Undercover: How I Went from Company Man to FBI Spy--And Exposed the Worst Healthcare Fraud in U.S. History

It was June 1962, and my parents, Harry and Shirley Schilling, were jubilant. They had been blessed with two beautiful daughters—Sally and Judy—and now, a son, me. When I was baptized, the priest proclaimed that it was their duty to raise me with strong Christian values—a message my parents took to heart.

My father's parents emigrated in the 1920s from Germany, settled in the Milwaukee area, and raised a family. My dad, a machinist, worked for Allen-Bradley for thirty-five years. He was able to provide the necessities— food, clothing, and shelter—but never luxuries such as travel to exotic places or dinners in elegant restaurants. I never felt poor, though. Our modest, beige brick ranch-style home in the middle-class suburb of Menomonee Falls was comfortable, and we lived on a street lined with similar houses. Like most households on our street, we owned one used car—a blue four-door Ford—that my dad drove to work. My mom stayed home caring for my sisters and me.

Every fall, my parents scraped together the tuition to send us to St. Mary's Catholic School, a third-generation family tradition. My mother, grandmother, maternal uncles, and cousins all attended St. Mary's. The school, run by the Franciscan sisters, was known for its rigorous curriculum and strict adherence to Catholic religious teachings. That upbringing at home and at school taught me to respect others, be honest, and strive to live with integrity. I remember one teacher in particular, Sister Berna, as a great person who inculcated in us a strong sense of moral values.

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