J. Edgar Hoover: The Man and the Secrets (7 page)

By contrast, the motive for Helen Gandy’s various actions in regard to Hoover’s secret files was probably simple, honorable, and unselfish: to preserve the reputation of J. Edgar Hoover and the organization he had created. For she alone knew the real secret of the files: nothing they contained was as derogatory as the very fact that they existed.

Yet this particular cover-up—and it was that—almost came apart only days after it had begun, when someone sent a letter to L. Patrick Gray.

Mail sent to FBIHQ was received in the Routing Unit, where it was opened, date-and-time stamped, read, and marked for the proper division. Next sent to the Classifying Unit, it was given a classification number and marked for indexing. A file check was then made to see if there was an existing file on the subject matter—if so, it was given the same case file number; if not, a new file was opened and it was assigned the next consecutive case number. It was then given a third number, a serial number, and index cards were prepared. After which it was routed to the appropriate officials and/or supervisors for action. The assistant to the director over all these units was John Mohr.

It’s likely the writer knew this, for he circumvented the whole process by sending the letter in care of the attorney general’s office, marking it PERSONAL—DELIVER TO ADDRESSEE ONLY.

Having just been appointed to one of the biggest and most difficult posts in government, with minimal background knowledge of its operations, Gray was extremely busy. Moreover, enjoying travel, and wanting to get to know the men in the field, he’d set as one of his goals visiting all fifty-nine field offices, including that in Alaska; and, enjoying public speaking even more, his aides were trying to accommodate dozens of requests. Even though he was a hard worker, all this left little time to run the FBI (his nickname soon became Three-Day Gray), but for that he had such experienced fellows as Felt, Mohr, Nicholas Callahan, Tom Bishop, and other former Hoover aides. Yet Gray somehow managed to find time to read this particular letter, even though it was anonymous.

Like all such communications when taken seriously—as this one was—both the envelope and the letter were sent to the FBI Laboratory for examination.

The lab reported that different typewriters had been used for the envelope (Smith Corona—elite type) and the letter (IBM—pica type); that neither the envelope nor the letter bore watermarks or indented writing; and that the letter itself was a reproduction, a product of the direct electrostatic process as opposed to the indirect, such as Xerox.
^*
Aside from the absence of most commas and apostrophes, the typing style lacked singular identifying features. In concluding his report, the examiner noted that a search had been made of the Anonymous Letter File and other available sources “without effecting an identification.”
⁸

In short, scientific examination of the letter revealed nothing about its writer. But, moving from the realm of science into that of hunches, it raised the nagging suspicion that whoever wrote the letter knew exactly how the FBI Lab worked.

The letter, which had enough potential force to obliterate several cover-ups, began:

“Immediately after discovering Hoovers death, Clyde Tolson made a call from Hoovers residence to FBI Headquarters, presumably to J.P. Mohr. Tolson directed that all the confidential files kept in Hoovers office be moved out. By 11am they were all taken to Tolson’s residence. It is unknown whether these files are still there. The point is—J.P. Mohr lied to you when he told you that such files do not exist—They do. and things are being systematically hidden from you.”
⁹

Gray sent Mohr the letter, asking for an explanation. Mohr responded, in a memo dated May 11, angrily—but also carefully—denying all the allegations.

He stated, “To my knowledge all official files in Mr. Hoover’s office have been delivered to Mr. Felt.” Although the first three words would appear to qualify the rest, this may have been the truth.

Perhaps not too surprisingly, Mohr didn’t use the words “Official/Confidential” or the letters “OC.” For all Gray knew, he could have been referring to the Interesting Cases File and various other research files Gandy gave Felt.

He continued, “I understand from my conversation with Miss Gandy that the only thing she destroyed was the personal correspondence of Mr. Hoover.”

