Authors: Margaret Truman
She called Doctors Hospital and inquired about Bill. “Critical but stable,” was the report. She spent a few minutes wondering who’d attacked him. They said it was robbery because his cash and credit cards were missing. It must have been. Why else would anyone have so brutally beaten
him? But, she wondered, why such a severe beating if money were the motivation? The doctor told her he’d been struck twice, once to the side of the face, a second time to the nose. It was what always frightened her about being mugged. Today’s breed of mugger didn’t seem to be content with money. Once they had it, the anger had to be played out by beating, by killing. At least he was alive.
She sat in the darkening living room and halfheartedly ate and sipped coffee. She had to stay awake to be ready for Kneeley’s transmission. Would it work? She could set the alarm and take a nap. She was very tired, emotionally drained.
The phone rang. It was a wrong number. She hoped no one would call close to the time she was to put into action Bill’s plan to eavesdrop on Kneeley. She wouldn’t answer. But then she realized that the phone ringing near that time could be Kneeley transmitting early.
She set the alarm and slept until midnight, got up and checked the equipment over and over, rereading the instructions, jiggling cable connections to insure they were tight, lining up the large paper supply with the friction feed on her Epson dot matrix printer, making sure a dozen times that the phone was securely in its cradle. “Let it work,” she told herself. “Please, let it work and end this bad dream.”
She sat and stared at the computer. All the proper lights were on, red and green, perpetual signals that the system was ready to function—provided it was given the proper input.
She wasn’t watching the time. It dawned on her that she should get her watch from the bedroom. As she started to cross the living room the phone rang, causing her to freeze. She could feel her heart racing, and her throat was parchment dry.
Another ring. She went to the phone and picked it up. There was nothing but the sound of an open line. “The modem,” she said. She placed the phone in its cradle on the modem and waited. A succession of green symbols flashed across her screen, and the printer made a series of “beeps.”
Then, words began to appear on the screen, and the dot matrix printhead began its steady buzz across the first sheet of fanfold paper.
Before transmission of new chapters, it’s imperative that the change in the identification of sources be accomplished throughout the manuscript. As I’ve indicated in recent conversations, the death of the FBI Agent George Pritchard has, ironically, strengthened the book. Until his death, and as was agreed upon between us, this primary source of information was to remain nameless, our own “Deep Throat,” as it were. But now, we can use his name. I will be making editorial changes and additions in material already written and transmitted to you, but be on your toes for places where it’s been overlooked. In addition, I will be writing a lengthy end-paper explaining Pritchard’s contribution to the book and the circumstances surrounding it.
It was once said by some sage, “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.” That certainly is the case with this book. My primary source of information was a veteran special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, whose cooperation came with an agreed-upon restriction—that his name never be used. Those of us in the field of investigatory journalism—at least those of us who function with a sense of honor—have learned never to compromise sources such as this one. When I first entered into my arrangement with this special agent, I did so knowing full well that I would spend the rest of my productive days in jail rather than reveal his identity.
But now, in the midst of the painful process of bringing to the American people the
true
story of the FBI’s internal workings, my source—my “Deep Throat”—was murdered, gunned down in cold blood in the FBI’s own hallowed halls, on its firing range, in front of 200 curious American tourists who were there to celebrate the weapons expertise of bureau sharpshooters.
What does that mean to you or, more particularly, to this author and to this book?
It means that the material contained herein may now be attributed to a real person. There are times when the cynics chuckle at a journalist’s use of “respected sources” and point to the technique as yet another example of media irresponsibility. I was prepared to take those criticisms in the interest of alerting the American people to the abuses perpetrated upon it by America’s federal police force, the
Federal Bureau of Investigation, the house that Hoover built, esteemed in the eyes of children and their parents who witness impressive statistics and colorful anecdotes of “most wanted” brought to justice and, yes, and exhibitions of skill with rifles and handguns on the firing range.
But it is
not all it seems
.
And because of the courage of one man—George L. Pritchard—the real story can now be told. That’s his name—George L. Pritchard—seventeen years with the bureau, a loyal special agent who, finally, came to grips with the abuses of his beloved FBI and who sought out this reporter to make amends, as it were, to cleanse his soul and to contribute to his fellow man in a way far greater than his work at the FBI could ever accomplish.
I mourn his death, yet I must view it positively. If that shocks you, so be it, but now, there can be no sniping at unidentified sources, no precious raising of eyebrows over expensive lunches in Washington, D.C.’s favorite watering holes because this observer was honor-bound to protect the man, George L. Pritchard. The man has died, and he leaves me—and you—the legacy of openness, of duty beyond and above his oath to the bureau.
The source material used in previous chapters to help understand the chain of events that led to the formation of a police force
within
the FBI was provided, in part, by George Pritchard, and by other sources this writer has cultivated over the years. The climate in which this was allowed to occur was established by J. Edgar Hoover himself, whose personality
shaped every aspect of the bureau during his forty-eight-year reign. That is not to say that it is necessarily bad for one man to dictate an agency or company’s direction and tone—not if that man is basically a sound individual. Was that the case with Mr. Hoover? It is the opinion of many who have closely monitored the FBI’s seventy-six years of existence, and of this observer, that his personality and psyche was sufficiently deficient to allow all manner of abuses to fester and grow. The “Unkempts” are a fine example.
According to the meticulous diary kept by Special Agent Pritchard, he was present early in his career at a meeting in the spring of 1970 that included six young special agents and Robert Banks, a retired military officer who’d joined the bureau two years earlier as a “special consultant to J. Edgar Hoover.” It was never clearly established what Banks’s true role was, but it became evident to Pritchard following that meeting that his sole purpose was to put into motion the director’s plan to have at his disposal a small and elite group of special agents whose moral and ethical views would not, as Pritchard put in his notes, “be at odds with eliminating individuals in society whose views were especially dangerous to America’s survival.”
