Sleuth School

(See front cover)

On Oct. 23, 1934, the chief of police of Wellsville, Ohio refused to turn over to a Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation a gangster named Adam Richetti, wanted for taking part in the Kansas City Station massacre. That refusal marked the peak of jealous friction between local and Federal law enforcement agencies. Last winter Attorney General Homer Still Cummings tactfully called a peace pow-wow in Washington between the conflicting parties (TIME, Dec. 24). On the theory that the camaraderie of the classroom makes for mutual understanding and friendship, it was decided that three schools should be set up within the Department of Justice. One would undertake to familiarize new district attorneys, most of whom have never seen the inside of a grand jury room, with a working knowledge of detection and prosecution. In another the administrators of the nation's 3,300 nonFederal prisons would be shown how the Federal Bureau of Prisons runs its penal institutions. And to the third in the Bureau of Investigation would go local law enforcement officers for instruction in the complex art of crook catching. This week the last project was the first to get underway.

To the Department of Justice's fine new building on Constitution Avenue went 21 handpicked, high-ranking law officers from rural, metropolitan and State police services. With the exception of instruction in matters strictly Federal, these 21 adult students were to receive free of charge the same three-months course given novice Special Agents. In addition, there were to be special lectures on ballistics, first aid, criminal procedure, psychiatry, by such national figures as Major Julian S. Hatcher of the Army's Ordnance Department, Assistant Surgeon General Ralph C. Williams of the Public Health Service, onetime U. S. District Attorney George Z. Medalie and Dr. William A. White of St. Elizabeth's Hospital in Washington. The Bureau hoped that when the graduates of its new Police Training School went back home they would be so firmly stamped with the U. S. seal of approval that local bosses would think twice before detouring these men for mere political reasons, and that the national weapon for fighting crime would thereby receive a healthy boost.

The man in charge of this project was a compact, wirehaired, effective native Washingtonian just 40 whose name, after 16 years in the Government service, has lately emerged as a household word, Director John Edgar Hoover of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. With an appropriation of $50,000 and an enthusiastic waiting list. Director Hoover decided: "First we'll crawl. Maybe after that we'll walk, maybe run, maybe fly." By rigid adherence to this careful program of crawling, walking, running and flying Director Hoover has built in the past decade one of the finest, most efficient law enforcement agencies the world has ever known.

Bad Beginning. In 1908 Attorney General Charles J. Bonaparte slapped together a rudimentary Bureau of Investigation by borrowing a heterogeneous collection of sleuths and bank examiners from other departments. Within considerable limitations, the Bureau was charged with the detection and apprehension of violators of Federal statutes. In 1910 these duties were increased by the passage of the Mann Act to break up the interstate traffic in women. Seven years later the War brought the tasks of espionage and counterespionage. In 1919 under the Dyer Act, Department of Justice agents began to chase across State lines automobile thieves (most of whom turned out to be joyriding youngsters). But neither in morale nor efficiency did the Bureau grow up with its expanding job. Chief qualification for a would-be investigator was a letter of recommendation from his Congressman. And under suspicious, eccentric Director William J. Burns, who used to keep photographs of Lenin and Trotsky, like a special rogue's gallery, on his office wall, several ex-convicts and the notorious Gaston B. Means wormed their way on to the Bureau's rolls. Such was the sloppy and demoralized agency which, in the scandalous spring of 1924, J. Edgar Hoover was handed by Attorney General Harlan Fiske Stone, who had just succeeded Harry Micajah Daugherty, besmirched Harding crony.

Hooverization was therewith given a new meaning. Director Hoover began to look around for an entirely different type of man for his Bureau's front line. Politics were out. Today applicants must be not less than 25, not more than 35 years old. Their characters are more scrupulously investigated than those of the blackest suspect under Federal surveillance. They must be either law school graduates, certified public accountants, or experienced police officers. The last are much in the minority. Lawyers and accountants have the advantage of being already trained as expert court witnesses and if the applicant has the sort of honest face that a jury is likely to trust, it is a point in his favor.

Among the 623 Special Agents and Accountants now in the field there is an amazing diversity of occupational backgrounds. Sixty-three are experienced farmers, 17 are aviators, 17 newshawks, one a baker, seven professional baseball players, one a surveyor, one an oil gauger, 37 with banking experience. Two were radio announcers. ("That's the pair they ought to shoot," jests Director Hoover.)

