1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

The Investigation Division sprawled across the northeast corner of the fifth floor like a miniature city unto itself, its 'L' shape consuming nearly half the available space and establishing it as the Bureau's largest operational unit.

The layout bore superficial resemblance to Felton's West District Homicide bullpen, but the scale transformed everything.

Supervisors' offices lined the north and east walls in precise formation, while smaller conference rooms hugged the east and south perimeters for team case discussions.

The central area housed the main operational floor. A vast expanse of government-issue desks arranged in military rows, each occupied by agents engaged in the endless dance of federal law enforcement.

Hundreds of voices created a constant hum of activity: telephone conversations with field offices, case consultations between partners, the rhythmic clatter of typewriter keys, and the occasional frustrated outburst when evidence refused to cooperate with theories.

The atmosphere buzzed with the intensity of a commodities exchange, though here the trading involved crimes rather than stocks.

Theodore absorbed the controlled chaos with professional interest. The Felton Homicide unit had operated with a dozen detectives; this single division employed hundreds. The difference wasn't merely quantitative; it represented a fundamental shift in the scale and complexity of law enforcement operations.

Exiting the Investigation Division, they faced Hoover's office directly across the corridor, a positioning that ensured nothing escaped the Director's awareness. His domain occupied the prestigious southeast corner, flanked by Human Resources and connected to the elevator lobby through a corridor wide enough for two people to walk abreast.

Every other hallway forced single-file navigation, requiring agents to flatten themselves against walls when encountering oncoming traffic. The cramped conditions spoke to the Bureau's rapid growth under Hoover's leadership, an expansion that had outpaced physical infrastructure.

"The laboratory's just ahead," Ronnie explained as they squeezed through the narrow passages. "North of that is Archives. Everything's compressed here because we're bursting at the seams."

Their destination required security clearance, a procedure that involved signing logbooks and submitting to cursory badge inspections. The laboratory technician, a thin man with thick glasses and chemical stains on his white coat, handed over their evidence with bureaucratic efficiency.

Two gray work uniforms, neatly bagged and tagged, accompanied by typed analysis reports that confirmed their recent purchase and lack of useful trace evidence beyond the standard Sears manufacturing labels.

Back in the Investigation Division, Ronnie led them past the bustling main floor into one of the smaller conference rooms. The space embodied government functionality: a central table surrounded by mismatched chairs, a projection screen mounted on one wall, two whiteboards on wheels, and a slide projector gathering dust in the corner.

Ronnie claimed a chair and tossed the evidence bags onto the table's scarred surface. "We'll wait for the rest of the team," he announced, his perpetual weariness evident in every gesture.

Within minutes, two younger agents joined them, clean-shaven men in their thirties wearing the Bureau's unofficial uniform of dark suits and narrow ties.

"Theodore Dickson Hoover and Bernie Sullivan," Ronnie announced without ceremony. "Rotating agents from Texas. Meet Andrew Horn and Mike Stiegan, members of my investigation team."

Theodore noted the introduction's precision. Ronnie commanded his own team, exactly the operational independence Theodore had requested from his uncle. The parallel wasn't lost on him.

With introductions complete, Ronnie launched into the case briefing with the methodical approach that marked experienced federal agents.

"Yesterday morning, approximately ten hundred hours, the Dupont Circle Post Office was robbed," he began, consulting his notes with practiced efficiency. "Two perpetrators, both wearing dark sunglasses and nylon stockings over their heads, dressed in gray work uniforms matching these samples."

He gestured toward the evidence bags. "Weapons identified as a .38 Colt Detective Special revolver and a Winchester M1912 pump-action shotgun. Division of labor was precise—shotgun controlled the scene while the Colt collected currency and stamps totaling approximately eight hundred dollars."

"Metropolitan Police responded within minutes but found only these discarded uniforms in a street corner trash receptacle. The perpetrators demonstrated professional efficiency and left minimal forensic evidence."

Theodore absorbed the details while Bernie listened with the focused attention that had made their partnership effective. The case presented standard federal robbery elements, but something nagged at Theodore's subconscious, an inconsistency he couldn't yet identify.

