In like fashion, Galt fussed with his grooming and was no stranger to a mirror. He kept his face clean shaven, his nails trim, his charcoal hair combed straight back and oiled with Brylcreem, so that it gave off a petroleum sheen in the light. His tidiness and hygiene were a source of special pride; though he frequented the sorriest flophouses and dives, and felt at home among the most unsavory characters, he took satisfaction in knowing that, in his way, he'd risen above the filth around him.
For all his preening, Galt lacked confidence about his looks; he seemed an oddly skittish man, awkward around people and hard to pin in a conversation. He gave off the appearance of a hustler preoccupied with sub-rosa enterprises he did not wish to divulge. Most people took the cue and left him alone.
Those who did speak with him found him hard to understand, for he blurted out words in unrhythmic spates and monosyllables, mumbling softly, his lips cramped in an uncomfortable-looking construction, as though his mouth were full of sharp rocks. He spoke in a drawl that was hard to place; it was the drawl of rural Illinois, along the Mississippi River valley, where he had grown up during the Depression in a succession of impoverished towns. It was the drawl of St. Louis, the city he and his family had lived in and out of--the city that, in his drifter's way, Galt considered home.
Galt was willing to spend good money on certain prescribed things--like dance lessons and bartending school or his portable Zenith television--but at heart he was a cheapskate. He darned his own clothes, sewed buttons on his fraying shirts, drank horse-piss beer, lived in prideful squalor, rarely tipped in restaurants, and prowled drugstores for bargain-basement sales on toiletry items. If he dined out, he usually ordered greasy hamburgers at drive-ins, but more often he ate in his room, subsisting on crackers, canned food, and powdered soups that he warmed in a mug with an electric immersion heater. "He was tight as a tick," said one acquaintance; his expenses amounted to scarcely more than five dollars a day.
Galt was equally stingy with his words and thoughts. His emotional life was a mystery. He rarely gestured and almost never laughed. He liked to leave people guessing and once described his personal motto as "Never let the left hand know what the right is doing." He once said, in the manner of a boast, that he had not cried since he was twelve years old.
His sexual relationships were fleeting and superficial. Women, he had said, were to use and forget. He'd never married, and he'd never been in love--indeed, he hated the word "love." "I don't think that a man109 sits around talking about love and so on. It sounds sort of odd to me. Women--they'll break down and cry and all that stuff." As he had in Puerto Vallarta, Galt frequented hookers, and according to one acquaintance his preferred mode of pleasure was "to get his knob polished."110 His life seemed devoid of romance. "You can't trust anyone too far, especially the women type," Galt later wrote. "No woman has ever thought much of me--and anyways, marrying would have interfered with my travels."
Those who conversed with Galt often came away with the unsettling realization that he had revealed nothing of pinpointable substance--and that he rarely returned a gaze. An introduction to Eric Galt was an unsatisfying affair--his handshake was limp and unresponsive. Blinking rapidly, Galt would turn his head and look downward or sideways, so that even close up it was hard to appraise the man. Like a squid, he seemed to throw up clouds of obscuring ink, hoping to screen himself from scrutiny and keep others guessing who he was and where he stood.
Students at the National Dance Studio, where Galt took rumba and cha-cha lessons for several months, quickly noticed his mysterious reticence. The school, on Pacific Avenue in Long Beach, was a melancholy place where lonely hearts came to meet under the net of easy intimacy that close dancing threw over strangers. Galt, however, would not interact with the other students, and refused to join in the fun. He was grimly determined to learn his moves; he said he might soon relocate to a Hispanic country. "I find myself attracted111 to the Latins," he said. "They're easygoing. They're not too bothered by rules and regulations." But, he said, "it helps socially if you know a little something about the Latin dances." He did in fact memorize the steps, but he was stiff and ungraceful. He got the mechanics of the rumba, but none of its soul.
Galt was especially self-conscious around his female partners and would not allow himself to succumb to their harmless flirtations. He would just shiver bashfully in their arms and look down.
