1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

The Buick's engine hummed steadily as they navigated the late afternoon traffic, but without Bernie's usual commentary filling the space, an uncomfortable silence had settled between Ronald and Theodore.

Ronald found himself missing his partner's easy chatter, anything to break the silence.

"Since you'll be handling informants solo eventually," Ronald said, adjusting his rearview mirror, "let me walk you through the basics."

Theodore straightened in the passenger seat, his attention sharp. In his previous life, he'd dealt with confidential informants, but Bureau protocols in 1965 carried their own particular dangers. One wrong move could burn a source or worse, get them killed.

"Rule one," Ronald continued, checking his watch, "never meet them on their turf unless absolutely necessary. Rule two: always assume someone's watching. Rule three—"

"Never promise what you can't deliver," Theodore finished.

Ronald glanced at him with raised eyebrows. "That's right. How'd you—"

"Just makes sense," Theodore said quickly. The last thing he needed was to explain how modern FBI training had hammered those principles into him decades before he was born.

They pulled up to the familiar second-hand shop, its weathered sign still flipped to "Closed."

As Ronald killed the engine, a figure emerged from the store, hat brim pulled low, collar turned up, clutching a newspaper-wrapped package against his chest. The man moved with the practiced anonymity of someone accustomed to transactions best left unrecorded.

Ronald waited until the street was clear before leading Theodore inside, casually flipping the sign to "Open" as they entered.

The old proprietor looked up from his counting, and Ronald watched him sweep the scattered bills into his arms with practiced efficiency.

Twenties, tens, fives, more cash than most legitimate businesses saw in a week. The money disappeared into a cardboard box that vanished beneath the counter as if it had never existed.

"What do you want now?" The old man's voice carried the weary resignation of someone who'd dealt with law enforcement too many times to harbor any illusions about the relationship.

Ronald positioned himself across the counter, and Theodore hung back near the door. "Ledgers from the last six months."

The shop owner's weathered face creased into a frown. "Still chasing that shotgun? Christ, what exactly did this guy do? Rob Fort Knox?"

Ronald said nothing, just maintained steady eye contact. In the silence, Theodore could hear the tick of an old clock somewhere in the back room, the distant rumble of traffic on Wisconsin Avenue.

With a muttered curse, the old man produced two worn ledgers from beneath the counter. He slipped off his stool, favoring his bad leg, and limped into the rear of the shop. When he returned, he carried four additional volumes.

Ronald opened the top ledger, pages crackling with age. "Everything's in here? No off-the-books sales?"

"I may be stupid, but I ain't crazy," the old man replied. He leaned over the counter, pointing at various entries. "Winchester M1912 pump-action, not exactly a popular item. Remember selling exactly three in the timeframe you're looking at."

He flipped through pages with practiced ease. "Two about six months back, one around three months ago. Since they were regulars, I kept their information." His finger traced the handwritten entries. "Here, here, and here."

Theodore studied the names over Ronald's shoulder. The handwriting was cramped but legible, addresses scattered across the D.C. metropolitan area.

"What about .38 Colts?" Ronald asked.

The old man's expression shifted. "Now that's a different story entirely. Sold over a hundred in the last six months. Popular piece, compact, reliable, easy to conceal. The problem is, buyers change constantly. Not like the shotgun crowd."

Ronald's jaw tightened. Theodore recognized the frustration, one weapon with a clear paper trail, another that could have come from anywhere.

"I'd suggest keeping better records going forward," Ronald said, closing the ledger.

The old man snorted. "I'd suggest a lot of things. Don't mean they're gonna happen." He jerked his head toward the door. "Flip that sign back on your way out."

Ronald pretended not to hear.

Outside, Theodore waited until they were in the car before speaking. "That seemed... different from what you described earlier."

Ronald caught his questioning look and felt a familiar knot in his stomach. God, he missed Bernie. His partner never asked uncomfortable questions about methodology.

"Every informant's different," Ronald said, starting the engine. "You adapt to what works."

The next three stops followed Bureau protocols to the letter, neutral meeting locations, careful exchanges, and detailed documentation. By evening, they had seven names tied to Winchester purchases in the Northwest District.

Back at headquarters, Ronald spent an hour on the phone with police departments throughout the D.C. metropolitan area, requesting black market firearm transaction records.

The process moved with bureaucratic slowness that would have driven him mad in his previous life, when computer databases could cross-reference serial numbers in minutes rather than weeks.

"Call it a day," Ronald announced as the building's second shift arrived. "Everyone, go home, get some rest."

Theodore looked up from his files. "Sir, if these robberies are escalating—"

"They might hit their target tomorrow morning, yes. But I can't make the Federal Bureau of Prisons work overtime, and I sure as hell can't force every police department in three states to prioritize our requests." Ronald gathered his jacket. "What the President can't do, we certainly can't do."

The traffic jam on Connecticut Avenue gave Theodore too much time to think. In his previous life, digital surveillance and automated flagging systems could have tracked the weapons within hours.

Here, everything depended on telephone calls, carbon-paper forms, and the goodwill of overworked local cops.

Bernie took the wheel when Theodore's attempt at lane-changing nearly clipped a city bus. "Maybe stick to the passenger seat for now," Bernie suggested diplomatically.

They settled on O'Malley's Tavern for dinner, drawn by the crowd and the promise of decent Irish stew. Neither felt like cooking after the day they'd had.

The next morning arrived without news of fresh robberies. At 9:10 AM, when the phones remained quiet, the entire team exhaled collectively.

"Maybe they've moved on," Andrew suggested hopefully.

"Or maybe they're planning something bigger," Theodore countered, already spreading out the cold case files that had arrived during the night shift.

