Introduction to Hunters Chronicle

The newsreel shows a large plane, vast metal wings underslung with bulbous engines, propellors lost in motion, booming straight as an arrow through the clear grey skies. "Clear skies!" shouts the jovial-voiced announcer. "And our boys in Europe drop a few for freedom!" The darkened bomb bay spits forth a hail of strange tubes falling past the jittery camera pointed down at a white-and-grey patchwork city.

The newsreel slips the spool, the relentless horn music becomes shrill, and the announcer dissolves into gibberish, shouting something into the empty theatre, something of supreme importance, in a language never spoken before or since.

The pop of a flashbulb. The young men freeze in the light. Six of them, wearing their heavy leather jackets and thick wool collars. Most are hatless, looking away from the camera and grinning, caught in mid-laugh. One looks straight at the light, and in his upheld "V" fingers and grey, grey eyes, there is a certain angle, a certain light of fear. The white flashbulb, too much like the white light of flak. The nervous men around him, too much like the ones whose spattered blood smeared across the cockpit. Some were talking about staying in the Army Air Corps. We look down at the grey picture signed with his name and the year, and we know he will not.

A typewriter clatters along, the sound like an early talkie comedy about a thin man, a fat man and a broken-down car. It needs only a tinny ragtime soundtrack to be perfectly at odds with what the black letters bang out, dark words on bright white paper that sat for years misfiled in a manila envelope somewhere, and now before our eyes:

To: The Director From: Task Force MICHAEL Re: The extent of the problem

This thing is much bigger than Agent Douglas suspected. We have _multiple_ potential targets with even our present surveillance staff. Request immediate personnel, at least one surveillance team (AZRAEL) and one active team (GABRIEL).

EYES ONLY ---- SECURE MEMORANDUM --- DESTROY AFTER READING

And then, lost in a leather folder jammed in the back of a rusted-out Ford truck, parked in the blazing yellow sun over the Ak-Chin Reservation south of Phoenix, a yellowed, crackling letter on official paper:

March 18 Mr. Wolf,

First let me say that in my five years as director of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, I have never had an operative whose co-workers and colleagues afforded as much respect as yours. Also, your service record is an exemplary example of diligence, determination and the discipline that the Army must have instilled in you.

I want you therefore to consider this offer carefully. A memorandum has arrived in my office this week, marked "Eyes Only", one of the highest levels of security afforded documents in this nation. I can only reveal to you that it came from someone ranked extremely high in the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

I have been directed to make you the following offer: an immediate transfer to the Federal Bureau of Investigation at a substantial raise of pay, a guarantee of regular hazard pay, and (a direct quote) "the opportunity to work with the most basic elements of law enforcement: justice, morality, and the direct protection of the public."

To my knowledge, no Indian has ever been a part of the FBI. However, I have confirmed the offer as genuine: perhaps you will choose to be the first.

Whatever your decision, I want you to know that you will always have a place here at the BIA, and that I and the rest of the Bureau wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

The signature is unreadable.

The story falters like the ink on this crumbling paper, already flaking away in our hands. It reaches an impasse, jammed beneath reams of yellowing paper and miles of microfilm. The FBI was small in those days, and the photographs, yes, hundreds of them, show no faces except white ones. And the pilot in the leather coat isn't there, nor the spy sitting in the Pan American plane flying high across the Atlantic, bullets still lodged in his luggage. The faces in these photographs smile blandly, or look down at bodies oozing black blood onto the grey sidewalk. The story curves into strange uncharted territory: why are these three agents not pictured? And are there others?

The smelly, cheaply-bound Congressional Record is abrupt and stern:

"Ways and Means Committee Hearing, 19 January, Session 28, #7289-736-1-L-838-A.

Funding levels, Federal Bureau of Investigation

Witnesses: J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Clyde Tolson, Executive Secretary to Mr. Hoover.

Followed by Closed Session."

The records of the open hearing are prosaic, even boring. The black letters of "Closed Session" stand in our path like a towering ebony ogre glaring down at us, daring us to find our way past it. Perhaps it pities us a little, too, because a one-line expenditure in the budget for that year whispers nearly inaudible encouragement:

"Federal Bureau of Investigation, Contingency Funding: $80,000."

We cry, "But what contingency?" The budget is silent, a little nervous. Has it said too much? We rush to it's cousin, the FBI budget for the same year. And there it is, in the midst of the Domestic Counterintelligence Program:

"COINTELPRO Contingency Expenditure: Department of Special Affairs: $80,000."

Is that all? Is that one line the end of our search? We push time back: the previous year's budget holds no such expenditure. The following year does. And the year after that. But then...