"He was shy," one instructor said. "One time I talked with him for an hour and tried to break him down. When the conversation got personal, he became quiet." Rod Arvidson, the manager of the National Dance Studio, concurred: "He was the withdrawn type,112 the type that often needs to learn to dance."
Nearly everything about Eric Galt seemed bland and retiring, the details of his appearance falling somewhere in the statistical middle: average height, average weight, average build, average age. The cumulative effect of all these milquetoast qualities made him strangely forgettable.
If one lingered and studied him awhile, though, certain attributes began to reveal themselves, like previously unnoticed images rising in the chemicals of a darkroom sink. There was the crooked grin on his face, which, though subtle, was a nearly permanent feature--a smirk that curled with irony and seemed to suggest he knew something he would never tell. There was the tiny dimple on his chin, the touch of gray in his sideburns, the thick cross-hatching of dark hair on his forearms, and a small scar in the center of his forehead. There was his lumbering, slough-footed gait, the stride of a much older man, punctuated by a faint limp. There, too, were the rabbity little tics: the way he constantly tugged on his left ear, the weak nervous giggle, the compulsive habit he had of shuttling his glass of vodka--back and forth, back and forth--on the lacquered wood of the bar.
And so most people who met Eric Starvo Galt, if they noticed him at all, came to regard him as an oddity: a null set of stewing ambition, wiry and watchful, seemingly paranoid--and emphatically alone.
FOR SOME TIME since his arrival in Los Angeles, Eric Galt had been paying visits to a clinical psychologist named Dr. Mark O. Freeman. Their first appointment was on the late afternoon of Monday, November 27, 1967, and Galt, sharply dressed as usual, walked into Freeman's Beverly Hills office at around five o'clock. Dr. Freeman wrote in his daybook that his new patient hoped to "overcome his shyness,113 gain social confidence, and learn self-hypnosis so he could relax, sleep and remember things better."
They began to talk, and Dr. Freeman got a sense of the man. Galt naively seemed to believe that hypnosis was a form of communication expressed directly eye to eye, through some mysterious medium of thought rays. "He had the old power idea114 of hypnotism," Freeman said. "He actually thought you could go around looking people in the eye and hypnotize them and make them do whatever you wanted them to do."
Galt placed great value on the touted health benefits of hypnosis--and especially hoped to learn how to put himself under. All told, he met with Dr. Freeman on six occasions, throughout the months of November and December 1967. Dr. Freeman later said that Galt "made a favorable impression" on him. The sessions were productive, he thought, and the two men got along well.
"He was a good pupil,"115 Freeman said. "This fellow really wanted to improve his mind. He had a bent for reading. He didn't fight hypnosis. I'd show him how to go under, and pretty soon he'd be lying on the couch on his back and start talking. I taught him eye fixation, bodily relaxation, how to open himself to suggestion. I gave him a lot of positive feelings of competence." While Freeman said that Galt confessed to no "deep dark secrets," he did note that in at least one of their sessions together, Galt disclosed a "deep antipathy to negroes."
Then, for reasons not known, Galt severed his relationship with Freeman, saying only that the psychologist "didn't know nothing about hypnosis." He canceled his last appointment with Freeman, telling him that his brother had found a job for him as a merchant seaman in New Orleans. Freeman never heard from Eric S. Galt again.
7 SURREPTITIOUSNESS IS CONTAGIOUS
IF MARTIN LUTHER KING had a committed enemy in J. Edgar Hoover, he had an equally staunch ally working in the same Justice Department building: the attorney general of the United States, Ramsey Clark. Ambitious, idealistic, a Marine with both a master's and a JD from the University of Chicago, the forty-year-old Clark was a tall, slender man with smoldering eyes and a full head of black hair. Clark had long admired King. He regarded the civil rights leader as "a moral crusader,116 a unifying force, a persuasive voice demanding social justice, and an apostle of perhaps the most important lesson a mass society can learn--change through nonviolence."