Course. After an applicant is accepted, he goes to school for three months in Washington. There he is taught by Bureau oldsters the involved routine of "fishing," the Bureau's word for building a case. He is given courses in ballistics, fingerprinting, criminal psychology. He is taken to the "murder room," where a dummy named Oscar is sprawled amid a welter of clues, there tested for alertness of observation. Finally he goes down in the basement to the Bureau's rifle range, the last word in safety, convenience and noise-proofing, where he must qualify with rifle, revolver, tear-gas gun, shot gun, Thompson ("Tommy") sub-machinegun. If the candidate is satisfactory he is given a small gilt badge and a card signed by Director Hoover which will admit him to any place from a brothel to a debutante ball, and for $2,900 a year (which he may raise to $9,000) he goes out to face the hazards of his country's criminal enemies. Why? "I'm damned if I know,'' says J. Edgar Hoover. "Maybe it has something to do with the spirit of adventure."

That is just the beginning. If the man lacks efficiency or courage, his resignation is quickly requested. Fifteen have been dropped since Jan. 1. If he sticks, he must requalify with all weapons once a month, attend a monthly field office conference, go back to Washington once a year for a month's re-education.

Prints & Pet Names. When Director Hoover took over in 1924, Alphonse Bertillon and Sir Edward R. Henry might almost have never lived insofar as their systems of criminal identification were being put to national use in the U. S. Local police and prisons had photographs and fingerprints on file, but were slow to exchange them. The small Federal fingerprint file had just been transferred from Leavenworth to Washington. Under Director Hoover, more than 7,000 law-enforcement agencies now voluntarily augment the Bureau's 5,000,000-print file at Washington by some 3,000 prints and photographs a day.* In the U. S. the sender is notified within 48 hours if the printee has a previous criminal record with the Bureau. One out of four has.

There is also an immense file of personal appearance records of criminals. And on the theory that a crook may change his name ten times while the underworld still addresses him by one nickname, the Bureau has a huge collection of criminal sobriquets. The men attract such titles as "Ape," "High-pockets" or "Newark Kid." The women's pet names are usually unprintable.

Tires & Typewriters. In 1932 Director Hoover founded the Bureau's busy, spotless laboratories. Crimes are "signed" in many a way besides by fingerprints and handwriting.

To back up the men in the field the Bureau's laboratories supplement the identification department, keep on file a large collection of tire tread blueprints, typewriting specimens, bullets. The Bureau's scientists are on call 24 hours a day, free of charge, to any local police service in the land which needs expert advice or testimony on anything from a footprint to an inkstain.

Contrary to a widespread Washington rumor, the laboratories have developed no super-machine for snooping which may be plugged into a light socket. Because the U. S. generally considers wiretapping unsporting, regardless of the purpose, the Bureau uses this very difficult means of detection only on the specific orders of Director Hoover and then only under life-&-death circumstances.

"Bing-Bang." This was the machine that the New Deal, through Attorney General Cummings, dramatically turned loose on organized crime. In 1932 the Bureau had had the kidnapping racket dumped into its lap when Congress passed the ''Lindbergh Law'' which made snatching across State lines a Federal offense. And at "General" Cummings' request. Congress last year provided the Bureau with automobiles and armaments for the first time. About the same time the Bureau took command of another sector with the passage of an act enabling it to chase, catch and convict national bank robbers. With the passage of these laws the Federal Bureau of Investigation burst upon the national consciousness with the terrifying red glare of a ''Tommy" gun's tracer bullet.

Shelled out of existence, or "put away on ice" in Federal penitentiaries month after month were such lurid desperadoes as John Dillinger, "Baby Face" Nelson, the "Terrible Touhy" Gang, "Pretty Boy" Floyd. And on Sept. 26, 1933, Mr. George ("Machine Gun") Kelly produced a word which still rings from the front pages of the U. S. Press. Trapped in the bedroom of his Memphis hideout, the instigator of the Urschel kidnapping held his trembling hands high in the air.

"Why did you give up without a fight, George?" asked an agent.

"Why, you G-Men woulda killed me!"

"You what?"

