the song “Panama” by Van Halen began to jam on the radio, and he cranked it up. I recall this vividly, because it was the day that the United States invaded Panama. We both enjoyed the joke. I sang and drove. Denis played air guitar.

The corruption squad’s annual Christmas party was that afternoon at a bar in Pennsauken, New Jersey. We would drive into Philly, then after work head to the party. It would be a good day. At the office, we squeezed in a day’s worth of paperwork in time to make it to the party by 2 p.m. We met everyone at a place called The Pub, a sprawling South Jersey landmark at the foot of a triangle of busy highway ramps and arteries. A former speakeasy, The Pub had evolved into a large restaurant, an oversized Swiss chalet with medieval flair—swords and shields on the walls, burgundy carpet, simple brown wooden chairs and tables. The Pub’s size, location, and bland grub made it a perfect place for an office party. We spent two hours exchanging gifts and talking shop. There was typical ribbing, but this was the corruption squad, a buttoned-down crew, so they kept it light. When we finally paid the bill, most of us wandered over to the bar for a beer. Denis was up for more and he tried to move the party to a bar called Taylor’s for a drink or two. He was single and tried to hit free happy-hour buffets whenever he could. It was nearly 7 p.m. and I wanted to go home, but I figured this might be the last time I could hang out with Denis before he moved. I found a pay phone and let Donna know I would be late.

Taylor’s Bar and Grille isn’t much—a suburban sports bar in a strip mall near the edge of the abandoned Garden State Race Track. But it was packed. I forced my way to the bar, grabbed my second beer of the evening, and found a table. Denis and a fellow agent hit the buffet. Soon, Denis was talking up a cute woman named Pamela. I felt like a third wheel.

By 9:30 p.m., Denis was still dancing with Pamela and I was way overdue at home. I pulled Denis aside. “Buddy, I gotta get back. You ready to go?”

“Look, not yet,” he said. He pointed to Pamela with his eyes. “If that works out, I won’t need a ride. I need to find out, so I need you to stick around.”