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The young Bureau agents would make their share of mistakes. In many cases barely out of law school, they were put into strange and dangerous new jobs in an institution just beginning to find its way. They faced off with murderous felons who were more heavily armed, whose cars could travel faster, and whose getaways were better planned than the Bureau's raids. The FBI bloodhounds frequently found themselves working with grizzled local cops and sheriffs who,

if not downright crooked, resented a bunch of tenderfoots with federal badges ordering them around.

"They were all so youthful and fresh-scrubbed, and suddenly they were asked to fight this menace no one had ever fought before," remembered Doris Rogers. "These were not hard men with years of crime-fighting experience," she said. "These were almost boys."

They would need to grow up fast. Ready or not, war was coming. At stake were not only their own lives but also the safety and well-being of countless law-abiding Americans and the very future of law enforcement in this country. And in the end, this collection of unsung crime fighters created the modern FBI and the enduring legacy of the brave, incorruptible G-man.

This is their story.

PART ONE

GOING TO WAR

CHAPTER ONE

THE SNATCH RACKET

The opening salvo in the FBI's War on Crime took place in the shadow of the billowing smokestacks of a sprawling brewery complex in St. Paul, Minnesota.

Just after noon on June 15, 1933, William Hamm Jr., the thirty-nine-year-old president of the Hamm Brewing Company, left his office for a short walk home to have lunch at his family's hilltop mansion, as was his custom. He was unaware he was being watched by a group of men who'd been stalking him for days, observing his every move, learning his habits and walking routes. Maskless so as not to arouse any suspicion, they loitered about the street where the labyrinthine brewery was located.

Hamm didn't get far before a tall, distinguished-looking man with a graying mustache and a business suit strode up, shook his hand on the street, and grabbed his elbow.

"You are Mr. Hamm, are you not?" the man asked.

"Yes," Hamm responded. "What is it you want?" Suddenly the man tightened his grip on Hamm's right hand, and another, much shorter man stepped up, grabbed Hamm's left hand and arm, and pushed him to the curb.

Immediately, a black Hudson sedan, driven by a man in a chauffeur's hat and uniform, drew up next to them and screeched to a stop. The rear door was opened, and the two captors shoved the tall, handsome Hamm into the back seat next to yet another man.

The older man climbed in the front seat next to the driver while the shorter man who had grabbed Hamm jumped in alongside him, slipped a pillowcase over his head, and yanked him to the floor. "I don't like to do this," the older gentleman apologized to their captive. "But I'm going to have to ask you to get down on the floor because I don't want you to see where you're going. I hope you don't mind."

The car drove off over a paved thoroughfare for about a half hour, then onto a gravel road, where it stopped. Hamm heard the voices of additional men, who'd driven to meet them at the stopping point.

After lifting Hamm's hood slightly, one of the new captors gave him a pen and four pieces of paper and ordered him to sign them. Each was a typed ransom note authorizing the payment of $100,000 and requesting that all instructions be carried out as specified. Hamm barely glanced at the papers before signing them.

The kidnappers talked casually about muskellunge (pike) fishing for a few minutes; then the Hudson resumed its journey. Hamm's pillow hood was exchanged for dark goggles taped over cotton balls pressed against his eyelids.

Another of the abductors asked Hamm to name a trusted intermediary they could use to negotiate with the divorced businessman's family. He suggested William W. Dunn, the brewery's sales manager and a close friend.

The kidnappers couldn't have been more pleased. Billy Dunn, a former billiards hall operator, was himself an underworld figure who could be counted on to follow directions. In a town known for beer and bribery, the short, bespectacled Dunn had served as a bagman for the St. Paul police, collecting extortion money paid by hoodlums and gamblers for protection. Hamm's brewery, like its crosstown rival, Schmidt's, was cozy with gangsters and bootleggers and corrupt cops during Prohibition, relying on them to grease the skids for the delivery of real beer to the Twin Cities' many speakeasies.

Around 2:45 p.m. on June 15, a couple of hours after Hamm was abducted, Dunn received an anonymous phone call in his office. "I want to talk to you, and I don't want you to say anything until I get all through," the voice said. "We have Mr. Hamm." He said the kidnappers wanted $100,000 in unmarked bills placed in a Hamm's beer truck with further delivery instructions to follow. The caller continued, "If you tell a soul about this, it will be just too bad for Hamm and you."

Dunn, disregarding the warning, contacted St. Paul's recently appointed police chief, Tom Dahill. An unusually honest cop for the city, Dahill brought the FBI's local office into the case.