This also may have been true, at this time. But, more important, it put the matter in the past tense, as if Miss Gandy had already completed the destruction. While probably neither Gandy nor Mohr could have predicted that the end of the job was still two months away, Mohr was well aware she wasn’t done. Actually, when Mohr wrote his memo, on May 11, Miss Gandy hadn’t even finished moving the boxes out. The final shipment to Tolson’s residence wasn’t made until the next day, May 12. But, as Mohr undoubtedly knew, on
the twelfth Gray would be in New York City, visiting the third of the fifty-nine field offices. He wouldn’t even read Mohr’s memo until after his return.

Mohr also stated, “I have absolutely no knowledge of any files taken to Mr. Tolson’s residence and according to my conversation with Miss Gandy this allegation is absolutely false.”

Here again the pair had their semantic differences: to Gray, like most people, the word “file” was a general catchall term, meaning a bunch of documents in a folder; to FBI personnel it meant something quite specific, a grouping of materials linked by classification, case, and serial numbers, usually bound in one or more volumes, as were most of the General Files.

But much, much more important, except for this denial, there was no other indication in Mohr’s memo that
anything
had been taken to Tolson’s residence.

Considering the inordinate amount of interest Gray had shown in Hoover’s secret files even before he was named acting director, it was one hell of a bluff, even for an old poker player like John Mohr. To call him, Gray need only have sent a couple of men he trusted to Tolson’s residence to check out the report.

But Mohr also had at least two aces in the hole. One, nowhere in his memo had he actually lied; he’d simply not told the whole truth. And, two, the men from the Exhibits Section who’d packed the boxes for Miss Gandy, as well as the truck drivers and their helpers who’d hauled them, worked under him.

Still, Mohr’s self-confidence was awesome. He concluded his memo, “As an added thought, I want you to know that as far as I am personally concerned, there was no bitterness in my heart when you were appointed Acting Director of the FBI. Before your appointment, and I realize that this may sound like sour grapes, I had said on numerous occasions that I had no aspirations for the position of Director of the FBI. That still goes.”
¹⁰

Gray read Mohr’s memo on his return to Washington on the thirteenth. He responded by returning it with a handwritten notation on the lower left-hand corner. For emphasis he underlined it and added an exclamation point:

“
I believe you!
”
¹¹

Apparently during his long hitch in the Navy, L. Patrick Gray III had never learned to play poker. Or maybe he wasn’t aware that he was playing a game.

The anonymous letter, lab report, and memos were filed and—for a time—forgotten.
^*

Less than three weeks after J. Edgar Hoover’s death, John Mohr obtained Clyde Tolson’s power of attorney. As a result, he spent considerable time at 4936 Thirtieth Place NW, helping Tolson manage the details of Hoover’s estate and handling such matters as assisting Tolson in revising his own will. During this period—which lasted until July 17, when the Washington field office made its last pickup of those materials which were to be shredded—Helen Gandy continued her work in the basement, on at least one occasion, and probably others, consulting with Tolson and Mohr as to the disposition of particular files.

Sometime during this period a neighbor noticed Crawford helping John Mohr load some boxes in his car. Questioned about the incident in a legal deposition some time later, Mohr identified the boxes and their contents as four cases of “spoiled wine,” which he said he’d moved to his own home. Unfortunately no one thought to ask him why, if the wine was spoiled, he’d decided to save it.

Hoover’s neighbors were not the snoopy kind. But over the years they’d learned to keep their eyes open (who knew when you’d see a president slipping in and out of the director’s home?), and one day some weeks after Hoover’s death, a neighbor, who knew his way around Langley, noticed an unfamiliar station wagon in the alley behind 4936. At first he couldn’t get a good look at its driver, who was hunched over, loading boxes in the back, but when he straightened up he saw he was tall, middle-aged, and cadaverously thin, had thick glasses, and, even though it was a warm day for such work, was wearing a rather formal-looking black suit. He also thought he recognized him, but no, it was impossible. Of all the agencies in Washington, his was the one the late FBI director hated most.

The neighbor couldn’t be sure—he hadn’t gotten that good a look—but, as he later told several acquaintances, he at least resembled a man who, in his own, much quieter way, was almost as legendary as the director. He thought he looked like James Jesus Angleton, chief of counterintelligence at the CIA.

