1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

Theodore had always been confident in his profiling, perhaps the one skill that had survived intact from his previous life.

Ronald reached for the black rotary phone and dialed the Third Precinct. Within minutes, he'd obtained the actual police response times for both robberies, scribbling the numbers on his notepad with a heavy pencil.

"Dupont Circle Post Office, five minutes, fifty-eight seconds," he announced, tapping his pen against the desk. "This morning's job took them thirteen minutes and twelve seconds."

These weren't the sanitized estimates from official reports. This was reality, the messy, unpredictable truth of D.C. street policing.

The Third Precinct desk sergeant had been apologetic over the crackling phone line. Heavy traffic on Connecticut Avenue had slowed the morning response. Road construction on 16th Street. A water main break had snarled the usual routes. The estimated response times in their manuals assumed clear roads and perfect conditions—luxuries that rarely existed in the nation's capital.

But those inconsistent response times became the cornerstone of Theodore's theory. If the robbers were testing police reaction speeds, they needed variables, not constants.

Theodore caught Ronald's eye across the cramped conference room. "If both response times had been identical, what exactly would they be testing?"

Ronald didn't hesitate. Years of working on Washington cases had taught him to follow promising leads, even when they came from sources he didn't fully understand. He gestured toward the evidence board. "Walk me through this morning's job again."

Theodore pulled out the crime scene photos, spreading them across the scarred wooden table. "This morning, they deliberately triggered the silent alarm. That's escalation; they're done playing it safe. They wanted the most realistic scenario possible."

He traced his finger along the timeline they'd constructed. "Two rehearsals completed. Variables tested. The next job won't be practice."

"How long do we have?" Ronald asked, though his expression suggested he already suspected the answer.

"Less than twenty-four hours."

Ronald's jaw tightened. He stood and moved to the large D.C. street map thumbtacked to the wall, its surface already marked with red pins indicating the previous robbery locations.

"Mike! Andrew!" His voice cut through the bullpen's steady hum of typewriter keys and muted telephone conversations. The two junior agents appeared in the doorway within seconds.

"Third Precinct needs our cooperation request, official channels," Ronald instructed, handing Mike a manila folder. "Map every potential target according to Theodore's parameters."

He looked back at his notes. "Convenient transportation access. Approximately 1.2 miles from the Third Precinct station house."

Ronald began ticking off possibilities on his fingers. "Banks, post offices, government storage facilities, precious metals dealers, jewelry stores, exhibition spaces, museums, anything holding significant portable value. I want comprehensive coverage."

Theodore cleared his throat. "The scope might be too broad."

Ronald turned from the map. "Explain."

"Post offices and government warehouses aren't the target." Theodore pulled forward the evidence photos from both robberies. "Look at what they ignored. Mail bags, package sorting areas, shipping containers, they walked past thousands of dollars in valuable merchandise and mail-order goods."

He slid another photograph across the table. "They went straight for stamps and cash. Small, portable, immediately convertible. Their final target will follow the same pattern."

Theodore continued building his case. "Government warehouses store strategic materials, metals, fuel, and equipment. Wrong profile entirely. These aren't industrial thieves."

"What about the cultural sites?"

"Most museums and exhibition halls don't open until ten or eleven. Their last rehearsal was timed for nine AM exactly. They're creatures of habit now."

Ronald studied the crime scene photos, following Theodore's logic. But when he looked up, his expression hadn't changed.

"We're the FBI," he said simply. "We have resources the local precincts can only dream of."

He gestured toward the map, then toward the door leading to the outer offices. "Saving manpower isn't our job. Stopping these bastards before they pull something that puts D.C. on the evening news, that's our job."

Theodore felt a flicker of confusion. Something in Ronald's tone suggested they were having two different conversations. He tried another approach.

"Banks and precious metals dealers complete their cash transfers right after opening," Theodore explained. "Counter drawers are fully stocked, but security protocols are still ramping up for the day. Optimal risk-to-reward ratio."

"Plus," he added, "precious metals and currency align perfectly with their established target preference."

