1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

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The letter arrived on Director Adams' desk on a Tuesday morning, bearing the distinctive eagle seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The cream-colored envelope, dispatched from the FBI's Administrative Services Department in Washington, carried the formal weight of federal authority.

But beneath its bureaucratic language lay a message that was anything but polite: the Bureau had set its sights on Sergeant Theodore Dickson, and they intended to poach him.

Adams summoned Senior Police Supervisor Flores to his office within the hour. Flores had been instrumental in crafting the public image of Felton's celebrated "twin detectives," and his expertise would be crucial now.

After absorbing the initial shock, Flores mounted his defense with the passion of a man protecting his life's work.

"Sir, we've already outlined a comprehensive development plan for both officers," he explained, leaning forward in his chair.

"The revenue potential alone, merchandising, media appearances, consulting contracts, could transform this department's budget for the next decade. They're a matched set, Director. You can't separate them without destroying what we've built."

Adams tapped his fingers against the letter's federal seal. "What if we focused exclusively on Bernie Sullivan? Couldn't he carry the brand alone?"

"Absolutely not." Flores' response came without hesitation. "Theodore is the engine of that partnership. Bernie's the perfect complement, steady, reliable, media-friendly, but Theodore drives their success rate. Take him away, and the whole operation collapses."

The director studied the FBI letterhead with narrowed eyes. After a long moment, he nodded toward his secretary. "Set up a meeting. I want to speak with their personnel representative face-to-face."

Flores left the office with lead in his chest, knowing the battle for his twin detectives had only just begun.

Supervisor Clarence Dawson arrived the following Tuesday, his black Ford sedan pulling into the headquarters parking lot with the quiet authority that marked all FBI vehicles.

A thirty-year veteran of Bureau headhunting operations, Dawson had perfected the art of acquiring talent with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker and the instincts of a seasoned poker player.

He barely had time to introduce himself before Director Adams cut straight to the heart of the matter.

"The Felton Police Department is delighted when our officers receive opportunities for advancement," Adams declared with theatrical magnanimity. "We would never allow departmental interests to impede a detective's pursuit of his highest potential."

Dawson's eyes narrowed fractionally, a reaction honed by three decades of reading between bureaucratic lines. The generous terms he'd prepared, the carefully calibrated offers designed to overcome institutional resistance, died unspoken on his lips.

He'd orchestrated hundreds of these recruitment dances, and this felt wrong. Directors didn't capitulate this quickly, not without extracting their pound of flesh first.

Senior Police Supervisor Flores attempted to interject, but Adams steamrolled over him with practiced efficiency.

"Flores will escort you to meet Sergeant Dickson at our West District facility," the director continued, his smile never wavering. "I'm confident he'll help facilitate Theodore's decision-making process."

The ride to the West District passed in strained silence. Dawson, his recruitment instincts firing warning signals, finally broke the quiet with a diplomatic attempt at comfort.

"Sergeant Dickson will find exceptional opportunities within the Bureau," he offered. "Enhanced compensation, accelerated career trajectory, access to cases of national significance. Your director made the right choice in releasing him."

Flores kept his eyes on the road ahead, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He understood Adams' calculation with crystal clarity: Theodore was being sacrificed on the altar of political expediency.

The recent conflict with Councilor Santos over the East District incident had convinced Adams that Theodore was Santos's man, and this transfer was Adams' way of evening the score.

Dawson recognized the signs of a man watching his career's work crumble but offered no further commentary. In his experience, institutional politics always trumped personnel development, and arguing the point served no one.

At the West District Branch, the two men found Chief Weideke in his office, surrounded by case files and nursing his third cup of coffee since dawn. After Flores explained the situation, Weideke's reaction surprised them both, no righteous indignation, no protective pushback. Just a weary nod and a request for Lieutenant Wenner.

Wenner absorbed the news in his characteristically methodical fashion, consuming half a desk drawer's worth of chocolate balls while he processed the implications. When he finally summoned Theodore from the bullpen, his expression carried the weight of inevitable loss.

"The FBI wants you," Wenner said without preamble, gesturing for Theodore to take a seat across from his cluttered desk. "Supervisor Dawson from their Personnel Section is here to make it official. Headquarters has already signed off."

Theodore settled into the familiar chair, his face betraying nothing of his inner calculations. In his previous life, he'd witnessed countless such moments from the federal side of the equation, talented local officers recruited into the Bureau's ranks, their skills too valuable to waste on municipal cases.

Wenner continued his analysis with the thoroughness that had made him an effective lieutenant. "I won't pretend I want to lose you, but this represents advancement you'll never find at the local level. Broader cases, better resources, national scope."

He paused, studying Theodore's expression. "My advice? Consider your long-term development and accept their offer."

