The Deep Surgeon

The barber in a downtown Washington shop gabbled away as he snipped at the greying temples of his distinguished-looking customer. When the talk inevitably got around to income taxes, the barber had a proud boast: "I don't report half of my tips. They can't check up on me." A few moments later he happily pocketed a generous tip, then stiffened when his customer said: "My name is Coleman Andrews. I'm the Tax Commissioner."

Although Washington barbers ' pride themselves on knowing everybody who is anybody, it was not surprising that the barber did not know T. (for Thomas) Coleman Andrews, who this week, at least, ranks as one of the biggest somebodies in the U.S. Since he became the top U.S. tax collector in January 1953, Andrews has buried himself so deeply in his work that he has acquired a label: "The most anonymous man in town."

Work, Work, Work. The son of a day laborer in a Virginia tobacco factory, Andrews went to work sweeping out a grocery for 25-c- a day when he was five years old, has been working for 50 years since then. On an average day he rises at 6 a.m., works two hours before breakfast, works at the office until 6:30 p.m., works at home until 10:30. Says he: "I have never been able to understand people who work a 40-hour week. I grew up another way."

There was a lot of work to be done when Andrews took over the graft-and politics-ridden revenue service last year. He set a challenging goal: to restore public confidence in the revenue service and to re-create the impression that no one can cheat the federal income-tax collector.

Andrews began by reorganizing the service itself. He cut the staff in Washington, increased it in the field, made plans that will eventually double the present field force of 8,000. To unwind the red tape, he consolidated 17 area offices under nine regional commissioners, entrusted them with much authority formerly centered in Washington.

Psychological Weapons. When he turned to techniques, Andrews revived the long-neglected canvass. In selected cities, revenue agents went from house to house asking for evidence that a tax return was filed for the previous year (TIME, Aug. 31). Like most income-tax enforcement techniques, this was a psychological weapon. Andrews was not nearly so interested in the citizens actually questioned by the canvassers as he was in the thousands of others who would hear about the canvass and be stricken with honesty. When the Los Angeles newspapers said that a canvass had begun, 1,200 people showed up at the Internal Revenue office before it opened next morning; some asked for forms as far back as 1935.

As he pondered enforcement methods, old Auditor Andrews had an auditor-like thought: always seek an independent source to check a man's figures. When he applied this principle to undertakers, he suggested that his men in one district try checking morticians' returns against burial reports at the local bureau of vital statistics. The first mortician investigated had failed to report $140,000 of income over several years.

One of the most common varieties of income-tax fraud, Andrews found, is listing nonexistent dependents. In an effort to stop this, he is asking for more specific information on dependents, hopes to prosecute a well selected list of dependent-creators. To catch all kinds of evasion, he hopes to triple the comparatively small percentage of returns that are audited.

A Jeffersonian Democrat of Senator Harry Byrd's school, Andrews, who abhors bureaucracy and high taxes, is an unlikely man to be running a big bureau to collect high taxes. But he believes that he can serve his principles by running an efficient bureau. Until he had reached middle age, even after he became an eminent C.P.A. in Richmond, Va., Andrews wanted to be a surgeon. Now that he is taking the fat (and quite a chunk of the lean) out of 60 million taxpayers' incomes, he feels that he has attained his goal in a different way. Says he: "This is deep surgery."

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