Ronald nodded, but his instructions to Mike and Andrew remained unchanged. Primary targets: banks and precious metals dealers. Secondary targets: everything else Theodore had eliminated.

As the junior agents gathered their materials and headed for the door, Theodore felt compelled to ask one more question.

"Do D.C. criminals typically sanitize crime scenes to avoid fingerprint evidence?"

The question seemed to come from nowhere, stopping everyone mid-motion. Ronald, Mike, and Andrew all turned to look at him.

Theodore pressed forward. "Both robbery scenes were cleaned meticulously. No prints, no physical evidence, no trace material. That level of operational security suggests they're specifically concerned about FBI investigative capabilities."

Ronald considered this, drawing on years of Washington cases. "Fingerprint technology isn't widespread yet, but word gets around. Prison networks share information. Many career criminals have adapted their methods."

He rolled up the map and handed it to Mike. "Clock's ticking. Move."

The Federal Bureau of Prisons occupied a stern limestone building six blocks from Justice, close enough that Ronald knew the walking route by heart. He exchanged nods with familiar faces in the corridors, career government employees who'd been processing paperwork and maintaining files since the Eisenhower administration.

In the archives room, Ronald found a contact who owed him a favor. Twenty minutes later, they walked out with a comprehensive list of robbery convicts released within the past month.

Their next stop was the Veterans Affairs Administration, housed in a converted wartime office building that still smelled faintly of mimeograph ink and floor wax.

Another favor called in, another list cross-referenced. The VA clerk worked efficiently, pulling service records and discharge classifications with practiced ease.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, three pages of names had been reduced to one. Thirty-four possibilities remained.

Ronald immediately began working the phones, contacting precinct houses across the district. Each call was the same request: current location verification for the names on their list.

Theodore watched Ronald work, impressed by the casual efficiency of it. This was how investigations moved in Washington, through personal relationships, professional courtesies, and favors accumulated over years of government service.

"Been here long enough, you know someone in every office," Ronald explained during a brief pause between calls. "D.C.'s a company town, and the company is the federal government."

He gestured vaguely toward Georgetown. "Single agents live in Georgetown. Family men settle in Arlington. Doesn't matter if you're FBI, Agriculture Department, or Treasury, you end up drinking coffee with the same people every morning."

By mid-afternoon, Mike and Andrew returned with a map that looked like a tactical planning nightmare. Red circles marked primary targets, blue circles marked secondary locations, and yellow pins indicated police patrol routes and response stations.

After eliminating the obviously inappropriate locations, they faced thirty-seven potential targets. Thirteen primary, twenty-four secondary.

Five federal agents stared at thirteen red circles scattered across downtown D.C.

"Still too many," Ronald muttered.

Theodore found himself thinking of Felton, where a case like this might have pinpointed a single address by now. But Felton wasn't the seat of American government; it was a city where serious money moved through dozens of financial institutions daily.

Ronald rolled up the map decisively. "You're coming with me to see the boss."

The supervisor's office occupied a corner of the building with windows facing both Pennsylvania Avenue and the internal courtyard. Behind the desk sat a career bureaucrat who'd survived three presidential administrations by being cautious, thorough, and politically astute.

Theodore presented his analysis clearly: response times, geographical patterns, escalating operational sophistication. Ronald laid out their target assessment and requested immediate protective measures.

The supervisor listened without interruption, occasionally making notes on a yellow legal pad. When they finished, he studied the map for a long moment.

"What's the operational scale we're discussing?"

Ronald spread the map wider. "Thirteen primary targets requiring immediate protection. Twenty-four secondary sites for monitoring."

The supervisor's expression didn't change, but Theodore caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "I need a specific target, not a wish list."

He tapped his pen against the desk blotter. "We didn't deploy this many agents to hunt Bonnie and Clyde."

"Absolutely not."

"Come back when you have an address."

Ronald tried to salvage the meeting. "According to Theodore's timeline, they could move as early as tomorrow morning."