"I'll need time to think it through properly," Theodore replied, his tone revealing nothing of the irony that his "thinking" would involve a single phone call to his uncle in Washington.

"Fair enough. Go talk to their man, but don't let them pressure you into an immediate decision."

The West District had prepared a small conference room for the meeting, its institutional beige walls and fluorescent lighting creating the perfect backdrop for life-changing conversations.

Theodore pushed through the door to find Supervisor Dawson exactly as expected: slightly overweight, middle-aged, wearing the Bureau's unofficial uniform of white shirt, dark suit, and narrow tie. A beige trench coat hung over his chair like a badge of federal authority.

Dawson rose with practiced smoothness, extending his hand with the confidence of a man who'd rarely heard "no" as a final answer.

"Sergeant Dickson, thank you for making time. I'll get straight to the point: the Federal Bureau of Investigation believes your investigative abilities would serve the national interest." He gestured for Theodore to sit, then launched into his well-rehearsed presentation.

For the next twenty minutes, Dawson painted a comprehensive picture of FBI life: enhanced salary structures, comprehensive healthcare benefits, educational opportunities, retirement planning, and career advancement timelines.

He spoke with the fluency of a man who'd delivered these same talking points to hundreds of potential recruits, his words polished smooth by repetition.

"This represents a quantum leap in your professional development," he concluded, "but the decision remains entirely yours. Take three days to consider all implications—discuss it with your family, weigh your options carefully. This will shape the rest of your career."

Theodore nodded with appropriate gravity. "Three days seems reasonable. I'll give you my answer by Friday."

When Theodore returned to the main office, the detectives swarmed him with the curiosity of bloodhounds catching a fresh scent. He answered their questions directly, no point in secrecy when the news would circulate anyway, and found himself on the receiving end of congratulations, backslapping, and invitations to celebratory drinks.

The irony wasn't lost on him: these same men who regularly mocked federal agents as bureaucratic glory-hounds were genuinely excited about his opportunity to join their ranks.

But that was the reality of law enforcement hierarchy; everyone understood that the FBI meant bigger cases, better resources, and a ticket out of municipal limitations.

The news spread through the building with the speed of gossip and the weight of a confirmed fact. By evening, it had reached Councilor Santos, who arrived at the station looking travel-worn and concerned.

"Walk with me," Santos said, leading Theodore toward his car with the urgency of a man accustomed to controlling events through personal intervention.

In the privacy of the sedan's interior, Santos cut straight to his concern. "Do you want this transfer, or is it being forced on you? Because if Adams is pushing you out for political reasons, I'll handle it personally."

Theodore appreciated the loyalty but declined the offer with genuine gratitude. Santos embraced him before departing, his parting words carrying the weight of a promise: "If Washington doesn't work out, Felton will always be your home."

The parking lot conversation with Bernie unfolded exactly as Theodore had anticipated. His partner had heard enough of Theodore's FBI aspirations over the past months to accept this development with good humor rather than surprise.

"So when do you ship out to D.C.?" Bernie asked, already mentally planning the farewell party arrangements.

Theodore studied his partner's expression carefully. "That depends. Are you coming with me?"

Bernie chuckled and clapped Theodore's shoulder. "What, is the FBI some kind of family business now? They invited you, not me."

This was the moment Theodore had been building toward, the revelation that would either cement their partnership or mark its end. He took a breath and spoke the words that would change everything.

"My uncle is John Edgar Hoover. My real surname is Hoover, and Dickson is my father's name. Theodore Dickson Hoover."

Bernie's laughter died in his throat as memory kicked in. Theodore had made this same claim in Weideke's office weeks earlier, but everyone had assumed it was dark humor.

Now, seeing Theodore's serious expression, Bernie realized his partner had been telling the literal truth.

"Alright," Bernie said slowly, his tone shifting from amusement to cautious interest. "If they invite me, I'll definitely consider it."

Theodore studied Bernie's face, reading the subtle signs of genuine willingness beneath the casual phrasing. "You're certain? If the FBI extends an invitation, you'd accept it?"

"Of course I'm sure," Bernie replied, though his voice carried a note of disbelief at the surreal turn the conversation had taken.

"Good. Discuss it with Hilda tonight, we should probably keep your family in Felton initially, then relocate once we're established." Theodore paused, accessing memories from his previous life's knowledge of Washington geography.

"Housing in the Northwest quadrant is expensive, and the Southeast is still rough. We'll need to plan the logistics carefully."

Without further explanation, Theodore walked to the nearest payphone and dialed a number he knew by heart. The familiar voice of Helen Gandy, Hoover's formidable secretary, answered on the second ring.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation, Director's office."

"Miss Gandy, this is Theodore. Is he available?"

"Please hold."

Within moments, Hoover's voice crackled through the connection, characteristically direct. "Did you meet with Clarence Dawson?"

