1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

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Helen Gandy's phone call extended Supervisor Dawson's stay in Felton by another week, keeping the veteran recruiter anchored to his hotel room while Theodore and Bernie navigated the labyrinthine paperwork required for federal employment.

Dawson supervised every form, every signature, every bureaucratic hurdle with patience.

Before departing for Washington, Dawson delivered his final briefing with the confidence of three decades' experience in federal recruitment.

"Based on standard procedures, the Counterintelligence Division's background investigation will require at least thirty days," he explained, consulting his worn leather portfolio.

"Factor in the Christmas holidays, and you're looking at a January departure at the earliest. Perfect timing for the spring training cycle."

Theodore absorbed this timeline with barely concealed skepticism. His unique position suggested that normal procedures might not apply, and he shared this intuition with Bernie.

"Keep your bags packed," he advised his partner. "I suspect Dawson's estimates might prove overly conservative."

Bernie, having witnessed Theodore's uncanny ability to predict bureaucratic outcomes, chose to trust his partner's instincts over federal personnel experience.

His faith proved justified.

On the eighth day following Dawson's departure, two cream-colored envelopes arrived at the West District Branch, each bearing the distinctive eagle seal of the FBI Director's office.

The speed of their arrival suggested these orders had been drafted and mailed the moment Dawson's plane touched down at Washington National.

Theodore examined the timeline with grudging admiration for his uncle's efficiency. Even accounting for postal delays, these letters had been processed with extraordinary urgency, a testament to the Director's personal weight in their recruitment.

That evening, the West District Branch transformed into an impromptu celebration venue. Detectives from Homicide, patrol officers, both black and white, Supervisor George, Ricky, Gary, and a dozen others gathered to bid farewell to their departing colleagues.

The party stretched deep into the night, fueled by bourbon, beer, and the bittersweet recognition that they were witnessing the end of an era.

The following morning brought the practical realities of departure. Bernie returned home to orchestrate family goodbyes and pack the essentials for his Washington adventure, while Theodore faced the task of dismantling his carefully constructed civilian life.

His apartment, a modest two-bedroom that had served as his base of operations for the past year, required swift liquidation.

The furniture went to his neighbor at well below market value, a transaction that left both parties satisfied, though the neighbor expressed genuine regret about losing such a reliable tenant.

"You sure you can't stay?" the man asked as he examined Theodore's nearly-new television set. "Felton won't be the same without the twin detectives."

Theodore smiled but offered no reprieve. His future lay elsewhere, in the marble corridors of federal power.

On the third day, Theodore and Bernie boarded a TWA flight at Dallas Love Field, beginning their journey toward careers that would reshape both their lives and the future of American law enforcement.

Six hours of airtime delivered them to Washington National Airport as evening shadows lengthened across the Potomac. The capital city spread before them in all its mid-1960s glory, a mixture of classical grandeur and modern ambition that embodied the nation's confidence in its expanding global role.

Their taxi wound through the downtown streets toward the Department of Justice Building, passing the familiar landmarks Theodore remembered from his previous life.

The Washington Monument pierced the winter sky like an exclamation point, while the Capitol dome gleamed under floodlights in the distance.

The famous J. Edgar Hoover Building existed only as a dream in some federal planner's imagination. Construction wouldn't begin for another five years, and the completed structure wouldn't house the Bureau until 1975, three years after Hoover himself had passed into history.

For now, FBI headquarters occupied the fifth floor of the Justice Department Building, a cramped arrangement that reflected the Bureau's rapid growth under Hoover's leadership.

Theodore bypassed the Human Resources Department entirely, heading straight for the source of all federal power.

His uncle's office, when they finally located it, presented a study in controlled chaos: five desks arranged around the room's perimeter, each buried under towers of case files, correspondence, and intelligence reports.

The arrangement gave the space the feel of a bustling departmental bullpen rather than the command center of America's premier law enforcement agency.

Hoover sat alone behind the largest desk, his famous discipline evident in the precise organization of his immediate workspace. Associate Director Tolson's absence left the room feeling oddly incomplete, like a stage set missing its second lead actor.

Theodore approached the desk and waited, understanding the protocol even if Bernie remained uncertain. When Hoover's steel-gray eyes finally lifted from his paperwork, Theodore withdrew a carefully prepared report from his briefcase and placed it within reach.

"I've outlined the methodology we discussed," Theodore said simply, allowing his uncle to set the conversational pace.

But Hoover ignored the document entirely, instead studying Theodore's face with an intensity that had made presidents uncomfortable.

