by Curt Gentry
What occurred in the next days, weeks, and months was probably unique in the annals of government. With the attorney general looking over his shoulder, the acting director rebuilt the Bureau of Investigation from top to bottom.
As the first order of business, Hoover reestablished and strengthened the chain of command. Finch had set one up when he first headed the Bureau, but by the time of Flynn and Burns it had more broken than connecting links.
At the top was the Seat of Government (SOG), the Washington headquarters of the Bureau of Investigation, headed, as before, by the director and the assistant director.
However, below them, where previously there had been four divisions, with often overlapping functions, Hoover created six separate divisions, each with its own clearly defined areas of responsibility. As before, the chief of each division reported directly to the assistant director. But now it was not occasionally but daily, many times daily, sometimes in person but most often by memo, any report of possible interest being routed upward.
Moreover, to avoid insularity, Hoover established an executive conference, all six chiefs meeting weekly to discuss both their individual problems and those of the entire Bureau.
Below SOG was “the field”—the entire United States and all of its possessions, divided into fifty-three unequal parts, the bureaucratic center of each a field office, headed by a special agent in charge (SAC).
Over the years some of the SACs had become empire builders, setting up their own fiefdoms, often with near-autonomy from SOG, though not necessarily from local politicians.
Hoover’s July 1, 1924, memo to the SACs changed all that. It began innocuously enough. “I look to you as the Special Agent in Charge as my representative,” Hoover wrote, “and I consider it your duty and function to see that the Special Agents and other employees assigned to your office are engaged at all times upon government business.”
Reading on, the SACs discovered that they were to be given even greater authority than in the past. Each would not only be responsible for the agents and other employees assigned to him; he would also oversee any agents who entered his territory on special assignment. In addition, he would grade their performances. Previously, favoritism often determined who got promoted. Now the sole criterion would be efficiency. A strict merit-demerit system was set up. As time passed, it became even stricter and more sharply defined. Laudable actions, above what was expected and required, would merit letters of commendation; substandard performances, or any infractions of the rules and regulations, would result in a letter of censure. Enough of one meant a raise in pay and grade; enough of the other, suspension without pay, demotion in grade and pay, transfer to a less-desirable location, or dismissal.
Then came the kicker. In return for this additional responsibility, there would be even greater accountability. The SACs themselves would also be graded, by headquarters, using far stricter standards than those imposed on the agents. And each SAC would be held personally responsible for any mistakes his subordinates made.18
Before the shock of Hoover’s July 1 directive had worn off, there were others.
To monitor compliance with the new rules and regulations, an inspection system was set up. Without warning, and at irregular intervals, a team of inspectors from SOG would descend on an unsuspecting field office, checking caseloads, procedures, total work hours, agent assignments, and—though Hoover didn’t see fit to mention it—whether the SAC was in his office working or elsewhere.
Some of the SACs didn’t survive the first inspection. Others didn’t survive their first return trip to Washington for “retraining,” another Hoover innovation, whereby every SAC (and eventually every SA) was periodically recalled for schooling in new procedures and techniques.
But some didn’t have to worry about either. By the end of the year, by combining territories and redistributing the work load, Hoover eliminated five of the fifty-three field offices; by the end of the following year, there were only thirty-six; by 1929, only twenty-five.
The key to most of Hoover’s changes was standardization. Heretofore, each of the field offices had had its own filing system. The former Library of Congress clerk established one standardized system for all. An agent reassigned from, say, Jacksonville, Florida, to Seattle, Washington, could on his first day walk right in and begin using the files.
Previously, the special agents (SAs) made their reports in whatever manner seemed most convenient at the time: by mail, telegraph, telephone, or direct contact with a senior agent. Not infrequently, reports, evidence, and even whole cases were lost. Hoover introduced a single printed form, with explicit instructions on how to prepare it. This alone cut the Bureau’s total paperwork by one-third, saved an average of $940 a year per field office on telephone bills, and freed time that could be spent on other cases. All this could also be converted to statistics when budget time came round.
Moreover, it helped raise the most important statistic of all: convictions.
A federal prosecutor could look at the form and—without spending hours questioning the agent and sometimes most of his witnesses—determine whether the evidence was or wasn’t strong enough to take the case to court.
Under Burns hundreds of cases were never prosecuted because the fix was in. But many times that number were lost in court because the agent gathering the evidence had no idea what was legally admissible. Now, with legal training a prerequisite, and stress in the training school placed on the rules of evidence, fewer “good cases” were dropped and fewer “bad cases” taken to court, raising significantly the percentage of convictions.
None felt these standardizations more than the new Central High cadets, the special agents of the Bureau of Investigation. Although human beings are not all alike, and some do one thing better than another, Hoover was determined to make his men interchangeable units, each capable of doing every job, whether it was chasing embezzlers or white slavers. Even those agents who were law school graduates were required to take courses in accounting.