"Yes, sir. I plan to accept the Bureau's offer and return to Washington."

"About time. I was beginning to think you preferred that provincial police station to real law enforcement." Hoover's tone carried familiar impatience. "What else?"

"I'd like to bring my partner, Bernie Sullivan, if possible."

A pause, then: "Just one? You've been there a year, Theodore."

This was the opening Theodore had been waiting for. "I want to establish a department focused on criminal psychology research and application. A specialized unit that can support field operations with behavioral analysis."

The silence stretched long enough that Theodore wondered if the connection had failed. Then Hoover's voice returned, measured and thoughtful.

"Come back first. Prepare a comprehensive proposal, methodology, staffing requirements, and budget projections. We'll discuss it properly then." Another pause. "I'm going for a walk with Clyde now."

The line went dead, leaving Theodore with the dial tone and Bernie staring at him through the phone booth glass.

"You'll need to talk with Hilda tonight," Theodore repeated as he rejoined his partner.

Bernie's expression had shifted from amusement to something approaching shock. "You're serious about this. About all of it."

Theodore nodded.

The drive home passed in contemplative silence, Bernie grappling with the reality that his partner's seemingly impossible claims were apparently true. Even after arriving home, the revelation continued to reverberate through his thoughts.

Later that evening, after he and Hilda had shared their usual intimate time together, Bernie lay in bed listening to the shower run and wrestling with Theodore's invitation.

When Hilda emerged from the bathroom, toweling her hair, he made his decision.

"How would you feel about moving to Washington, D.C.?"

Hilda paused, studying her husband's expression for clues about this unexpected question. "We've never even visited D.C. Why?"

Bernie sat up and explained the day's events, watching his wife's face cycle through surprise, disbelief, and gradual acceptance. When he finished, Hilda was quiet for a long moment.

"We've built a good life here," she said finally. "But if this is really the opportunity you're describing..."

"It would mean starting over. New city, new job, leaving everything familiar."

Hilda moved to sit beside him on the bed's edge. "You're forty-one, Bernie. If you were thirty-one, single, with nothing holding you back, you'd already be packing. But we have responsibilities now."

"I know. That's what makes it complicated."

She reached over and took his hand. "What if you went first? Got settled, learned the ropes, then we'd follow once everything was stable?"

Bernie's face lit up with the possibility. "Theodore suggested the same approach. Start alone, then bring the family once we're established."

"Then that's our answer."

The next morning, Theodore found Supervisor Dawson in the hotel restaurant, working through a stack of personnel files over coffee and scrambled eggs.

"I accept the Bureau's invitation," Theodore said without preamble.

Dawson's face brightened with professional satisfaction. "Outstanding. Let me walk you through the process."

The requirements were standard: formal resignation letter citing acceptance of federal employment, completion of federal personnel forms, submission of law enforcement records, and recommendation letters.

Chief Weideke would provide the necessary endorsement, and then came the waiting period for background investigation and security clearance.

"Once everything's approved, you'll receive notification from the Director's office," Dawson explained, consulting his checklist. "Report to Washington for new agent training, and upon graduation, you're officially Bureau personnel."

As Dawson prepared to conclude their meeting, Theodore stopped him. "I need to make one phone call first. Could you wait a few minutes?"

Five minutes later, Dawson found himself on the phone with someone from the Director's office, a conversation that lasted another five minutes and ended with explicit instructions that left the veteran recruiter shaking his head in amazement.

An hour after that, he was sitting across from Director Adams again, this time requesting Bernie Sullivan as well.

Adams' refusal was immediate and emphatic. His strategy had been surgical: remove Theodore as political payback to Santos, keep Bernie to maintain the twin detectives' brand with a more manageable replacement.

The operational capability could be maintained through careful case selection and media manipulation.

But Dawson had his instructions, and after three decades in personnel acquisition, he knew how to follow them.

He laid out an enhanced offer: additional training slots for Felton officers, promotion recommendations for Adams' people, technical resource sharing, and a public relations commitment to frame the transfers as advancement rather than poaching.

Adams remained unmoved.

Dawson stood, gathering his materials with theatrical deliberation. "The Bureau has concerns about Sergeant Dickson's effectiveness without his established partner. It's both officers or neither."

Adams' capitulation was immediate.

As they shook hands on the agreement, Dawson glanced toward Senior Police Supervisor Flores, whose expression suggested a man watching his carefully constructed plans crumble into dust.

But that was the nature of institutional politics; individual careers were always subordinate to larger games, and sometimes even the best-laid plans fell victim to forces beyond anyone's control.

Within a week, both Theodore and Bernie would be submitting their resignations and preparing for a new chapter in Washington.

The twin detectives of Felton were about to become federal agents, leaving behind the small-town cases that had made their reputations for the national stage that awaited them in the halls of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

[End of Chapter]