As the nation's highest law-enforcement official, Clark had long feared the possibility that someone might kill King. For years, his office had tried to keep abreast of every alleged plot and rumored bounty on King's head. Two years earlier, Clark, then an assistant attorney general, had traveled to Alabama to monitor the Selma-to-Montgomery march and personally scouted sections of the route for likely places where an assassin might hide. He had a strong premonition that King might be shot in Selma, a premonition based on hard evidence: the FBI had identified more than twelve hundred violent racist white males, many with felony convictions for racial offenses, who reportedly planned to converge on Selma. Worried about the threats, Clark sought out King during the march and found him in a tent by the side of the road, sound asleep.
"Here we all were biting our nails,"117 Clark recalled, "and he was just sleeping like a baby. The man knew no fear--he literally walked in the valley of the shadow of death. I came to respect that."
Born in Texas in 1927, Clark was the son of Tom Clark, a prominent Dallas lawyer who had himself served as attorney general (in the Truman administration) and who had recently retired as a Supreme Court justice. As a fair-haired prince of Washington, young Ramsey had grown up in a house filled with government insiders, diplomats, judges, and bureaucrats. When his father was AG, Ramsey used to toddle down the halls of the FBI and was even allowed to sit in J. Edgar Hoover's office.
The FBI director still viewed Clark as a little kid and patronized him to extremes. Hoover took a dim view of Clark's squishy liberal politics and his egghead notions about the root causes of crime. Hoover believed Clark was soft on Communism, soft on civil unrest, soft on law and order. Clark was the sort of man who, in his frequent writings on crime, was not the least bit bashful about writing sentences like this: "We must create a reverence118 for life and seek gentleness, tolerance and a concern for others." Troubled by the rise of what he regarded as an American police state that increasingly relied on electronic technology to spy on its own citizens, Clark argued that "a humane and generous concern119 for each individual will do more to soothe and humanize our savage hearts than any police power that man can devise."
These were the sorts of sentiments that made Hoover sick to his stomach.
Even though Clark was, technically speaking, his boss, Hoover freely telegraphed his disdain for his younger superior down through the FBI ranks. He had a variety of nicknames for the attorney general. He called him "the Jellyfish."120 He called him "the Bull Butterfly" and "the Marshmallow." He said Clark was the worst head of Justice he'd ever seen. He even suspected the nation's top law-enforcement official might be a hippie. He once visited Clark's house and was appalled to find Mrs. Clark barefoot in her own kitchen. "What kind of person is that?"121 Hoover later groused to a reporter.
Clark, for his part, kept wisely discreet on the subject of Hoover. "I describe our relationship122 as cordial and he describes it as correct," Clark had been quoted a few months earlier. Off the record, however, he believed Hoover's bureau had become too "ideological" and too obsessed with finding Communists under every rock. Most important, he felt, the FBI was compromised "by the excessive domination123 of a single person and his self-centered concern for his reputation."
Clark knew all about Hoover's fixation on Martin Luther King. He had to know: Hoover's FBI kept coming to him with requests to wiretap and bug King's office, residence, and hotel rooms, and in every case Clark denied the request. The attorney general believed electronic surveillance could be used only in matters where national security was demonstrably threatened. "Surreptitiousness is contagious,"124 Clark argued. "If you invade privacy with a bug, why not break and enter? A free society cannot endure where such police tactics are permitted. Tomorrow you may be the victim." The practice of bugging and wiretapping, he said, was "more than a mere dirty business125--it tinkers with the foundations of personal integrity."
With subversives of King's caliber, however, Hoover saw no point in such constitutional niceties. As an object of Hoover's wrath, King represented the perfect trifecta, Clark realized. "Hoover had three126 fairly obvious prejudices," Clark told Hoover's biographer Curt Gentry. "He was a racist, he upheld traditional sexual values, and he resented acts of civil disobedience--and King offended on every count."
On the subject of King and nearly every other issue, Hoover and Clark failed to see eye to eye. Their worldviews were diametrically opposed, and their dysfunctional relationship was strained all the more by the simple administrative fact that Hoover had to deal with Clark's office on a daily basis. To handle that noxious task, the director nearly always relied on a trusted surrogate named DeLoach.