But it went beyond interchangeability. From the heights of SOG there descended upon the field a blizzard of new rules and regulations, establishing expected standards of performance, conduct, demeanor, even dress. In time the memorandums would fill a loose-leaf notebook, which would in turn become a manual, then several manuals. In them an SA could, hypothetically, find an answer to his every query, from how to question a drunken female suspect to what color tie to wear to work.
As time passed, their lives became even more standardized. And quite often the standards were John Edgar Hoover’s own.
There was, for example, the matter of Prohibition. Like it or not, it was the law of the land. “I shall probably be looked upon by some elements as a fanatic,” the director wrote in a letter to all SACs, but nevertheless, “I am determined to summarily dismiss from this Bureau any employee whom I find indulging in the use of intoxicants to any degree or extent upon any occasion…I, myself, am refraining from the use of intoxicants…and I am not, therefore, expecting any more of the field employees than I am of myself.”*
Thus Hoover’s own standards became those of the agents, accountants, secretaries, file clerks, and other Bureau employees. Nor was it enough to adhere to the letter of the law in such matters; even the appearance of improper conduct was to be avoided.
“I do believe that when a man becomes a part of this Bureau he must so conduct himself, both officially and unofficially, as to eliminate the slightest possibility of criticism as to his conduct or actions.”19
At stake was the good name of the Bureau. And, increasingly, as time passed, that also meant the good name of J. Edgar Hoover.
Many of the ideas were not new: Bonaparte and Finch had given preference to men with legal experience, and Bielaski had established the first training school for new agents—though both practices had fallen into desuetude during the era of the private detectives Flynn and Burns.*
Hoover’s own genius was not in innovation but in recognizing good ideas and
finding ways to implement them. Many of the changes were the result of suggestions made by the agents themselves, especially the remarkable group of men Hoover surrounded himself with at SOG. The erudite Harold “Pop” Nathan, whom Hoover chose as his assistant director, had been in government service since 1903, in the Bureau itself since 1917. Brought in from the “field,” where his organizational talents were largely wasted, he recalled the many problems he’d encountered while on the “firing line” and, one by one, set about correcting them. Vincent Hughes, who also predated Hoover, was a superb technical man. Hoover put him in charge of one of the two investigative divisions. It was under Hughes that the concept of “specials” came into being.† Charles Appel was an accountant and documents examiner. When he walked into the director’s office one day and asked if he could attend a course in police science at Northwestern University, Hoover agreed, on condition that he also help the Chicago office catch up on its bankruptcy cases. On his return to Washington, Appel, equipped only with a borrowed microscope, founded the famed FBI Laboratory and brought the Bureau into the era of modern scientific investigation. James Egan established many of the new administrative procedures. A strict disciplinarian, Egan also set up the inspection system and became the Bureau’s first inspector. E. J. Connelley, who’d carried out certain sensitive assignments for Hoover while he’d headed the GID, continued in that role. Frank Baughman, Hoover’s only close friend during his college days, became the Bureau’s first ballistics expert and, later, one of its firearms instructors. Others who contributed significantly to the “new Bureau” included John Keith, Hugh Clegg, Charles Winstead, and Edward Tamm.
To the public these men were anonymous. Few outside the Bureau knew either their names or their accomplishments, since, from the very start, every announcement of capture, letter, press release—as well as every commendation, transfer, censure, promotion, or demotion—bore the signature of the acting director or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
If it was Hoover who got the glory, it was argued, then it was also Hoover who got the blame when something went wrong. But in the beginning no one was concerned with who got the credit. All that mattered was, Does the idea work?
For those who served during the early years, it was, in the words of the veteran agent Tom McDade, “the most exciting time of our lives.” “Hoover enthused people to extra effort,” Charles Appel later recalled. “We were ambitious,” Edward Tamm would explain; “we not only wanted to do it right, we wanted to do it better.” “In those days,” Appel continued, “there were so many things that could be improved. And Hoover, who liked being considered a pioneer in law enforcement, was willing to try almost anything once.”20
Soon speaking engagements began to come in. Hoover’s nieces would recall him practicing before the mirror. These early speeches would have shocked many of his latter-day admirers. The causes of crime were social and economic, Hoover maintained. If you eliminated poverty, crime itself would decrease.
It was not a popular position, either with law enforcement or the general public, and not long after Attorney General Stone’s resignation, Hoover dropped it and took up the law-and-order theme that became his hallmark.
But he tried it.
He even tried hiring female special agents. The first two, who had been in the accounting section, passed the training-school courses and received their badges and credentials in 1924; both resigned less than four years later. The first two were also the last two; as far as Hoover was concerned, the experiment had failed.
But he tried it.
In time, each of the changes spawned its own excesses. The inspection system became a means by which highly placed officials would purge their enemies and reward their friends. The training schools automatically rejected anyone showing a capacity for or an inclination toward original thought. Suggestions became commandments; flexibility calcified into rigidity. Avoiding the appearance of misconduct became more important than avoiding misconduct itself. Crimes were committed for no other reason than to avoid embarrassing the good name of the Bureau and its director. And, as the years passed, Hoover’s receptivity to new ideas diminished. In time the old way became the only way.