What especially intrigued Pritchard early in that meeting was Banks’s comment: “Each of you have been specially selected for a top-secret role in the FBI. Many things have been taken into consideration, including your record to date with the bureau, your background prior to joining us, your evaluation
reports and
psychological profiles
” (emphasis mine).
Banks went on to explain that because of increasing domestic tensions caused by dissidents and those who would rejoice in the overthrow of the United States of America, it had been determined
by the director himself
that sterner measures, performed in total secrecy, might now be necessary if the Republic were to survive.
Bear in mind that this was a period of intense strain on Hoover. The activists of the 1960s had brought unrelenting pressure to bear on him to bring the Federal Bureau of Investigation more in line with the precept of a federal police force accountable to higher authorities. Those who knew Hoover can testify that, from his perspective, there was no higher authority than himself.
Too, the now famous Hoover files were becoming publicly known. It was the practice within the Washington Metropolitan Police Department to carbon Hoover himself each time anyone with any government job was arrested, even for the most minor of infractions. Those files grew to such proportions that there virtually wasn’t an office in the federal—and state governments, too—where there wasn’t someone vulnerable to Hoover’s private files. This list was added to by the bureau’s policy of bugging hotel rooms and private homes in order to gather “dirt” on leading figures who’d spoken out against Hoover and his FBI. Martin Luther King, Jr., was a good example. So was this author, who knows through George Pritchard that his activities in hotels around
the country had been wired, and his conversations recorded—“for the files.”
According to Pritchard, the meeting with Robert Banks and the other special agents lasted two hours. The terms “killing,” “murder,” “assassination,” and “execution” were never used. Instead, such words as “elimination,” “neutralization of the enemy,” and “ultimate steps to silence traitors” were bandied about by Banks as he explained the need for a special force within the bureau to take those “ultimate steps.”
Pritchard’s notes also refer to other meetings of this elite task force, during which the concept of a growing threat to America and to the FBI was constantly reinforced. Pritchard remembers a comment made by Hoover being discussed—that if it weren’t for Hoover’s willingness to put his ass on the line, the country would be overrun with dope fiends, anarchists, petty criminals, and the other elements of society who would bring America to ruin, just as happened with the Roman Empire.
Pritchard said to me, “What was amazing was that there wasn’t one dissenting or questioning comment.”
I asked Pritchard what acts he had specifically done in line with the movement to get rid of those critical of the FBI, those viewed as a threat to Hoover and to the country. He answered my question with a voice heavy with sorrow and remorse. This was a man who was not, by nature, violent. He leaves a wife and daughter, both of whom I have met and neither of whom had ever seen signs of a
violent character in their husband and father. Yet, he did kill, not because it was in his blood (although his psychological profile must have triggered some recognition in his leaders), but because he was told to do it by his employers. Bear in mind that his employer was the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He’d taken an oath. He loved his country, believed in it, and wanted it intact and prospering for his own child to inherit. Did he question those orders? Yes, of course, at night when he tried to sleep and couldn’t. But he would do these acts, as would others in his squad, because he was told it was for his country, for his president, for the future of a nation he loved.
As I progress with this book, I realize that I might be guilty of much the same thing, of justifying unsavory actions under the guise of a so-called greater good. I excuse George Pritchard for his actions because I understand, after years of research, the milieu in which he functioned for his seventeen years with the bureau. I suppose there’s also a personal and selfish reason for my admiring and defending George Pritchard. Without him, I would not be able to write this book and alert the American public to the dangers of a federal police force that accounts only to itself. Yes, with the death of Hoover in 1972, while still in office, there have been changes, most for the better. The despot is gone, and the men who have succeeded him have brought to their sensitive job a more balanced and rational approach. These men who stepped into Mr.
Hoover’s shoes performed with a certain honor and respect for this democracy. But that does not mean that the abuses have been totally cut out of the bureau’s operations. Far from it.
When George L. Pritchard died, the band of Unkempts charged with “eliminating” or “neutralizing” or taking “ultimate steps” remained in place, its ranks larger, its mission the same.
I spoke in previous chapters of papers Pritchard had kept during his seventeen years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. One of them, obtained only six months ago from the office of Assistant Director Wayne E. Gormley, one of three assistant directors (Gormley’s area is investigation; the others handle law enforcement and administration) points with alarming urgency to #.$%.$.$((%*%&%..$&$. ERROR ERROR ERROR…. 754654 *&&. *& DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
The printer’s constant buzz stopped. The tiny red and green lights were still on, but there would be no further printing of Richard Kneeley’s manuscript. It had ended for Chris Saksis with the string of deadly D’s, a common computer print quirk.
The screen was blank except for the green outline of a fresh page waiting to be filled with words.
“What happened?” Saksis asked herself as she flipped switches and checked connections.
It didn’t matter, she decided.
She’d try to get that answer—and a lot of others when she visited Richard Kneeley on Fire Island tomorrow.
The weather in Washington, D.C., at seven
A.M.
was bright, sunny, and crisp, but by the time the Pan Am jet reached New York’s LaGuardia Airport at 8:05, rain poured from the skies.
The first rental car wouldn’t start; the second one did, and Chris Saksis drove east toward Bay Shore and the ferry to Fire Island. She’d used a coin-operated copying machine at National Airport to make a duplicate of the print-out of Kneeley’s transmission to Sutherland House, and slid the original beneath the driver’s seat. She also had with her the photo of Kneeley and Pritchard together, as well as a series of notes and questions she’d drafted after the transmission had been interrupted.