CARTHA D. DELOACH (everybody called him Deke) held the august position of assistant to the director, which made him third in command at the FBI. He was officially in charge of the FBI's General and Special Investigative divisions, as well as Domestic Intelligence and Crime Records. His real job, however, was to divine, down to microscopically fine tolerances, the boss's cryptic and ever-changing whims. He was good at it--so good, in fact, that many insiders considered DeLoach the likely successor to Hoover should the director die or step down.
DeLoach didn't relish his role as Hoover's liaison to Ramsey Clark. He hated being put in this delicate position between two powerful men--"wobbling on the tightrope," he called it. In truth, DeLoach had no great love for Clark either, but he thought Hoover went too far sometimes, that he treated Ramsey Clark "like a small child."
A tall Irish Catholic from the little town of Claxton, Georgia, Deke DeLoach had hooded eyes, a pink jowly face, and sandy hair oiled back into the tamest possible suggestion of a pompadour. Forty-eight years old, he'd labored for twenty-six years in the FBI, serving as a special agent and gradually working his way up in field offices as varied as Cleveland and Norfolk. A power broker within the American Legion, DeLoach was an accomplished consigliere and Washington company man, someone adept at navigating the vast rivers of memos Hoover's FBI released each day.
In fact, DeLoach practically spoke in FBI memo-ese, in a rounded, sonorous, slightly officious drone that said everything and nothing but somehow reassured people. Among his various responsibilities, DeLoach was Hoover's liaison to the White House, and he had so successfully installed himself there that President Johnson effectively let him set up a second office in the West Wing. One reporter called DeLoach the FBI's "Dutch uncle." Graced with the politesse Hoover lacked, he could be charming in a guarded, superficial way, yet his temperament could turn on a dime, and he'd lash out with the full institutional fury of the agency he represented. One did not want to get crosswise with Deke DeLoach.
Although DeLoach loyally defended the director and daily did his bidding, he had to concede that Hoover was "a man of monstrous ego,"127 as he later put it. He was "crotchety, dictatorial,128 at times petulant, and somewhat past his prime." Like MacArthur during the occupation of Japan, DeLoach said, Hoover had made himself "a demigod." In his presence, "you were not so much129 an individual personality as a cog in the vast machinery of the universe he'd created. You existed at his whim, and if he chose to, he could snap his fingers and you'd disappear."
DeLoach had been watching Hoover's "intense animosity" toward King for years. And not only watched: the assistant director had played a direct role in many of the COINTELPRO activities (as the FBI called its various counterintelligence campaigns)
against King. DeLoach seemed nearly as shocked by King's sexual escapades as Hoover. "Such behavior,"130 DeLoach later wrote, "seemed incongruous in a leader who claimed his authority as a man of God. So extravagant was his promiscuity that some who knew about it questioned his sincerity in professing basic Christian beliefs and in using the black church as the home base of his movement."
Yet DeLoach thought the FBI feud with the civil rights leader had gone too far--he described Hoover's anger as growing "like the biblical mustard seed,131 from a small kernel into a huge living thing that cast an enormous shadow across the landscape." At the very least, he thought, the bureau's war against King was "a public relations disaster of the first order" that would "haunt the FBI for years to come."
IN LATE 1967, as more reports came filtering into the FBI about the planned Poor People's Campaign, Hoover began to chomp at the bit for better intelligence. He wanted new wiretaps placed on the SCLC headquarters in Atlanta. A memo was circulated throughout the FBI hierarchy, discussing the merits of installing taps. "We need this installation,"132 the memo said, "to obtain racial intelligence information concerning their plans ... so that appropriate countermeasures can be taken to protect the internal security of the United States."
By late December 1967, a formal request for legal authorization to install telephone wiretaps had reached Deke DeLoach's desk. As usual, it would be his odious task to serve as a buffer between Hoover's FBI and the attorney general. He, for one, was not optimistic about Clark's response. "A.G. will not approve,"133 he predicted in a memo, "but believe we should go on record."
On January 2, 1968, the formal request was sent to Clark seeking his legal approval to tap the SCLC offices in Atlanta. "We [must] keep apprised of the strategy and plans of this group," the request argued. "Massive demonstrations could trigger riots which might spread across the Nation."
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