Then it disappears again. COINTELPRO returns to ordinary funding levels. The Department of Special Affairs is no longer mentioned.

The story begins to spread again, to change to a different kind of story, one of conspiracy and coverup. Furtive whispers in the Senate Gallery. Late-night telephone calls from Hoover's office to the White House. Clandestine meetings in expensive hotel rooms under assumed names. Brown paper packages of money left in post office boxes.

As we look and watch, the story turns ugly. The endless photographs of FBI men at gory dark grey crime scenes lie in front of us. We take to looking back over our shoulder. Was that car there an hour ago? Was that the glint of binoculars from that window? We slam the books shut, stuff the photographs in their envelopes, and flee into the light.

The story is old, older even than the grainy grey pictures on slick pages. It extends backwards as far as we can see and we dare not trace it too close to the present. We try to claw our way out, but we cannot. The story has subsumed us, minor investigators, years later, who tried, and failed, to find out where the COINTELPRO funding went, what the missing agents did, where they were assigned, why there was a coverup, and why, on a hot California summer afternoon, two men shot each other with .38 caliber bullets, when both were carrying .45 automatics, and why the owner of the home where they were shot was never seen again.

"Welcome," Levy said, "to Los Arcangelos." The three men were in their shirtsleeves, the hot air stirred up by the metal fan spinning on Levy's desk. "I'd like to introduce you to the fellow members of your task force. This is Mister Wolf, from the BIA. He solved the Stillwater murders back in Oklahoma a few years ago. Sniper during the war." Levy turned his hawkish nose back to the other two. "Neither of you, I assume, have any problems working with an Indian." They shrugged and shook their heads. "Or a Jew?" he said, smiling. There was brief laughter all around. "Special Affairs is a little more liberal than the rest of the Bureau in these matters." Levy said. "The Director does not handle personnel for this department."

Levy took off his glasses and polished them with a hankerchief while he continued. "In any case, this is Lieutenant Howard, formerly of the Army Air Corps. Pilot over Germany. Gave the Kaiser a run for his money, then came home and gave Bugs Moran one in Chicago. Been with the Bureau five years. And then, Mister Green, formerly of Army Intelligence. Just got back from the Balkans. A fine espionage man." Levy put the small wire-rimmed frames back on his face. "And I'm Special Agent Herman Levy. I've worked with the Attorney General and the Federal court. I'm in charge, for now. I'll give you gentlemen some time to get acquainted with each other and with the city, but before I let you go, I need to make one thing perfectly clear."

Levy folded his hands on his brown desk, clear of any papers. The fan whirred loudly. "The existence of the Department of Special Affairs must not, I repeat, _must not_ become widespread knowledge within the Bureau, nor should your identities as employees of the Bureau or the Department of Special affairs be released to any member of the public, even those you implicitly trust." He slid three long, thin, white envelopes across the desk. "These contain certain security regulations you may not have had contact with before, as well as a brief memorandum outlining your new duties. Try to read them sometime this weekend. When you are finished, destroy them."

The three men took the envelopes. "This is," Levy said, "very literally, the point of no return. If you decide this weekend not to accept the post after all, you can return the envelope. As long as the seal is unbroken on Monday, you are free to go. Otherwise, I'll be giving you your first assignment then." Levy stood and exchanged handshakes with them. "Enjoy your weekend, gentlemen. This is a beautiful city."

Saint-Monique Pier was lined with gently swaying palm trees. Wolf was stretched out on his towel, his brown skin glowing in the sun, his right hand behind his head, his left holding a paperback of "Look Homeward, Angel." above his head, shading his eyes from the sun. A cool breeze blew from the ocean. A pair of giggling teenaged girls, playing hooky and dressed like flappers walked past. They looked appreciatively at him, but he only gave them a quick glance and a terse smile. They walked on, laughing at some private joke. The end of the envelope jammed in the last page of the book fluttered in the breeze.

Hollywoodland stretched out beneath Howard as he stood beneath the second L. His rented horse was tied up next to the H. He looked down across the sweeping landscape of money and power. According to the glossy paper guidebook, that house there was Charlie Chaplin's. He wondered if Graumann's was open yet. In his back pocket was a white envelope with the red seal of the FBI on it.

Green paid his landlady in cash for the next three months. His room was small, barely furnished, but cheap. He removed the papers from the envelope and read them. Then, without thinking twice, he opened his briefcase, slid the papers into a folder there, locked the folder and locked the briefcase, and did not destroy a single page.
Jason Corley -- corleyj@chronic.lpl.arizona.edu