PHOTO: Michael Cannell, acclaimed author and journalist, known for his gripping accounts of crime and corruption in America.
True Crime, Journalism, And The Human Condition
Michael Cannell discusses his latest book Blood and the Badge, exploring corrupt detectives, Mafia ties, and the interplay of light and dark in American true crime narratives.
Michael Cannell has built a remarkable career chronicling the intersections of crime, corruption, and power with unflinching precision. A former reporter for Time and an editor at The New York Times, his work has also appeared in The New Yorker, Sports Illustrated, and numerous other publications. Across five acclaimed non-fiction books, he has revealed the darker undercurrents of American life, where the veneer of authority and respectability often conceals moral compromise and violence.
His most recent book, Blood and the Badge: The Mafia, Two Killer Cops, and a Scandal That Shocked the Nation, explores one of the most chilling betrayals of public trust in modern history. Through meticulous reporting and rare access to figures within organised crime, Cannell exposes the story of Louis Eppolito and Stephen Caracappa — decorated detectives who, while sworn to uphold the law, served the Mafia and facilitated murder. It is a tale that reads like noir, yet remains chillingly true.
Cannell’s strength lies not only in the depth of his research but also in his narrative craft. He draws on the rigour of his newsroom years while employing the techniques of a novelist, shaping true accounts into compelling, character-driven stories. His ability to capture both the factual record and the human motivations behind it brings his subjects into sharp, unsettling focus.
In a time when questions of power, accountability, and corruption remain pressing, Cannell’s work feels both timeless and urgent. He reminds us that the interplay of light and dark — of heroes who are not what they seem, of institutions compromised from within — continues to define the American story.
What first drew you to the story of Louis Eppolito and Stephen Caracappa, and what convinced you it was worth telling in full detail?
I’m not the first to write about Eppolito and Caracappa, decorated detectives who facilitated at least a dozen murders while on the Mafia payroll. I can, however, say with confidence that BLOOD AND THE BADGE is the most complete account of their depravities. (Several investigators have said as much.) I’ve come to think of their history as a perverse, dark side of the American story. I felt, and my publisher agreed, that it warranted a full telling rendered in vivid detail.
How did you gain access to previously unreleased interviews with mobsters like Sammy “the Bull” Gravano, and what challenges did you face in verifying their accounts?
A peculiarity of this subject area — the field of law enforcement and organized crime in New York — is that the opposing players tend to have long personal histories. They grew up in the same Brooklyn neighborhoods. They attended the same schools. They drank in the same bars. Many former mobsters, including Sammy Gravano, now rehash the old days on their own podcasts, often with the cops and government agents who chased them down. Oddly enough, a detective introduced me to Gravano, and to another Mafia source. I corroborated their accounts, of course, though in some cases I simply let them speak for themselves between quotes.
In researching such dark and violent histories, how do you maintain objectivity and avoid sensationalism?
The story is sufficiently violent and lurid on its own. I tried to treat the scenes of abduction and murder graphically, but also with factual detachment. I did not shy from the violence; nor did I heighten or dwell on it. At least I hope I didn’t.
Your books often centre on individuals at the intersection of crime and power. What do you think makes these figures so compelling for readers?
I think Eppolito and Caracappa fascinate us because they were effective cops with lauded records — good family men, as well — and yet they committed atrocities. As I wrote, I found myself thinking about the anti-heroes of black-and-white gangster movies and, before them, the frontiersmen who operated outside the law in Westerns. The interplay of light and dark runs throughout these American stories.
How did your years as a New York Times editor shape your approach to long-form narrative non-fiction?
The rigor of the The New York Times tends to stay in editors’ blood forever. I feel its particular sensibility as I write. Narrative non-fiction, however, requires authors to let go of some formal strictures of newspaper journalism and borrow instead a novelist’s techniques. That means writing a story from its interior, from its depth of emotion and motivations, rather than its exterior, if you follow my meaning. I became close friends with sources, which the Times would not have tolerated. A smart editor once urged me to ask myself what the characters want before starting work on each chapter. Good advice! It did, however, require a certain intimacy with participants on both side of the law.
When working on a book, how do you balance extensive archival research with first-hand interviews to create a cohesive narrative?
The authors most widely associated with narrative non-fiction – Erik Larson, Laura Hillenbrand, David Grann, among others – focus exclusively on long ago events. For them, the magic lies in the archives. I have a slightly different sensibility. For me, hearing the voices of the participants helps animate a story. “If you don’t have a father, you find one on the street,” a detective once told me. Hard to find that quote in the official record.
Given that police misconduct and corruption remain pressing issues, what lessons from your latest book do you think are most relevant today?
My sense is that some degree of police corruption is endemic. It’s like a brush fire. The critical thing is for journalists and investigators to consistently lean in to avoid flare-ups.
What advice would you offer to other authors aiming to write gripping, well-researched true crime without losing factual accuracy?
Narrative non-fiction requires extra layers of reporting because the author must recreate scenes in cinematic detail. A vivid picture requires a lot of pixels. In addition, the author must reveal something of the character’s inner lives, as a novel or movie would. So I would encourage others authors to go to elaborate lengths to gather information. The great Robert Caro, the dean of American narrative non-fiction, once said “Leave no page unturned.”
