“Mr. Hughes would like you to bring a box of shirts, a box of trousers and a box of shoes,” began one typical “Operating Memorandum” titled “Taking Clothing to HRH.”
“He wants you to obtain a brand new knife, never used, to open a new box of kleenex using the knife to open the slot.
“After the box is open you are to take the little tag and the first piece of kleenex and destroy them; then using two fingers of the left hand and two fingers of the right hand take each piece of kleenex out of the box and place it on an unopened newspaper and repeat this until approximately 50 sheets are neatly stacked. You then have a paddle for one hand. You are then to make another for the other hand, making a total of two paddles of kleenex to use in handling these three boxes.
“Mr. Hughes wanted you to remember to keep your head at a 45 degree angle from the various things you would touch, such as the kleenex box itself, the knife, the kleenex paddles.
“The thing to be careful of during the operation is not to breath upon the various items.”
And that was nothing to the precautions Hughes ordered in removing his hearing-aid cord from the bathroom cabinet:
“A. First use 6 or 8 thicknesses of Kleenex, pulled one at a time from the slot, in touching the doorknob to open the door to the bathroom.
“B. The same sheaf of Kleenex may be employed to turn on the spigots so as to obtain a good force of warm water. This Kleenex is then to be disposed of.
“C. A sheaf of 6 to 8 Kleenex is then to be used to open the cabinet containing the soap, and a fresh bar of soap that has never been opened is to be used. All Kleenex used up to this point is to be disposed of.
“D. The hands are to be washed with extreme care, far more thoroughly than they have ever been washed before, taking great pains that the hands do not touch the sides of the bowl, the spigots, or anything in the process. Great care should also be exercised when setting the soap down.
“E. A sheaf of 15 to 20 fresh Kleenex is then to be used to turn off the spigots and the Kleenex is then to be thrown away.”
The really delicate part of the mission was yet to begin, removal of the hearing-aid cord, Step 2:
“A. The door to the cabinet is to be opened using a minimum of 15 Kleenexes. (Great care is to be exercised in opening and closing the doors. They are not to be slammed or swung hastily so as to raise any dust, and yet exceeding care is to be exercised against letting insects in.)
“B. Nothing inside the cabinet is to be touched—the inside of the doors, the top of the cabinet, the sides—no other objects inside the cabinet are to be touched in any way with the exception of the envelope to be removed.”
The hearing-aid cord was carefully sealed inside an envelope, but not even the envelope could be touched:
“C. The envelope is to be removed using a minimum of 15 Kleenexes. If it is necessary to use both hands, then 15 Kleenexes are to be used for each hand. (It is to be understood that these 15 Kleenexes are to be sterile on both sides of each tissue with the exception of the very outermost edge of the tissue. The center of the tissue only should come into contact with the object being picked up.) If something is on top of the package to be removed, a sterile instrument is to be used to lift it off.”
Hughes himself, of course, could never be touched. Not by naked or even gloved and scrubbed hands. On those rare occasions when contact was necessary, as with a wake-up ritual he devised, full insulation was required:
“Call Roy and have him come up to the house and awaken HRH at 10:15 AM sharp if HRH is not awake by that time. With 8 thicknesses of Kleenex he is to pinch HRH’s toes until he awakens, increasing the pressure each time.”
His Mormons, themselves reduced to sterile instruments, obediently followed every mad detail of their master’s hygienic rituals, never questioning their missions even as they waded through the filth and debris of his bedroom, picking their way through the piles of newspapers and dirty Kleenex, treading carefully so as not to stir up the dust.
In terror of germs, Hughes lived in filth. Nothing that came from his own pure being, nothing in his own nimbus was “contamination.” Indeed, he was fully as desperate to keep everything inside his bedroom from escaping as he was to keep everything outside from getting in.
He could not bear to part with anything that was his. Not his dust, not his junk, not his hair, not his fingernails, not his sweat, not his urine, not his feces. His hair and beard went uncut for years while highly paid barbers stood on standby; he stopped trimming his nails when he somehow “lost” his favorite clippers in the debris of his lair; soon he began to store his urine in capped jars kept first in his Bel Air garage and later in his Las Vegas bedroom; and he was so chronically constipated, so unable to let go of his bodily wastes, that he once spent twenty-six consecutive hours sitting on the toilet without results.
Nor could he let go of his wife. He kept Jean a safe distance away in bungalow 19, out of the combat zone, and barely saw her at all for three years. Still, he kept her under tight control, and safe from all contamination.
He tried to keep her from going anywhere, to trap her in her rooms, always finding reasons to delay her planned excursions. When he had to let her loose, his men always escorted her, following detailed written instructions in which Jean was often code-named “Major Bertrandez.”
One such memo—“Handling Major Bertrandez for Theatre”—ordered: “If necessary to open the doors entering the threatre or closing the doors, do so with the feet, not the hands. If it is necessary or common procedure to enter the theatre with her to lower the seat for her, do so with kleenex.”
Any sign that Jean was sick, that she had become contaminated, had to be reported immediately to Hughes, and she had to be prevented from seeing any doctors but his own, and never before he had been consulted:
“If the situation is critical enough, then it is permissible to let a doctor call her on the telephone. Under no circumstances should she be allowed to go see a doctor either at an office, a hospital or any place else, until HRH has talked to her first.
“The doctor will be cautioned to give her only such information that might be required for immediate relief of pain, or immediate medication, if required. This is to be done only if the immediate effect on the disease would be impaired by a delay. It is assumed that there will be some conversation over the telephone if all other efforts to delay EVERYTHING until HRH is available fail, but the doctor must be instructed, not told but instructed, to tell her nothing more than what medicine she should take to prevent further expansion of the ailment. The doctor should avoid giving her a diagnosis of any kind, or indicate the treatment required on an extended basis. Only the very immediate treatment should be offered.”
Hughes himself would make the ultimate diagnosis and decide the course of treatment.
“HRH could use the fact that there is to be further treatment, or the fact that she doesn’t know what the specific ailment is, as a basis of telling her something which might break her of the smoking habit, get her to eat more regularly, or any number of things that would be for her own good. This could not be accomplished if the doctor were to inform her completely.
“After the first contact between the doctor and Mrs. Hughes, you’ll have to watch to see that she doesn’t get the doctor back. If the doctor is at home, his wife should be asked to answer the telephone and say that the doctor is out.
“The doctor should report back the complete conversation between himself and Mrs. Hughes.”
Even Jean’s friends and associates had to be watched. Any that fell ill had to be placed in “isolation.” When her former wardrobe mistress, Cissy Francombe, caught hepatitis, Hughes demanded a complete quarantine.