"Bank and jewelry store robberies are local police matters. Post offices fall under federal jurisdiction." The supervisor's tone suggested the conversation was ending. "Let the D.C. Police Department handle their own cases."

"They'll request our assistance after the fact," Ronald countered. "These things always become federal cases eventually."

The supervisor considered this. It was true, the local precincts had developed a pattern of deferring complex cases to federal resources. Political pressure, limited budgets, and the prestige factor all played roles.

"Then catch them before they act," he said finally. "Don't let it become a problem."

They were dismissed.

Back in the conference room, Bernie looked up expectantly as they returned. Ronald's expression told the story before he spoke.

"No resources."

The room deflated. Their obvious leads, the work clothing, the witness descriptions, had reached dead ends. Theodore's profile had narrowed the scope but hadn't produced actionable intelligence.

Theodore stared at the whiteboard where they'd copied the names of released robbers, thinking through the gaps in their investigation. After several minutes of contemplative silence, he spoke.

"There are three robbers."

The others looked at him skeptically.

"Professional robbery teams always maintain a lookout," Theodore continued. "Someone to handle perimeter security, communications, and transportation."

He moved to the evidence board, pointing to the timeline of both robberies. "Both jobs ended with immediate departure. Clean exits, no observation of police response."

Mike raised his hand. "They could have changed clothes and returned to watch."

Theodore shook his head. "It's December. Removing work clothing would make them conspicuous, and there's nowhere to safely store weapons and stolen material."

Andrew offered another possibility. "Pre-positioned vehicle?"

"Possible for practice runs," Theodore acknowledged. "But for the main event, too many variables. Cold weather starting problems, vehicle theft, getting lost under stress, parking violations drawing attention."

He paused, letting them follow his reasoning. "Standard three-man team: two operators, one driver. The driver is the team leader."

Bernie, Mike, and Andrew were looking at Theodore with barely concealed curiosity. Ronald had trained them, and they'd worked robbery cases together for years. Theodore's analysis sounded like a graduate-level summary of their combined experience.

"The Driver is on an earlier release list," Theodore concluded.

Ronald indicated the names on the whiteboard. "You think he's among these people?"

"No. I think we need to go back six months."

The interruption came in the form of the same agent who'd been fielding phone calls all day. He knocked once and stepped inside.

"Ronald, you have a call."

When Ronald returned, he brought news from the D.C. Police Department. Their investigation of the one-month list had been thorough and systematic. Height, weight, economic circumstances, alibis, each name had been checked and eliminated.

The entire list was clean.

Everyone looked at Theodore expectantly.

He studied his profile notes, then deliberately erased the section about alibis. The height and weight specifications remained.

"We need the six-month release list," he said finally. "And case files for similar unsolved robberies in Maryland and Virginia."

The implication was clear: this team had been active longer than they'd assumed, possibly operating across jurisdictional boundaries.

Ronald studied Theodore's face, weighing the decision. Expanding the investigation meant more resources, more favors called in, more time spent chasing an increasingly complex theory.

But the alternative was waiting for the robbery to occur, then trying to solve it after the fact.

"Mike, Andrew," he decided. "Back to Federal Prison Bureau and VA. Six-month release lists this time."

The junior agents exchanged glances. They knew Ronald well enough to recognize when he was taking a significant professional risk. If Theodore's theories proved wrong, Ronald would answer for the wasted resources.

"Bernie, contact the agent handling our phone calls. Get him working with the Maryland and Virginia state police. Unsolved robberies with similar operational patterns."

After the others left, Ronald closed the door and studied Theodore for a long moment.

"The weapons investigation needs to be expanded, too," Theodore added quietly. "Shotgun and Colt pistol purchases going back six months."

Ronald grabbed his jacket with resigned determination. Theodore followed.

As they left the Investigation Division, they encountered J. Edgar Hoover returning from one of his mysterious afternoon appointments. The Director's eyes moved from Ronald to Theodore, and his perpetual frown relaxed slightly.

Whatever he saw in their partnership seemed to satisfy him.

[End of Chapter]

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