On returning to the White House after Hoover’s funeral, the president announced that he would name the still-unfinished new FBI Building the “J. Edgar Hoover Building,” thus taking credit for what the Congress had already voted two days earlier.

Still three years from completion at the time of Hoover’s death, the structure had been under construction nine before that. Even before it was rumored that one of the companies which constructed it was Mafia owned, the edifice itself was an embarrassment to architecture-conscious Washington. When it was finished, its total cost was $126 million, making it the most expensive building ever constructed by the federal government. Twice the size of its bureaucratic parent, it covered an entire city block on the opposite side of Pennsylvania Avenue, its buff-colored walls looming up eleven stories, easily overshadowing the Department of Justice’s dignified but squat seven. While architecture critics agreed it was the least attractive building on the avenue, they disagreed
whether it most resembled a prison, its enclosed courtyard seeming to dare anyone to riot, or a medieval fortress, complete with a moat and unscalable blank walls. Wolf Von Eckardt of the
Washington Post
called it “a contradiction in concrete” and “a perfect stage set for a dramatization of George Orwell’s
1984,
” but then, he added, “what the government tried to build here was not offices but an image.”
¹³

Hoover himself had spent hundreds of hours fussing over the blueprints. For years it had been speculated that Hoover wouldn’t retire until after the building was completed; his frequent changes in the design, it was suggested, being his own insurance that this wouldn’t happen.

Hoover heard the talk and joked about it, in one of his last public appearances. Addressing a chapter of the Society of Former Special Agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he observed, “There are some who maintain that the only reason I am staying on as director is to be present at the dedication. That is absolute nonsense. At the rate the building is going up, none of us will be around by the time it is completed.”
¹⁴

The actual dedication occurred September 30, 1975, with a new president, a new attorney general, and a new FBI director in attendance, and the Marine Corps Band playing a new song, the “J. Edgar Hoover March.” Above the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance huge gold letters proclaimed this the J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING.

Five years later Congress considered a bill calling for the removal of Hoover’s name.

Just as Hoover did not live to see the building completed, neither did he live to see his legend fall. But he anticipated it. The fear that his carefully constructed image would come tumbling down obsessed him most of his life, and especially during his last years. Ironically, like the embezzling bank clerk who never takes a vacation, because he fears that during his absence his secret will be discovered, Hoover in his final years became a victim of his own files. He couldn’t retire, because he couldn’t trust his successors to keep their secrets. But neither could he destroy them (he tried, seven months before his death), because by then even he had come to believe that they were the source of his power. This was doubly ironic, for this was a myth he’d personally fostered over the years, even though he knew quite well that they were only one of its sources, and quite possibly not even the most important.

As if the building were not memorial enough, shortly after Hoover’s death Bureau officials secretly flew in consultants from Disney World and asked them to design a new exhibit for the popular FBI tour. Word soon leaked that it would be a replica of Hoover’s office, causing one reporter to surmise that a lifelike mannequin, a bit shorter than Abraham Lincoln and somewhat rounder, would rise up from behind the desk and entertain visitors with a three-hour, nonstop recitation of the FBI’s most famous cases.

The finished exhibit was much simpler—consisting of Hoover’s massive desk, his desk lamp, and his office rug, embroidered with the FBI seal—and, in
its own way, much more awesome, for viewing it one realized that for nearly a quarter of the history of the United States one man, sitting behind this desk, used his enormous power, in ways both honorable and frightening, to guide that nation’s destiny in the directions in which
he
believed it should move.

The director’s best epitaph came not from the president, Congress, or the press but from Hoover himself, exactly two months before his death.

Making his final appearance before the House Subcommittee on Appropriations, on March 2, 1972, he was greeted by his old friend Representative John J. Rooney, a Democrat from Brooklyn, the committee chairman.

An aide, who was privileged to attend both the open and the closed portions of the hearing, later recalled the occasion as not only historic but, in its own way, “sad,” for as the chairman and the director went through their familiar ritual, “they were like two old dinosaurs, neither yet realizing that they were extinct.”