Earlier Fine Messes the FBI Almost Got Itself Into

In the wake of more than 3,000 “misplaced” pages of materials in the Timothy McVeigh case coming to light, the FBI is scrambling to restore its credibility and erase its image as an organization of bunglers, incompetents and nitwits. Accordingly, the FBI launched a bureau-wide directive to locate and make publicly available all other “misplaced” documents.

The massive search turned up few surprises, except for one startling find called the Hardy Files. Here are the highlights.

Report filed March 2, 1932

Hopewell, N.J.

Around 9 p.m. I (Special Agent Laurel Hardy) was taking an evening stroll near my home in Hopewell. As I walked past the residence of Charles Lindbergh Jr., I heard a commotion around back and investigated. There I saw a man with a burlap bag over his head, wearing heavy gloves and carrying a book, “The Proper Care of Infants.” As per departmental procedure, I confronted the man and asked who he was and what he was doing.

He identified himself as “Bruno” but then coughed and said “uh, Charles Lindbergh.” I asked him why he was speaking with a heavy German accent. He said he’d been reading Immanuel Kant’s “Critique of Pure Reason” earlier that evening and sometimes it took a couple hours for the accent to fade. I then asked him to remove the burlap bag. He said he couldn’t as he was under doctor’s orders to keep it on because of an unsightly and highly contagious skin condition. Same for the gloves.

Next, I inquired about the ladder. He said he wanted to surprise his wife by surreptitiously relocating their infant from the baby room to the downstairs parlor where he’d put the book in the child’s hand--as if the baby were reading!

“Vouldn’t dat be funny?” he asked. Yes, it would, I replied and was about to resume my stroll when Mr. Lindbergh asked if I wouldn’t mind holding the ladder when he came down with the baby.

*

Report filed May 22, 1934

Bienville Parish, La.

It’s been no secret around the bureau that I have been despondent since being transferred from the up-and-coming New Jersey office to this backwater ‘burg. But on the day in question, my outlook brightened quite a bit when I ran across two young people whom I’d like to nominate for the bureau’s highest civilian award--the Hoover.

I first met Connie and Blyde when they were fixing a flat tire on their car. I pulled over to help out. At first what I observed didn’t look good. A car with Oklahoma plates, a paper bag containing $3,412 in small bills, four revolvers, three machine-guns, 1,000 rounds of ammo, and the blood-stained, bullet-ridden uniform of a state highway patrolman.

Blyde explained they’d recently left Oklahoma and haven’t had time to register the vehicle because they were so busy trying to find the rightful owners of the bag of money they’d found on the floor of the bank vault. No luck yet, he said. They bought the guns to fend off would-be robbers who are common in these parts. He really couldn’t recall how that bloody uniform got stuffed under the driver’s chair. Then it came to him, it was a costume for a stage play he was in. Anyway, he said, they weren’t going to rest until the money was returned. Proud to a fault, Blyde turned down any governmental help to complete his mission.

In these depressed days, the country needs a shining example of such honesty and respect for the law as demonstrated by these fairy-tale youngsters. Why I bet someday a talkie is made about their exploits: “Connie and Blyde.” It has a ring to it.

*

Report filed Oct. 5, 1938

New Orleans

It’s been no secret around the bureau that I have been even more despondent than ever at remaining at this post. It’s also no secret I’ve been frequenting Bourbon Street to placate my persistent foul mood.

But on this night, I accidentally knocked over a middle-aged woman who was the spitting image of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. Except for the red dress and purple feather boa, the resemblance was uncanny. The pug-nose. The meat-and-potatoes figure. The cigar.

“What’s your name, doll face?” I inquired.

“Lola. L-O-L-A, Lola.”

“What’s your last name?” I continued. “Because you could pass for the sister of my boss, J. Edgar . . . “

At this point, Lola delivered a cross-trans-axel elbow punch--a maneuver right out of the KGB manual--to my solar plexus. She then disappeared into the drunken crowd. Normally, I wouldn’t even file this report and would have another drink.

But I have a hypothesis that could catapult me back into the good graces of the bureau: The Bolsheviks have planted a female Hoover look-alike in New Orleans in an obscene effort to sully the name of America’s most heroic law enforcement agent. Their dastardly plan will fail, but only if this red spy’s face is plastered on every newspaper across the country with a full accounting of who this woman is and what she was doing on Bourbon Street.

*

Report filed July 8, 1947

Roswell, N.M.

It’s been no secret I’ve been despondent since being transferred away from what I originally thought was a backwater ‘burg but now realize was a Garden of Eden compared with the Godforsaken howling nothingness that is my latest assignment. It’s also no secret since there’s no booze in this lifeless place that I spend my evenings staring at the black sky to placate my foul moods.

But on this night, something very unusual happened. A large object--what I could describe only as a flying saucer--jetted across the sky. Just as it looked like it was going to disappear on the horizon, it zoomed back in my direction at a speed I later calculated at 5,000 mph, which is very fast. Then, it just hovered about 50 feet over my head and sucked a cow into the saucer’s hull through a curious green light beam.

I don’t know. Maybe it was nothing.