After a long moment, the harsh lines around his eyes softened fractionally, the closest thing to warmth the Director ever displayed in office hours.

He seemed ready to speak, then reconsidered, shifting to practical matters instead.

"You and Sullivan will attend January's training cycle," he announced, his tone brooking no negotiation. "This month, you'll rotate through the Investigation and Legal Counsel divisions."

Theodore recognized the standard integration process. New agents who missed regular training cycles were placed in temporary rotations, where they performed support functions while learning federal procedures.

Some assisted senior agents with case preparation and evidence cataloging; others served as meeting recorders, absorbing departmental decision-making processes through careful observation.

When the next training cycle began, these rotating agents joined their classmates for formal instruction. Upon graduation, they faced placement assessments that determined their ultimate departmental assignments, followed by mentorship periods under senior agent supervision.

The entire process typically consumed six months before agents could handle independent cases.

Theodore hadn't spent a year building his reputation in Felton just to disappear into federal anonymity for another half year. He reached into his briefcase again, this time withdrawing his Felton Police sergeant's badge, the tangible proof of their July agreement.

Hoover's expression darkened as he recognized the symbol.

"I want to establish an independent unit," Theodore said carefully, "focused on refining and promoting the investigative methodology outlined in my report. I've tested these techniques across multiple case types with consistent success."

He paused, thinking unexpectedly of the National Inquirer's sensationalized coverage of their cases. The irony wasn't lost on him; tabloid journalism had inadvertently documented the effectiveness of behavioral analysis techniques that wouldn't be formally recognized for another decade.

"The approach involves constructing psychological profiles of unknown subjects based on crime scene analysis," Theodore continued, launching into a careful explanation of principles that wouldn't become mainstream until the 1970s.

Hoover listened intently, his legendary attention to detail focused entirely on Theodore's presentation. Miss Gandhi attempted to interrupt twice, but received brisk dismissals that sent her retreating to her outer office.

When Theodore concluded his pitch, Hoover drummed his fingers against the desk blotter, a nervous habit that few people were privileged to witness.

"You and that Irishman will complete rotation first," he declared, his voice rising slightly for emphasis. "Regardless of whether your departmental proposal receives approval, rotation is mandatory!"

Theodore blinked, processing the unexpected ethnic designation. After a moment's confusion, he ventured, "I believe Bernie's ancestry is German, actually."

Hoover grunted noncommittally, already reaching for his overcoat. His afternoon appointment with Clyde Tolson was waiting, and Theodore's unexpected visit had thrown his schedule into disarray.

As they exited the office together, Miss Gandy intercepted Theodore with practiced efficiency.

"These are for you," she said, producing an envelope from her desk drawer. "Apartment keys, the Director asked me to arrange suitable housing. The car keys are also inside. Mr. Tolson selected something appropriate. It's parked in the building's garage."

Theodore accepted the envelope with appropriate gratitude, recognizing the significant gesture. Housing and transportation represented substantial investments in his future success, signals that his uncle took their arrangement seriously despite his gruff demeanor.

Miss Gandhi then escorted both men to the Investigation Division, where she presented them to the duty supervisor with the formal courtesy that marked all Bureau interactions.

The supervisor, a harried-looking man in his fifties, accepted the transfer with minimal ceremony. "Agent Scott will handle their orientation," he announced, gesturing toward a desk near the far window.

Ronald Scott looked up from his paperwork with the expression of a man perpetually fighting sleep deprivation. Slight of build and unremarkable in appearance, he possessed the indefinable quality of federal competence that marked career Bureau men.

A pencil dangled from his lips as he absorbed his new responsibilities.

"Ronald Scott," he said without enthusiasm. "Everyone calls me Ronnie."

The introductions proceeded with minimal fanfare, though Theodore noticed the covert attention their arrival attracted. His identity clearly wasn't classified information within the Bureau's inner circles.

Ronnie's demeanor suggested a man ground down by years of federal routine, but his professionalism remained intact.

"You'll be handling report preparation primarily," he explained, offering Theodore the document he'd been studying. "Similar to the closing reports you filed locally, but with federal formatting requirements."

He stood with the slow deliberation of someone conserving energy for a long day ahead.

"Let's go collect some evidence. Time to see how the Bureau really works."

As they followed Ronnie toward the elevator, Theodore reflected on the surreal nature of his situation. Less than seventy-two hours earlier, he'd been a small-town detective closing out cases in Felton. Now he stood in the nerve center of American law enforcement, preparing to help shape the future of criminal investigation.

The transition felt both inevitable and impossible, exactly the kind of paradox that seemed to define his second chance at life.

[End of Chapter]