Ronnie distributed assignments with military precision. "Mike and Andrew take the Sears angle. Laboratory analysis indicates both uniforms are factory seconds, defective merchandise. Only the Southeast District branch handles such items."

The two younger agents examined the uniforms, noting obvious stitching errors and fabric discoloration that marked them as discounted goods.

"Theodore and Bernie, you're with me," Ronnie continued. "We'll trace the firearms. Weapons and clothing represent our only viable leads."

The logic was impeccable, standard investigative procedure that any experienced detective would recognize. Theodore appreciated Ronnie's assumption of their competence rather than treating them as novices requiring basic instruction.

As the meeting concluded and agents dispersed to their assignments, Ronnie provided context for their federal jurisdiction.

"Post offices fall under federal authority," he explained as they navigated the corridor maze. "Robbing one automatically triggers Bureau involvement."

He paused outside the elevator, studying his new charges. "What's your initial assessment?"

Bernie deferred to Theodore with a glance. His preliminary thoughts aligned with Ronnie's methodical approach, though he shared Theodore's sense that something felt off about the case. After months of homicide investigations, robbery cases required mental adjustment—different motivations, different crime scene patterns, different investigative rhythms.

Theodore opted for questions rather than conclusions. "Can we examine the actual crime scene?"

Ronnie's approval was immediate. "Good instinct. I don't treat experienced detectives like academy graduates."

Their government sedan wound through Washington's geometric street grid toward Dupont Circle, passing the familiar landmarks that defined the capital's midday rhythm.

Government workers emerged from office buildings for lunch breaks while tourists clustered around monuments, creating the unique blend of bureaucracy and history that characterized the city.

Instead of proceeding directly to the post office, Ronnie guided them toward a narrow side street lined with small businesses struggling against urban decay. Their destination proved to be a second-hand store that looked perpetually on the verge of closure.

The front door stood unlocked despite a 'Closed' sign hanging askew in the window. Ronnie pushed inside and flipped the sign to 'Open' with the casual familiarity of regular patronage.

No proprietor manned the counter.

The three men squeezed between towering shelves loaded with miscellaneous merchandise, everything from outdated electronics to military surplus clothing. The narrow aisles forced single-file navigation around precarious displays that threatened to collapse at any moment.

As they approached a curtained doorway behind the counter, a short-barreled shotgun emerged through the fabric, its muzzle steady on Ronnie's forehead.

A disheveled elderly man followed the weapon, his wild gray hair and suspicious eyes suggesting a lifetime of avoiding official attention. He and Ronnie engaged in a silent stalemate, each measuring the other's resolve, before the old man lowered his weapon with obvious reluctance.

"Nothing good ever comes from your visits," he muttered, shuffling toward the counter while securing the shotgun beneath its surface. "What do you want this time?"

Ronnie adopted a casual posture against the counter, his tone conversational despite the recent threat. "Winchester M1912 pump-action shotgun. Anybody moving one through here recently?"

The proprietor produced a battered ledger from beneath the register, its pages yellowed with age and stained with substances Theodore preferred not to identify. After several minutes of page-flipping and mumbled calculations, the old man shook his head.

"Nothing like that. Haven't seen a Winchester in months."

Ronnie accepted the negative response with professional disappointment. "Keep your ears open. Call if anything surfaces."

Outside the cramped store, Ronnie provided context for their unusual visit.

"Largest illegal firearms market in the Northwest District," he explained, seemingly oblivious to Theodore's skeptical expression. "Half the guns used in D.C. crimes pass through that place eventually."

Theodore studied the decrepit storefront, its peeling paint and broken neon sign suggesting anything but criminal sophistication. Washington's geography, he knew, was divided into four quadrants radiating from the Capitol Building: Northwest, Northeast, Southeast, and Southwest Districts, each with distinct characteristics and crime patterns.

The Dupont Circle Post Office fell within the Northwest District's boundaries, making this particular firearms dealer a logical starting point for their investigation.

But the disconnect between the operation's apparent amateurishness and Ronnie's professional confidence left Theodore wondering exactly how much he still didn't understand about federal law enforcement in 1965.

[End of Chapter]

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