But it was otherwise in the beginning. Overseeing the acting director’s accomplishments, Attorney General Harlan Fiske Stone couldn’t have been more pleased, while from J. Edgar Hoover’s point of view the end of his probation was almost in sight.
There were only two problems. One was named William “Wild Bill” Donovan and the other Roger Baldwin.
Although Stone had promised Hoover that the Bureau of Investigation would be responsible only to the attorney general, he hadn’t meant it literally. The Justice Department also had a chain of command. Hoover’s immediate superior was the assistant attorney general in charge of the Criminal Justice Division, who had, in addition to the BI, six other bureaus under his command.
It was August before Stone found a man he considered qualified for the position.
Even before the appointment was officially announced, Hoover knew a great deal about his new “boss.” William Joseph Donovan’s DOB was January 1, 1883—which made him twelve years Hoover’s senior and meant they shared the same birthday.
And that, it appeared, was all they had in common.
Donovan was upper New York State, lace-curtain Irish and had married into wealth and society. He had obtained his law degree at Columbia, where he’d been quarterback of the football team, a classmate of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and—far more important—a favorite student of the then-professor Harlan Fiske Stone.
Donovan also had a “sponsor.” His friend and political mentor, whose law firm he’d joined after graduation, was none other than Hoover’s former boss, John Lord O’Brian. Well-placed sources speculated that Donovan would be “O’Brian’s eyes and ears at Justice.”
When the United States entered the war, Donovan had gone to France as a captain with Troop 1, First Cavalry, New York National Guard. After being wounded three times and given two spot promotions on the battlefield, Colonel Donovan returned a war hero, with a chestful of medals and the nickname Wild Bill.
Not just any war hero. Wild Bill Donovan was the most decorated soldier in American history, as well as the first man ever to hold the nation’s three highest decorations: the Distinguished Service Medal, the Distinguished Service Cross, and the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was also one of the founders of the American Legion.
On his return to civilian life, Donovan received offers from most of the top law firms. Instead of accepting them, he began establishing a political base, joining the proper clubs, serving on the right committees, forming friendships and possible future alliances. In 1922 Donovan ran for office for the first time, unsuccessfully, as the Republican candidate for lieutenant governor of New York. That he had run at all, Hoover realized, was far more important than his defeat. Since it was a foregone conclusion that the Democrats, headed by Al Smith, would retain their hold on Albany, it was obvious that O’Brian had arranged to have his protégé make the race simply for the exposure and to accumulate party debts. The next two years, during which Donovan served as U.S. attorney for the western district of New York, as well as his current appointment, were, Hoover strongly suspected, nothing more than steppingstones to higher political office, possibly even the attorney generalship.
Unknown to Hoover, Donovan’s dreams were far more grandiose. As John Lord O’Brian confided to a friend, “Bill has a driving ambition. He won’t be satisfied until he’s the first Catholic President of the United States.”21
Their disparate backgrounds and Donovan’s political ambitions were not problems. All this Hoover could have handled, had not his new superior possessed certain other attributes.
Donovan quickly showed every sign of being an “empire builder,” a trait which Hoover hated in others.
He was, as even his latter-day biographers and OSS colleagues Stewart Alsop and Thomas Braden freely admitted, “not a first rate administrat
or.” Another associate and friend, Stanley Lovell, put it even more bluntly: “all who knew him and worked under him recognized that Donovan was the worst organizer of all.”22
But far worse, from Hoover’s point of view, Donovan was a dilettante—a meddler and dabbler who liked to keep his hand in everything. And that, of course, included the Bureau of Investigation.
Suddenly, after spending months restructuring the chain of command and establishing a semblance of discipline, Hoover would find one of his orders countermanded, a procedure revised, or a disciplinary action upset—often with neither prior consultation nor even an after-the-fact explanation.
He reacted predictably. Both by memo and in person, Hoover strongly protested such intrusions, claiming they undermined his authority and interfered with the Bureau’s operations.
But, more often than not, his memos went unanswered. And before long, whenever Hoover attempted to protest directly, Donovan was too busy to see him, passing these “Hoover matters” on to whichever assistant happened to be at hand. On one occasion (which still rankled decades later) the acting director took what he considered to be a very serious grievance—Donovan’s “borrowing” of several of his agents for one of his own pet projects—to the assistant AG’s office, only to have a gum-chewing subaltern laconically respond, “I guess the Colonel had another of his whims.” If Hoover exaggerated the seriousness of such incidents, Donovan for his part greatly underestimated their importance to Hoover.
From the start, Donovan badly misjudged his Bureau chief. He considered Hoover a civil servant, and a “temporary” at that, without connections or power. He often referred to him slightingly as a “detail man,” meaning he lacked imagination and the broad view. That Hoover’s superb grasp and use of detail was not a weakness but one of his greatest strengths was a concept so foreign to Donovan’s own nature that he failed to even consider it. Missing this, he also missed the sustained, concentrated attention Hoover could focus on that single, telling detail.