The breakthrough came within an hour. A robbery in Southeast D.C., six months prior—two men in nylon stocking masks, one carrying a .38 Colt, the other a Winchester shotgun.

The MO matched perfectly: quick, efficient, no violence, no communication between the perpetrators.

Theodore marked the location on their map with a red pin.

More files, more pins. By noon, the pattern was undeniable, a progression from Southeast to Northwest, convenience stores to post offices, survival crimes to strategic operations.

Standing before the map, Theodore felt the familiar electricity of a case breaking open. In his previous life, he'd relied on computer modeling and psychological databases. Here, it was just pins on a map and intuition earned through decades of experience he technically hadn't lived yet.

"This started with two people," he began, his voice gaining confidence. "The Colt and the Shotgun. They knew each other before, military, prison, maybe just childhood friends who went bad together."

Bernie and the others gathered closer.

"Six months ago, they got out. Maybe they tried going straight, found jobs, tried to make an honest living. But the pay was terrible, the work was hard, and they remembered how easy it used to be."

Theodore's finger traced the earliest robbery locations. "First job was a laundromat. Over a hundred in loose change, probably more than they'd made in two weeks of legitimate work. That taste of easy money was addictive."

The pins showed an increasingly compressed timeline, monthly robberies becoming weekly, then nearly daily.

"But something changed in November," Theodore continued. "They disappeared for almost a month, then came back completely transformed. Different targets, different methods, perfect coordination."

He moved to the whiteboard where they'd listed recently released prisoners. "Someone joined them. Someone with leadership skills, criminal experience, and the ability to transform street-level thieves into a professional crew."

"The Driver," Ronald said quietly.

"The Driver," Theodore confirmed.

"And based on the timing and the operational changes, he was released within the last month. Whoever he is, the Colt and Shotgun accepted his authority immediately. That suggests a pre-existing relationship, military service, previous incarceration, maybe family."

Theodore turned to face the room. "I think our Driver is a white male, thirty-five to forty-five years old. Veteran or former law enforcement, with robbery convictions and a recent release from federal prison. He's charismatic enough to convince two successful thieves to abandon their proven methods for his high-risk strategy."

Silence filled the conference room. Mike and Andrew exchanged glances, bold theories that could reshape the entire investigation, or career-ending speculation if wrong.

"Agent Morrison?" The voice from the doorway made everyone turn. "You have a phone call."

Ronald's expression was unreadable as he left for the phone. When he returned five minutes later, he carried news from the Federal Bureau of Prisons, the October release list had finally arrived.

"What about November?" Theodore asked. "Or better yet, can we jump straight to June? The Colt and Shotgun's first robbery was in May; they were probably released in June."

Ronald hesitated. He'd watched Theodore's analysis unfold with growing unease. The young agent's insights were brilliant, but they were also dangerous.

\\Following this line of investigation would mean committing significant resources based on psychological profiling that was decades ahead of current Bureau methodology.

"Bernie," Ronald said finally, "work with the Bureau of Prisons on the June list. Andrew, help him with the contacts."

After the others left, Ronald found himself alone with Theodore in the conference room. The younger agent stood before the map, lost in thought, and Ronald studied his profile with growing certainty.

He'd indeed taken on a very big problem.

The afternoon had turned cold, typical for D.C. in late November. Detective Walsh banged on the door of apartment 4203, his partner, Detective Murphy, beside him, both breathing vapor in the unheated hallway of the Southeast tenement.

"Coming! Coming!" The voice from inside was deep, resonant, carrying the kind of authority that made people listen.

The door opened just wide enough for a cautious eye to peer through the gap. Seeing two detectives, one heavyset, one thin, the door opened wider.

"Havier Morales?" Walsh asked, consulting his notebook.

The man nodded. He was built like a dock worker, with scarred hands and the kind of suspicious expression that came from years of police attention.

Murphy sized him up. "You purchased a Winchester M1912 pump-action shotgun about six months ago. Is that correct?"

"Didn't buy a shotgun," Havier replied, but his eyes had shifted away from direct contact.

Murphy glanced at Walsh, who moved closer to the door frame.

"Look, Havier," Walsh said, his voice taking on a reasonable tone, "we're not here about whatever else you might have in there. Half the apartments in this building probably have something that'd interest us. We just need to see that shotgun, confirm it's still in your possession, and we're gone."

The pressure against the door increased slightly. "Cooperate a little, save everyone some trouble."

Havier held the detective's stare for a long moment, calculating odds and consequences. Finally, he stepped back.

"Wait here."

He returned carrying a sawed-off Winchester M1912, holding it up for inspection. The barrel had been professionally shortened—illegal modification, but not their concern today.

Walsh reached for the weapon, but Havier pulled it back defensively.

"You've seen it. It's here." His voice carried the wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust law enforcement promises.

"You lend it to anyone? Let anyone borrow it?" Murphy asked.

"No." Havier glanced toward the window where late afternoon sunlight was fading. "I've got work soon."

The detectives exchanged a look. Southeast D.C. wasn't the kind of neighborhood where you pushed too hard without backup and probable cause.

They stepped aside, allowing Havier to lock his door and head down the hallway. But instead of leaving, they watched him slip into the alley beside the building.

"Interesting," Murphy murmured.

They waited five minutes before leaving, but Havier was already making his move. After confirming the police car had departed, he returned to the building, not to his own apartment, but up two flights to a door marked only with the number 4601.

His knock was answered by a voice from within, deeper and more controlled than his own.

"Coming."

The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man whose face told a story of violence survived. A jagged scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, and when he moved to let Havier inside, there was the slight hesitation of someone favoring an old leg injury.

Havier's eyes flicked to the man's leg automatically, then away just as quickly.

"The police just found me," he said as the door closed behind him.

[End of Chapter]

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