"You G-Men Government Men."*

Since that time the daring and resource of G-Men have been the subject of a whole cinema cycle (G Men, Let 'Em Have It, Men Without Names, Public Hero No. 1), a radio program by Phillips ("Seth Parker") Lord, countless newspaper feature stories and serials more notable for their action than for their accuracy. The Bureau disclaims all responsibility for this matchless quantity of spectacular press-agentry. It recognizes, along with the Army and Navy, that public attention and public favor make it easier to get money out of Congress. But the public's enthusiasm for G-Men has been largely responsible for alienating the co-operation of local police, without which the Bureau simply cannot function. It is true that every agent and accountant from Director Hoover down must be always prepared to "put on his old clothes" (i.e., go on a raid). But the facts are that since 1908 only eight Bureau of Investigation operatives have lost their lives in line of duty (the last three at the hands of maniacal "Baby Face" Nelson last year), and that the Bureau's "bing-bang" (i.e., spectacular) cases amount to less than 20% of its work.

Currently on the docket of the Bureau are 15,000 cases. The Bureau is actively investigating 6,000, which means that each G-Man has between 30 and 40 cases on his hands simultaneously. All Federal violations, except the illegal use of narcotics, counterfeiting, smuggling or the violation of Postal and Immigration laws now come under the Bureau's province, which means that a G-Man may find in his dossier a collection of violations against such widely divergent statutes as the Seed Loan Law, the Migratory Bird Law, the Federal Eight-Hour Law, the Admiralty Law, the Antitrust Law, the Copyright Law. Major portion of the Bureau's toughest work is the investigation of fraudulent bankruptcies.

Director. In the Federal Bureau of Investigation there is a very unsanguine attitude toward the regenerability of criminals. Day after day, thousands of old familiar faces and fingerprints of habitual offenders turn up, and in the great L-shaped print file room a dozen red tabs attached to cards of fugitives from justice, almost always parole violators, bristle up every time a file drawer is pulled open. This was the scene J. Edgar Hoover had in mind when he eloquently addressed the International Association of Chiefs of Police at Atlantic City last month. As able a talker as there is in the capital, he began: "I know that I speak to my own people. . . . Here at this meeting, a criminal is understood to be a criminal, with a gun in his hand and murder in his heart. It is not necessary here, in discussing what shall be done with that human rat, to persuade some altruistic soul that he is not a victim of environment or circumstances or inhibitions or malformed consciousness, to be reformed by a few kind words, a pat on the cheek and freedom at the earliest possible moment. . . . No one in this assemblage, I feel sure, will scoff at the theory of parole. ... I said theory, not practice. There is a vast difference. The theory is beautiful. The practice approaches a national scandal. . . . I am free to admit I am biased. . . . When I figure that every man in the Federal Bureau who has been killed was the victim of a man who has been the recipient of some form of executive clemency, that should not be hard to understand."

Like all leaders of enterprises which require great morale, Director Hoover can always be counted on for an effective theatrical gesture where one seems needed. Like all men of action, he has a strong streak of sentimentality. On the desk of his handsome office is a copy of Kipling's "If," a photograph of his dog. He is a bachelor, living with his semi-invalid mother in the pleasant frame house where he was born in an unpretentious section of southeast Washington.

His job gives him little time for friends, who are few and include no women. Author Courtney Ryley Cooper (Ten Thousand Public Enemies), Mr. Hoover's assistant Clyde Tolson and Gun Expert Frank Baughman occasionally go fishing with him on the nearby Patuxent River. But, gabby Walter Winchell to the contrary, Mr. Hoover has never been seen in a Washington night club.

Of enemies, Director Hoover has plenty. They are not only men with guns in their hands and murder in their hearts. They are political lawyers who resent the Bureau's activities against their clients, frightened liberals who see in the Bureau the material for a U. S. Cheka, and others, not all of them outside the Department of Justice, who are jealous of Director Hoover's success and political immunity. These call him everything from a vain peacock to a vulgar gum-shoer. And to this sort of charge, Director Hoover has one reply:

Last year the Bureau obtained convictions in 94% of all cases it took to court. (For a local police force 35% is a good average.) It has solved 50 kidnapping cases since 1932. Last year, on an appropriation of $4,680,000 the Bureau returned $38,000,000 in Federal fines and recovered property. And since it entered the national bank robbery field, national bank robberies have declined from 16 per month to four per month.

*But the War Department still zealously guards the 4,000,000 fingerprints made of soldiers enlisting in 1917-19. *The underworld's previous name for Federal operatives was '"Whiskers," i. e. Uncle Sam.

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